checked my watch and realized it was time to pay a visit to my anonymous admirer at the police station.
Chapter 4
M r. Payne:
I'd appreciate it if you could meet me at the police station tonight at 8.00 PM. Concerning a case.
Officer Rhodes
T he note had been left in an envelope angled into my motel-room door this morning. I carried it with me as I walked into the station a few minutes before eight.
There was a front desk, empty, and a hallway, dark, that led to a rear room where a two-way radio squawked and some human voices could be heard. The hall smelled of cleaning solvent and cigarette smoke.
A young chunky guy in a wrinkled khaki uniform sat in front of the two-way console. He might have been a small-town disk jockey running his own board. He had an angular face that did not hide its fleshiness very well, and the kind of haircut you got back in the early sixties before barbers had ever heard of hair-styling.
"Help you?" He didn't sound especially happy to see me. I got the sense that he might have held the playground bully franchise at a very tender age.
"I'm looking for Officer Rhodes."
An unpleasant grin. "Officer", huh?" On top of his radio console was a cup sitting on a saucer. On the edges of the saucer were two donuts. One would have looked inviting. Two looked somewhat obscene.
"Is there an Officer Rhodes?"
"Yeah. Except she doesn't get called that very often."
"What does she get called?"
Looking me over, he lost some of his confidence, unsure who I was, or how important I might be. "She supposed to be here tonight or something?"
"Eight o'clock."
He glanced at a big dusty clock on the wall. It made me think of public school and seventh grade and watching the clock on warm autumn days, ready to shoot spring-loaded from class the moment big and little hands met on 3:00.
"She's got an office down the hall. Guess you could try that. Sometimes she comes in the back door. You know how they are." Then he had some kind of vision and he said, "Hey, shit, I'll bet I know who you are!"
"Oh?" By "they," I guessed that my Officer Rhodes was likely an Indian.
"The serial-killer guy. FBI."
"Something like that."
He shook his head. "Goddamn her, anyway. Chief Gibbs told her to keep her nose out of it and now look."
His two-way console crackled into life and he bent his unpleasant face to the microphone. He started doing some fancy button-flipping with pudgy white fingers.
He glanced up longingly at the donut he'd had to put back on the saucer.
"T hanks for coming."
"My pleasure."
"I was going to introduce myself earlier today but I was kind of embarrassed about the whole thing."
"You saved that little girl's life."
"I don't think he was going fast enough to kill her."
"Still. You jumped in."
She smiled. "I heard you talking to Clarence up there. He probably told you some stuff about me, didn't he?"
"Well . . ."
"He doesn't like Indians much." She grinned again. "In a previous life, he rode with General Custer."
Her crisp good looks and wise erotic eyes were just as fetching as they had been this morning when she'd flung herself in the path of the car to save the little girl. She wore a white button-down shirt and a pair of designer jeans. A shiny badge was pinned to the right front pocket of her jeans. A standard police Smith & Wesson rode in a small holster attached to the side of her belt.
"I'm Cindy Rhodes. Morning Tree, if you want my Indian name."
We shook hands.
"I appreciate you coming over."
"I always follow down mysterious notes."
The lunch-room consisted of two tables that looked wobbly, a softly glowing Pepsi machine that resembled an invading alien, another machine that sold sandwiches and cookies and candy bars, and a giant-sized Hawkeye poster. Iowans in this part of the state long ago forsook God and took up the Hawkeyes. The room needed paint, ventilation and some general cheering up.
"Would you like a Pepsi?"
"You have Diet?"
She assessed me quickly, my rangy
Chapter 4
M r. Payne:
I'd appreciate it if you could meet me at the police station tonight at 8.00 PM. Concerning a case.
Officer Rhodes
T he note had been left in an envelope angled into my motel-room door this morning. I carried it with me as I walked into the station a few minutes before eight.
There was a front desk, empty, and a hallway, dark, that led to a rear room where a two-way radio squawked and some human voices could be heard. The hall smelled of cleaning solvent and cigarette smoke.
A young chunky guy in a wrinkled khaki uniform sat in front of the two-way console. He might have been a small-town disk jockey running his own board. He had an angular face that did not hide its fleshiness very well, and the kind of haircut you got back in the early sixties before barbers had ever heard of hair-styling.
"Help you?" He didn't sound especially happy to see me. I got the sense that he might have held the playground bully franchise at a very tender age.
"I'm looking for Officer Rhodes."
An unpleasant grin. "Officer", huh?" On top of his radio console was a cup sitting on a saucer. On the edges of the saucer were two donuts. One would have looked inviting. Two looked somewhat obscene.
"Is there an Officer Rhodes?"
"Yeah. Except she doesn't get called that very often."
"What does she get called?"
Looking me over, he lost some of his confidence, unsure who I was, or how important I might be. "She supposed to be here tonight or something?"
"Eight o'clock."
He glanced at a big dusty clock on the wall. It made me think of public school and seventh grade and watching the clock on warm autumn days, ready to shoot spring-loaded from class the moment big and little hands met on 3:00.
"She's got an office down the hall. Guess you could try that. Sometimes she comes in the back door. You know how they are." Then he had some kind of vision and he said, "Hey, shit, I'll bet I know who you are!"
"Oh?" By "they," I guessed that my Officer Rhodes was likely an Indian.
"The serial-killer guy. FBI."
"Something like that."
He shook his head. "Goddamn her, anyway. Chief Gibbs told her to keep her nose out of it and now look."
His two-way console crackled into life and he bent his unpleasant face to the microphone. He started doing some fancy button-flipping with pudgy white fingers.
He glanced up longingly at the donut he'd had to put back on the saucer.
"T hanks for coming."
"My pleasure."
"I was going to introduce myself earlier today but I was kind of embarrassed about the whole thing."
"You saved that little girl's life."
"I don't think he was going fast enough to kill her."
"Still. You jumped in."
She smiled. "I heard you talking to Clarence up there. He probably told you some stuff about me, didn't he?"
"Well . . ."
"He doesn't like Indians much." She grinned again. "In a previous life, he rode with General Custer."
Her crisp good looks and wise erotic eyes were just as fetching as they had been this morning when she'd flung herself in the path of the car to save the little girl. She wore a white button-down shirt and a pair of designer jeans. A shiny badge was pinned to the right front pocket of her jeans. A standard police Smith & Wesson rode in a small holster attached to the side of her belt.
"I'm Cindy Rhodes. Morning Tree, if you want my Indian name."
We shook hands.
"I appreciate you coming over."
"I always follow down mysterious notes."
The lunch-room consisted of two tables that looked wobbly, a softly glowing Pepsi machine that resembled an invading alien, another machine that sold sandwiches and cookies and candy bars, and a giant-sized Hawkeye poster. Iowans in this part of the state long ago forsook God and took up the Hawkeyes. The room needed paint, ventilation and some general cheering up.
"Would you like a Pepsi?"
"You have Diet?"
She assessed me quickly, my rangy
Similar Books
A Street Divided
Dion Nissenbaum
I, Porn Star (I #1)
Zara Cox
Close Your Eyes
Michael Robotham
The Farther I Fall
Lisa Nicholas
100 Days To Christmas
Delilah Storm
Tinseltown Riff
Shelly Frome
The Major's Faux Fiancee
Erica Ridley
Hitler's Spy Chief
Richard Bassett