Loren flips him the bird.
Hoskins’s phone vibrates in his pocket, against his chest. He pulls it out, glances at it while Loren’s still talking, telling him about the victim, Jimmy Galen, who’d mowed Seever’s lawn a few times. Galen’s mother had been in the paper, answering some questions about Seever years before, Loren said. Sammie’s the one who’d interviewed her.
“What’s that?” Hoskins asks slowly, looking up from his phone. He’d heard Loren say Sammie’s name, and that was funny, because the text he’d gotten was from her; he’d read it three times already, trying to make sense of it.
“I said, your girlfriend’s the one who interviewed this kid’s mother for the paper.”
“I got a text from Sammie,” Hoskins says, frowning.
“Speak of the devil and she shall appear,” Loren says. “If you wanna be some help around here, why don’t you put your goddamn phone away?”
CALL ME, Sammie’s text said. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT LOREN.
He sees Loren’s lips moving, but he can’t seem to hear what he’s saying. Instead, Hoskins’s ears are filled with a high-pitched whooshing sound, like the wind tearing through a tunnel, and later he realizes the noise is his blood rushing, faster and faster, pumping through his head and back to his heart at dizzying speed.
HE’S STILL DRESSING LIKE SEEVER, Sammie had typed. Two minutes ago, maybe less, depending on how long it took for the words to be beamed up to a satellite in space and then reflected down to his phone. I SAW HIM LAST NIGHT. HE WAS FOLLOWING ME.
“You with me, Paulie?” Loren says, coming over, until he’s close enough for Hoskins to see the twisted hairs of his eyebrows and smell the bacon on his breath. If there’s one thing Loren hates, it’s to be ignored, and he’s pissed now. “You gone deaf, Paulie? I said, put your fucking phone away.”
SHOULD I BE WORRIED? Sammie had texted, and that was it. Hoskins wondered how long she’d debated sending this last sentence, because Sammie wasn’t that type. She’d once told Hoskins that she was the middle child, born between two other girls, and she’d been the tomboy, the one who never cried, the only one not afraid of the dark. But now Loren was following her, all dressed up like Seever, and there were people turning up dead, people who’d once been connected to Seever, and who was more connected than Sammie? She’d waited tables at Seever’s restaurant back in college, she’d written all those articles about him for the paper, enough to fill a book. And she’d once been his lover. The task force on this case had been busy, trying to reach every person Seever had known before the Secondhand Killer did, and not once had anyone considered that Sammie should be warned, that she might be the next one in danger.
Loren was following Sammie.
Loren, who’d put in a good word and saved Hoskins’s job when he was ready to get the boot. Loren, who called women bitches but still held doors open for them, who’d made more arrests than any other cop in the department. Loren, who’d been dressing like Jacky Seever, who’d been putting on a clown costume and makeup and heading to the local hospital to prance around, who hunted suspects by becoming them, and Hoskins had always wondered what would happen if the play-act went too far, it was a thin line between crazy and not, and Loren was constantly teetering between the two. Loren, who was the only one besides Seever who ever called him Paulie.
“You left me that painting,” Hoskins says slowly. “You left that painting Seever made.”
“Yeah?” Loren says, confused. “Seever sent that thing to me years ago, I figured it’d make you laugh. He’s painted a lot of…”
Loren trails off, looks away, as if he’s lost his train of thought, and Hoskins grabs his shoulder and pinches down, hard.
“You’ve been following Sammie,” Hoskins says, but Loren isn’t listening, it’s his turn to be staring off into the distance, lost in his own head, until Hoskins gives him a hard shake. “Why have you been following her? What are you up to?”
“He paints,” Loren says, softly. “Seever paints, all the time.”
“What? Yeah, we already know that, Captain Obvious.”
Loren’s phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, frowning.
“I need to go,” Loren says, trying to push him away, but Hoskins isn’t letting go. “There’s something I need to check.”
“What are you up to?” Hoskins says, pinching down as hard as he can, but Loren hardly seems to notice.
“Get off me,” Loren says, shaking off his hand and shoving him away. “You wanted back into Homicide, here you go.”