over. Going back to jail, that’s the worst thing that could happen to her.”
E.E. continued to glare.
“All right, OK, I’m an asshole messing in police business. You got my sincere apology. But I gotta be here.”
“Mais, there it is. This about you.”
“Some is, OK? She was just sitting in my office, putting letters in envelopes, and I shoulda been there, shoulda taken that knife. But most of it’s about her. About what’s right. And that is—it was the clearest self-defense there is.”
“That girl’s been around law enforcement almost as many years as your right hand’s been around your dick. She knows the drill.”
“Doesn’t mean she can’t use a body on her side.”
His uncle’s eyes slitted. “This here the body you talkin’ ‘bout?”
Phelan turned to see attorney Miles Blankenship entering the double doors, slipping off his aviators to display a neutral expression. At least, Phelan was pretty sure that was who that was. He’d spoken to him on the phone, but hadn’t actually laid eyes on Miles in ten years, and the last time he had, Miles was wearing a long black robe and a mortarboard hat. The elegant man walking through the door wore wide-lapelled navy pinstripe, nipped at the waist, modest bell to the creased trousers. His black calfskin briefcase might have been rubbed with twenties to give it the mellow sheen.
“You know, Tom,” E.E. was squinting toward Miles, “I seen you be lost, be steady, be stupid in the head and a brave little son of a bitch. This the first time you ak like Judas Iscariot.”
“C’mon, E.E. No disrespect. That’s a friend from high school, and he was what I thought of to help Delpha out.”
“You payin’ his fee?”
Phelan nodded.
“Cause you overflowin’ with cash. The private eye business that hot. You a man of means.”
He let E.E.’s words curl, topple, and break against his forehead. He held his peace as his old friend from high school joined the conversation.
“Miles Blankenship, Chief. Firm of Griffin and Kretchmer. Honor to meet you. I’ll be representing—”
“I got it.” E.E. shook Miles’ hand, dropping it when the door opened again.
Detective Fred Abels, ‘burns and ‘stache and houndstooth jacket, had hold of her elbow. Must be Detective Tucker bringing up the rear, a husky pug-nose in a park-bench green leisure suit with his collar fashionably wide-spread. Phelan felt a flash of gratitude toward E.E. for the lack of cuffs on her, flash of Blessed Jesus when he examined a pale Delpha Wade braced between the two detectives. A glance around—at E.E., Fontenot, Miles—assured Phelan she had gripped the general attention.
Shirt from a slaughter yard.
Heat crept the back of Phelan’s neck.
He knew what had gone down in his office because he’d arrived not too many minutes after the fight was over. Cops would ask her who started that fight, the man who walked in—or Delpha? And being as how hospitals do have access to various types of clean clothes—yeah, they do—her wardrobe today must mean she wanted the police to get the picture.
The hole in the crumpled white blouse drew the eye, rusty rosette formed around it, broad rust-stripe trailing down. The brown patches and gout and spray around the collar would not be hers, Phelan guessed, but they sure enhanced the grisly effect. The navy blue skirt was blackened at the waist. There was a spoiled, iron smell in the air. She seemed to be walking with an effort.
Delpha’s head turned, stopped at Phelan. The light-brown hair an inch above her shoulders had felt some wind, and she had not combed it into place. No powder or rouge on the high cheekbones. Just lipstick the color of lips. She looked at him for a long second before her gaze retracted.
E.E. introduced himself to Delpha and told her they’d like to ask her some questions, get everything squared away, standard stuff in this situation. Miles was next. Told her he was here to act as her attorney, if that was agreeable to her. Delpha’s head nodded slightly. She took a small side-step, almost a dip, and the lawyer cupped her elbow. Had the detectives read her her Miranda rights?
“She’s not under arrest, counselor,” E.E. said. “We just fixin’ to take a statement. Determine what’s what.” He hooked his head at Abels. “Y’all go on.”
Miles, ex-drum major, valedictorian, high-dollar divorce lawyer, was not on his own ground. Still, he emitted serene, tailored, carnivorous readiness: man was capital-B Billable. Phelan took scrupulous note. He knew something about masculine presentation, but he hadn’t honed it like this.
Delpha looked at Phelan again. “You call him for me?” Faint light in the blue-gray flatness of her eyes, and she said it private, like only he could hear her.
Phelan lifted his chin.
The detectives shepherded her past him. Miles shot Phelan a glance and went with them. All squad room activity—breeze-shooting, questioning, report-writing, filing, phone-talking, candy bar-eating, and cigarette-smoking—everything buzzing back there would pretty much freeze, Phelan bet, while they watched the woman wearing the bloodbath pass by.
E.E. tapped Phelan’s chest. “We got your statement the boys took at the scene. Don’t need you, Tommy.” He wheeled and followed them.
Phelan went to the restroom and scrubbed his paint-crusted knuckles and nails, stump of his left middle finger, wrists. Came back. Sat in the chairs lined up beneath a long window that despite central air and Venetian blinds still beat with sun. The wall clock’s hands puttered around, stuck a while, went backward and scooped up some minutes forgot, trudged onward. He sat and smoked and sweated.
From time to time, Fontenot disappeared from the desk and then returned and busied himself answering the phone and doodling on a clipboard. Addressed himself extra-conscientiously to visitors. Trimmed his gaze so it did not reach the border of Phelan’s outlands.
II
THE HITCH FROM the wound’s incision made her feel like she had a hook in her, from belly button to backbone. Her stomach was tight, sore.
But at the sight of Miles Blankenship’s magazine suit and easy carriage, Delpha Wade’s knees unlocked. Her head went feverishly light. Had not had a lawyer who’d walked like that—like wherever he went, the street beneath his feet welcomed him. Wearing a suit that looked like somebody’d sewed it only for him. Spoke naturally, courteous, to the police chief, and she could tell he never once wondered would he get spoken back to or how. Miles Blankenship was equipped for How, he belonged here, in the station, belonged behind the nice oak desk he was sure to have, in a restaurant with velvet curtains, in a forward pew. And here he was, on her side. Speaking for her, god-almighty, throwing the protection of the law over her like a coat and not a net. Here was the difference between fourteen years and walking around free. She widened her stance to keep steady, in case gold sequins broke out before her eyes.
Detectives Abels and Tucker took hold of the chairs across from where she and the lawyer were standing. The wall to her right was being held up by Joe Ford, Delpha’s parole officer, six foot five and glum as
