“Hah. So what do you figure next on this mess?”
“We both keep working.”
“Yeah, what else is there,” said Coolidge. “Though it used to be more fun, right? You see this year’s FBI report? National close rate for murder is down to fifty-four percent. Mine’s a little higher but not much.”
Milo’s solve rate had remained perfect for years. He said, “Too many stranger homicides.”
“That and just plain crazy stuff, what a world,” said Coolidge. “Reason I’m doing better than national is because my criminals are young, stupid, and have big mouths. You’d be amazed at how many we catch because they shoot off on social media. I had one genius last year, got a tattoo across his chest depicting how he shot a guy. Used an excellent artist, more detailed than our sketchers.”
Milo said, “Talk about a still life.”
Coolidge laughed. “More like a war scene. Brain-dead dumbo lays it out: setting, weapon, what they both were wearing. I didn’t even need to ask motive, there’s a big banner across the fool’s nipples spelling out his gang motto and the need to avenge some dude who got wasted the month before. Idiot’s lawyer shows him the photos of his torso, he’s like, ‘Oh.’ ”
“Amazing.”
“I say pass a law against any education in prison. Criminals smarten up, the rates drop even lower.” Coolidge looked at his remaining half sandwich. “Think I’ll take it home. Got one of my kids for the weekend, he’s a carnivore.”
Milo said, “Gotnokids,” and dove into what was left of his dinner.
Coolidge watched him with admiration. “I don’t see any obvious way to go on mine other than keep checking in with informants.”
“Sounds like a plan, Marc.”
“Not much of one.”
“I’m not exactly blazing a pathway to victory.”
“But there’s a difference, my man,” said Coolidge. “Your case is whack and you’ve got a psychologist.”
—
Outside the deli, Milo said, “You want I can get the victim’s warrant on Vollmann and McGann’s place.”
“No argument there.” Coolidge glanced at the curb. A sleek black Audi, a few years old but beautifully maintained, was parked in front of the deli.
Milo said, “Yours? Nice.”
“Be good to myself,” said Coolidge. “This year’s resolution. Same as every other year.”
CHAPTER
23
Saturday morning I slept in until eight thirty. More rehab than recreation; trying to squeeze some brain-rest out of a night filled with bloody images.
Nearly a week had passed since the horror on Ascot Lane. People abused as children get good at compartmentalizing and I’m no exception. For most of the week, I’d intellectualized the slaughter, putting on blinders by concentrating on the details.
Now the totality was hitting me. Another pile of pictures never to be deleted.
Robin’s side of the bed was empty. I found her in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading. One hand dangled and tickled the top of Blanche’s knobby head.
She put down her book and warmed me with a smile. “Morning, darling. Eggs okay?”
“Perfect.”
She got up and I caught her midway to the fridge and kissed her. When I let go, I made sure to show her a smiling face and relaxed shoulders. Then I sat and took over massaging Blanche.
Neither of the females in my life was fooled.
