Cowley looked up and, all business, said, “Keep that, uh…ghost to yourself for the time being, Heller. All right?”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
Hoover, not following any of that apparently, was giving me a long cold look.
“If you were undercover,” he said, biting off each word, pointing a stubby finger at me, “and knew in advance of this scheme, it follows that you must know the getaway route, as well.”
I glanced at my watch; they’d made their switch at the loading dock by now. They were probably heading down Van Buren. Not far from my office.
“I haven’t a clue,” I said to Hoover.
That was when the state attorney’s car pulled up and a confused-looking little man in a mustache and gray suit got out and said, “Sorry we’re late, Mr. Hoover. Uh, has there been some problem here?”
Sam Cowley hid his smile behind his hand.
I didn’t bother.
41
She was asleep when I got back to the office. She was still in her pink dress, on top of the covers. Sleeping on her side, knees up, dress too, milky underneath of thigh showing, hands clasped as if in prayer; her lips apart, looking soft, pliant, like a baby’s.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair; she stirred, smiling. Gradually she opened her eyes, just partway, but you could still get lost in ’em.
“What—what time is it?” she asked.
The office was dark but for the pulse of orange neon.
“A little after eight,” I said.
“Where have you been?”
“That’s not important.”
“What is?”
“Supper.”
That got a big smile out of her, a farm-girl smile those beestung lips seemed incapable of, only there she was doing it.
She sat up, wide awake. “I don’t have any clothes—just what I’ve had on all day. And slept in.”
“We’ll get you some things tomorrow. Smooth your dress out and bring your appetite.”
“Well,” she said, and shrugged, and smiled, “okay.”
She freshened up in my bathroom (the last girl in there was Polly Hamilton), and we walked downstairs, out into a cool summer night, the heat wave finally a memory, strolling hand in hand and around the corner to Binyon’s, where I bought her a T-bone steak with all the trimmings, which she gobbled down greedily. She hadn’t eaten in eight hours.
Nor had I, but I didn’t have much of an appetite. I ordered coffee and ate a roll or two, to keep my stomach at bay. We didn’t talk much at dinner; she was busy eating, and I was busy wondering what the hell to do about her.
Actually, I’d already done something about her, and that’s what was nagging me.
After I gave him a statement at the division field office, Cowley had let me use the phone. I’d reversed the charges to call Joshua Petersen in De Kalb, at the number he’d provided. To tell him I had found his daughter.
He’d shown no surprise, or joy; just relief, as he said, “That’s good news, Mr. Heller.”
“She isn’t with Candy Walker anymore. He’s dead.”
“Good,” he said.
His voice had a flat, dry sound, like his soul needed rain.
I said, “I’ve got her away from the ‘bad crowd’ she was running with, and she’s ready to make a new start. I just can’t guarantee you she’s going to be willing to do it your way.”
Silence.
“Mr. Petersen, I’m saying I’ll bring your daughter to you—I think she’ll be willing to meet with you at least. But whether she’ll come home to stay or not is going to be up to her.”
More silence; I waited, making him fill it.
Finally he did, stoically: “I understand.”
“She’s a big girl now, Mr. Petersen. She has a right to make her own way in the world. She needs to learn how, but that’s another story. Anyway, I’m going to be right there with her, and I don’t want you badgering her. I won’t abide any show of force on your part. If you can mend fences with her, fine. But if she doesn’t want to stay with you, she doesn’t stay. It’s that simple.”
“All right.”
“Okay. I just wanted that understood.”
“It’s understood.”
“And that bonus you promised me, I expect it whether she stays with you, or not.”
“The thousand dollars is yours, Mr. Heller.”
“I earned that money, Mr. Petersen. Like you said, I had to go among the wolves.”
“The money’s yours, no argument. I’m grateful to you.”
“Well, okay then,” I said. “Where shall we meet?”
And we’d agreed on a time and place, the next afternoon; but this was tonight, and the girl across from me eating Mr. Binyon’s cheesecake was still calling me Jim.
Somehow I just couldn’t seem to level with her. Somehow I couldn’t make myself risk seeing disappointment, perhaps even loathing, in those wide-set big brown eyes.
So by nine we were in my Murphy bed, just cuddling in the dark; I had pulled the shades so even the neon couldn’t get in.
That way I wouldn’t have to see her eyes when I told her.
“Sugar, remember when I told you I thought you ought to go home, and see your daddy?”
“Yes. Aren’t we going tomorrow?”
“I have to tell you something first. I wasn’t necessarily thinking about what was best for you, when I said that.”
“Who were you thinking of?”
“Me.”
I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t.
So I went on. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. I’m not Jimmy Lawrence.”
