Page 20 of Roma King
“Lost my goddamn mind.”
“Oh. Here, sit down. I’ll get you a glass.”
“I don’t need a drink, thanks.” I sit down on the small sofa, groaning.
“Sounds to me like you do.”
There’s nothing really maternal about the relationship Sarah shares with me; she’s more like a disreputable aunt—the kind that gives you questionable advice, offers you smokes, and takes you to bars before you’re legally old enough to get in. If shehadbeen my aunt back in Connecticut, my mother would naturally have forbidden me from ever seeing or spending time with the woman.
She lowers herself into her couponing chair and takes a healthy swig from her wine glass. “Well?” is all she says.
I sit up straight and take a deep breath. “I think I’ve been involved in a crime.”
“What kind of crime? Passion? Larceny? Murder?” She sounds bored by the prospect of all three.
“I don’t know yet. That little boy I told you about. The one whose brother died? He’s gone missing, and somehow I’ve ended up involved.”
Sarah’s robe slides down, revealing a faded, blurry tattoo that says, “Harrold Forever” on her freckled shoulder. She hikes her robe back up, holding it in place as she picks up a pair of rusting fabric scissors; she points the ends of the blades at me, arching an eyebrow. “Didyoutake him?”
“No! Why the hell would I…” I slump back into the seat, covering my face with my hands. How is it that I don’t have a girlfriend to call right now? Someone level-headed and sensible, who won’t ask stupid questions? Sarah nonchalantly cut her coupons out of her magazines and newspapers, listening blankly while I tell her about the phone call. When I’m done, my blood still fizzing in my veins over Holmes’ cavalier attitude, she shrugs a shoulder, flashing ‘Harrold Forever,’ at me again as she speaks.
“You know, it doesn’t sound like much of a clue to me either.”
“Great. Well, thanks for that. I was hoping I’d at least get a little support from you, Sarah.”
“Honey, I’ll support the shit out of you, no matter what. But I’m just saying. It doesn’t sound like much of aclueto me,” she stresses.
“Then what does it sound like?”
She finishes clipping a small square of paper out of a grocery store pamphlet, holding it at arm’s length and squinting at it. “Here, what does this say?” she asks, holding it out to me. I take the coupon from her.
“Fifty cents off Tide washing powder.” I hand it back at her. “Come on, Sarah. Tell me, whatdoesit sound like to you? I’m so turned around and worried right now, I don’t know what to make of any of this.”
“All right, all right. Jesus. Where’s your patience this morning?” she grumbles. “If you ask me, I’d say those words weren’t a clue at all. Seems to me that they were aninvitation. And whoever it was you spoke to out there on that payphone in the early hours of this morning wants you to go there.”
“Rochester Park? The end of the line?” A thrill of panic shoots its way up my spine. I can’t go to Rochester Park. No way, no how. And Detective Holmes was right—the subway that once upon a time serviced the eastern side of the city was decommissioned years ago. I only know it used to exist because Andrew complains about it on a weekly basis, how inconvenient it is that he has to catch a train into town and then change twice in order to travel a mere five miles. Quicker to walk now, he always says, when it only used to take twenty minutes on the old line, back in the day.
Sarah sniffs at the fifty cents off Tide washing powder coupon, flipping it over, as if she’s looking to see if there’s a better deal on the back. “I don’t use Tide,” she says. “Do you?”
“Yeah. I don’t know. I guess. Sometimes.”
“Here, then. You take this. I don’t need it.”
I want to screw the damn thing up and toss it over my shoulder, but Sarah takes her couponing seriously. She won’t appreciate my show of frustration. I take the coupon again and stuff it into the pocket of my pajama pants, thanking her.
“If I were you, I’d go down there to Rochester Park, and I’d have a quick snoop around. You have the next three days off, and it doesn’t sound like that cop’s gonna do much about it, hmm? What harm could it do?”
There’s plenty of harm to be done if I go snooping around Rochester Park. The area’s huge for starters, and people are always getting attacked there, not to mention the fact that a potentialchild kidnappertold me to go there. Anything could happen if I casually skip down there on my own. I won’t know who I’m looking for. I won’t know who or what to be wary of.
Rubbing my hands over my face, I suck a breath in through my fingers. “I’m not that stupid. Getting murdered and buried in a basement in Rochester isn’t my idea of a fun way to spend my downtime.”
Sarah puts down her scissors and flicks the screw cap on her bottle of chardonnay, tipping more wine into her glass. “I’ll go with you,” she says. “Naturally. And we’ll ask Garrett to come, too.”
Of our three other friends who live at the Bakers,’ Waylon should have been the obvious choice when selecting a bodyguard. He has military experience, and actually loves this kind of thing. He’d probably jump at the chance to escort Sarah and I to Rochester Park. Trouble is, Waylon would love the opportunity a little too much. There’s too much fire in his veins. He’s always itching for a fight, is constantly looking for trouble, and you can tell by the way he holds his shoulders, his back rigid and straight, muscles tensed, that he’s always primed and on high alert. If we do go to Rochester Park, which we most certainly arenotgoing to do, then taking Waylon will almost guarantee we’ll run into problems.
I let my head roll back, my neck loose—the ceiling in Sarah’s apartment is stained with cigarette smoke, though I’ve never seen the woman with a cigarette in her hand. “It’s a bad idea. We should leave this to the cops.”
“Okay, sunshine. Whatever you want. But you seem mighty concerned about that little boy. And if this detective isn’t going to do his job, then…” She shrugs. “Lord only knows what will happen.”
