Hit Me

Forty-Three

Keller, returning to Arapahoe Street from where he’d parked the car, reminded himself that he didn’t have to do anything. He was simply a private citizen, paying a call on a woman at her residence. If she wasn’t home, or if she wouldn’t let him in, or if the right opportunity failed to arise, he’d go back to Cheyenne and eat a good dinner.

And there was Trish Heaney’s building, right where he’d left it, with a row of buttons next to the windowless red door. Helpful little cards marked each button, and he pressed the one that said HEANEY.

Waiting, he reminded himself that he’d committed himself to nothing. That he’d neither misrepresented himself nor broken any laws.

“Yes?”

Just a citizen, ringing a doorbell.

“Hello? Who is it?”

“Officer Griffey,” he said. “Police.”

There was a lengthy pause.

Well, he’d just broken a law. It shouldn’t take too long to drive back to Cheyenne. He wouldn’t even need the GPS, although it would probably be simpler to use it. The Soderling address was already programmed into the system, and the woman with the soothing and infinitely patient voice was waiting to guide him home, and get him there in plenty of time for dinner. And Denia was a good cook, no question about it, and—

The buzzer sounded. He pushed the door open and went on in.

The elevator was industrial, but it had been converted to self-service when the building turned residential. There’d been a 4 next to the bell marked HEANEY, so he pushed the appropriate button and rode to the fourth floor. The elevator door glided open, and there she was, holding a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

While he hadn’t formed a mental picture of her in advance, it would have been hard to improve on reality. Trish Heaney was no more than five foot four, but she made an impression. She wore wheat-colored jeans and a fuzzy pink sweater, both garments skintight. The jeans would have been tight on anyone who wasn’t severely anorexic, but most women who could have squeezed themselves into the jeans would have found the sweater a loose fit.

And that might have been true of this woman, he thought, before some obliging nip-and-tuck artist had put her in competition with Dolly Parton. The result was impressive, he had to admit, but no more convincing than the vivid red hue of her upswept hair. She had a butterfly tattoo on her neck, and the Geico gecko inked onto the back of one hand, and enough piercings to put a metal detector on tilt, and God knows what else she had underneath the sweater and jeans.

“You’re a cop,” she said. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“You don’t look like a kindergarten teacher.”

“Who said I was—” She broke off, frowned, took a deep drag on her cigarette. “That supposed to be a joke? You want to show me some ID?”

“I could,” he said.

Or, he thought, he could cut to the chase. One hand cupping her chin, one hand grabbing that mop of red hair. Be over before she knew it.

“So?”

“But once I do,” he said, “this becomes official. You sure that’s what you want?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There’s a guy in the hospital, touch and go whether he lives or dies. I won’t mention his name, but you wouldn’t be living here if he wasn’t paying for it.”

“This is my place,” she said. “The deed’s in my name. And I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Was this working? Keller wasn’t sure. The cigarette smoke was bothering him, and so was her perfume, an overpowering floral scent redolent with musk.

He said, “Sure you do, Trish. You were all set to get Richard Hudepohl away from his wife, and then you realized he’d be broke after the divorce. But suppose he didn’t have to go through a divorce? Suppose something happened to his wife and kids?”

“Not the kids,” she said, and put her hand to her mouth.

“Not the wife, either,” Keller said, “because old Tyler burned the house down with the wrong person in it.”

“She took his car,” she said, “and all Tyler saw was the car, and the kids in the backseat. He couldn’t see who was driving it. If you’re wearing a wire, that’s too fucking bad. You never did read me my rights.”

“Or show you my ID,” he reminded her. “Because this isn’t official. Trish, there’d be nothing easier than hanging this on Tyler, and if he’s in it then you’re in it, and having your rights read to you isn’t going to help you. But I’m the only person who made the connection, and why would I want to see you go to prison?”

She looked at him, breathed in, breathed out. Really a bad idea, that perfume she was wearing. He could see how it might work on a primitive level, but it was so blatant, and so unpleasant—

“What do you want?”

“Your boyfriend’s professional services, Trish. I got property that’s underwater.”

She frowned. “How can it burn if it’s underwater?”

“It’s an expression,” he said. “It means I owe more money on it than it’s worth. The bank’s set to foreclose on the mortgage, and when that happens, my investment goes up in smoke.”

“Unless—”

“Unless the property goes up in smoke first. Call him, get him to come over here. You’ll both make a few dollars, and I’ll forget what I happen to know about you and a man named Hudepohl. And Trish? Have you got a gun in the house?”

“Why?”

That was as good as a yes. “Get it for me,” he said.