Bonnie stared at her as if she’d announced she liked doing it with cats.
‘Harper, that was nearly two years ago. This can’t be. I’m going to get Carlo to do you right this instant. Carlo!’
She half-turned toward the bar, raising her voice. Carlo, who was stacking glasses in the dishwasher, looked up enquiringly, muscles bulging through the sleeves of his black Library T-shirt.
‘Ignore her, Carlo!’ Harper yelled hastily. ‘It’s nothing.’
Laughing, she tugged Bonnie’s arm. ‘Behave yourself.’
‘He’d do it,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘I know he thinks you’re cute.’
‘I’m not cute.’ For some reason, Harper found the assertion outrageous. ‘I’m introverted and I never remember to wear makeup. I’ve seen the women Carlo hangs out with. I am definitely not his type.’
Bonnie waved her beer. ‘Everyone is Carlo’s type. But if he’s not yours …’ She looked around the mostly empty bar. ‘There’s always Junior.’
‘Will you stop?’ Harper pleaded. ‘Look. I promise, I’ll sex someone up. Soon.’
‘Do the cop,’ Bonnie ordered. ‘You like him. What’s he like? I’ll bet he’s all Texas Rangery. Tall with lots of muscles; not much of a man for words. Takes command of the situation.’
‘Shut up.’ Harper’s face heated.
‘Oh my God, I’m right.’ Bonnie’s laugh was delighted. ‘I want to meet this guy.’
Harper was starting to feel dizzy. She wasn’t sure whether it was the mai tais or the conversation.
‘We have got to stop talking about this,’ she moaned, lying down on the table. The felt top was soft and she turned to press her face against it. It smelled soothingly of chalk and dust.
‘Don’t fall asleep on the pool table, Harper. Junior might carry you home and have his wicked way with you.’
Bonnie leaned over her, the tips of her long hair tickling Harper’s face.
‘Anyway, it’s decided. You’ve got to get busy with this cop. And soon.’ She smoothed Harper’s hair gently away from her face. It felt nice. Harper closed her eyes.
‘It’ll fix all that ails you,’ Bonnie promised.
Harper thought of Luke Walker standing there holding that gun. And wondered if maybe she was right.
The next afternoon, Harper arrived at the police station at four o’clock, feeling like a truck had run over her face during the night.
At the edge of downtown on a quiet street, the police headquarters looked like a nineteenth-century jail, which is exactly what it was. Neat rows of small, arched windows marched across the brick walls, all of them overlooking a sun-baked parking lot that was, at this moment, completely full.
Muttering under her breath, Harper found a parking place on the street around the corner and fed the meter before hurrying out of the bright sunlight to take a shortcut through the blessed shade of the Colonial Park Cemetery.
Sheltered by the long branches of ancient oak trees, the old burial ground behind the station was more park than cemetery. Ever since she was a child, she’d loved it. You could read the city’s history in its inscriptions:
James Wilde.
He fell in a duel on the 16th of January, 1815, by the hand of a man who, a short time ago, would have been friendless but for him.
At twelve, she’d been outraged for that man. Today, she would happily have been buried next to him.
Her gravestone could read: ‘Harper McClain, died of a hangover. What an idiot.’
She and Bonnie had stayed at the bar after closing, drinking with Carlo and Junior, and playing half-hearted, quickly abandoned games of pool. It must have been four in the morning by the time she got home.
She’d awoken at noon, cotton-mouthed and hammer-headed, to find her cat, Zuzu, lying on her chest like an eight-pound tumor.
‘Get off me, you evil fluffball,’ she’d murmured, shoving the tabby to one side.
The cat waited until she drifted off, then got back on her again, purring maliciously.
At that point, Harper had given up and climbed out of bed. Four ibuprofen and a gallon of water later, she’d felt able to go to work.
When she pushed open the heavy, bulletproof door and walked out of the heat into the police station’s icy air conditioning, she didn’t remove her sunglasses.
The front-desk clerk looked up as she approached.
‘Harper!’ she trilled. ‘You look mysterious today.’
Barely over five feet tall, with glossy black curls and a curvy figure that tested the buttons of her navy blue desk uniform, Darlene Wilson’s skin was so flawless it was impossible to determine her age, but Harper guessed she was in her mid-thirties.
‘Please, Darlene,’ Harper said pleadingly. ‘If you love me at all. Whisper.’
Darlene’s booming laugh threatened to split her skull.
‘All right, honey. I hear you,’ she said, lowering her voice a fraction. ‘Were you at a party last night or something?’
‘Let’s just say drinks with an old friend got out of hand.’
As she spoke, Harper flipped rapidly through the thick stack of overnight police reports.
Burglary, burglary, burglary, public nuisance, DUI, burglary, stabbing …
She paused, scanning the description of the last one.
At 0400 hours, a 34-year-old male did enter the address and proceed to utilize a sharp bladed instrument against a 32-year-old female identified as his former spouse …
‘Male friend or female friend?’ Darlene prodded.
Harper turned a page. ‘Not the kind of friend you’re thinking about.’
Darlene made a tutting sound. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘I would like to know,’ Harper said, without looking up, ‘why everyone is so fascinated by my love life all of a sudden.’
Arching one expressive eyebrow, Darlene turned to her computer.
‘No reason,’ she said.
It took Harper about ten seconds to decide against covering
