His job wasn’t very conducive to permanence in anything, which contributed to the problem.
Zachman: I’m sorry.
Mntnbiker: What about you, Zachman? How would you rate your last lover?
Zachman: That’s tough to say. I’ve only had one. I don’t have anything to compare him against.
Catlover: Come on, I’ve heard enough about him to know he couldn’t be more than a 2 or a 3.
Pete 010: All women say they’ve only been with one or two partners.
Catlover: With Zachman it’s true. She’s the shy, inhibited type. She doesn’t know what good sex is all about.
Zachman: Someday I’ll find the right man.
The image of Maggie as he’d like to photograph her came instantly to Nick’s mind. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that he was in Sacramento to catch a killer, not to volunteer for a sex-education course.
Pete 010: Hey, you don’t need love for good sex. I don’t know why women always think that.
Zachman: Maybe some people don’t, but I do.
Redrocket: What happened to your 2 or 3, Zachman? He’s gone, I take it.
Zachman: I wanted a child. Tim initially agreed but ultimately wasn’t interested. I couldn’t take the indifference or the neglect.
Mntnbiker: Do you regret pushing for a child?
Zachman: No, I’d rather have Zach. One hug from him is worth more than anything I ever got from Tim.
Catlover: That’s because Tim withheld affection as a form of punishment.
Zachman: Jeez, are these chats really supposed to get so personal? What happened to our discussion about animals?
Dancegirl: Yeah, no one ever asked me why I wanted to be a horse.
Redrocket: Wait, I haven’t rated my last lover—
Redrocket and several others expounded on the strengths or shortcomings of their past partners for a few minutes, then Nick saw Zachman disappear from his screen. Catlover left soon after. Evidently, they hadn’t found the chat room to be the singles haven they were looking for. But he didn’t mind. He’d met Maggie, discovered her personal e-mail address and established a frame of reference so he could contact her again.
For now, that was enough.
ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Maggie kicked off her slippers, which were too hot for a Sacramento summer, and sank down in front of her computer. She lived in Midtown, in an old home she’d bought with her divorce settlement when she left Los Angeles two years ago. Half the buildings on her street had been converted to small offices or retail establishments, creating a mixed neighborhood that included tenants, owners and residents from many different nationalities, along with some of Sacramento’s homeless. There were no large grocery stores, no sprawling shopping centers, only small independently-owned corner grocers, trendy coffee shops and a spattering of secondhand stores. But Maggie liked where she lived. Midtown had color and character. It had old-fashioned architecture that wasn’t quite as impressive as that found in the Fabulous 40s, several streets of beautiful old homes just a few miles away, but the neighborhood had plenty of potential. Her own house only wanted a good coat of paint and some work on the worn-out, shabby yard—something she intended to do when she had enough money and time. Meanwhile, she was removing the wallpaper in her bedroom, large bunches of faded pink roses that looked very much like something her great-aunt Rita would have chosen.
Actually, the whole house looked like Aunt Rita—aging under protest—but Maggie had big plans for it. She gazed at the black night outside and wondered if she should start by taking down the iron bars that covered the front windows. According to her neighbor, the previous owner was an old widower, who had wanted to install them all around, but when he passed away, his son inherited the house and didn’t finish the job. Maggie thought the bars were quite an eyesore, but then she remembered that Sarah Ritter’s body had been found only a few blocks away and decided she’d keep the ones she had.
Glancing at her watch to make sure it wasn’t too late, she called Detective Mendez on his car phone. She hadn’t been able to reach either detective since Lowell Atkinson had put her off two days ago. She always got routed to voice mail, and they hadn’t responded to her messages. Still, she was determined to lay hands on the coroner’s report, even if she had to camp out in Lowell’s front yard starting tomorrow morning.
“Yo, Detective Mendez here.”
Maggie sat up in surprise. Evidently miracles did happen. “Detective? This is Maggie Russell with the Sacramento—”
“Tribune. I know who you are. Dammit, don’t you people ever let up? It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night.”
“If you’ve checked your voice mail, you know I tried to reach you earlier. I called at least five times today. Yesterday it was eight.”
“And the day before that it was three. I got your messages, Ms. Russell, but I’m a busy man. What can I do for you?”
“I’m doing a follow-up article on the Ritter murder and was hoping I could ask you a few questions.”
He hesitated. “Sure. And here are my answers: it’s an isolated incident. We’re making progress. We’ll catch the bastard.”
What? “I wasn’t going to ask if it was an isolated incident, Detective Mendez. Why should I?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“You anticipated the question. You must have had some reason.”
“Don’t twist my words, Ms. Russell. I’ve already given you my statement.”
“So you have. And it was gem, let me tell you. There’s just one more thing. I’d like to see a copy of the coroner’s report.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, excuse me. I’ll drive it right over.”
Maggie ignored his sarcasm. “Fax would be fine. Or I’ll pick it up at the station. You name the day and time.”
“I’m booked up through next week. How about the following Friday?”
What was this guy’s problem? “At least your buddies on the force are pretending to cooperate with the press.”
“I’m not going to insult you by playing games.”
“Well, you’re doing a good job of insulting me without it. So what’s the big secret?”
“No secret. A woman was killed. We’re looking for her murderer. I have enough to do without chronicling my every move for you.”
“Sorry, I don’t believe this murder was an isolated incident—at least not anymore. Who else was killed, Detective? Has there been another victim?”
Mendez cursed, then the phone clicked and he was gone.
What a jerk, Maggie fumed. If
