“Liza?” he said quietly, so that she automatically took a step closer to him.
“Yes?”
“What we said about holding the doors open—when you enter a stall in a restroom where there are other people, don’t you automatically lock the door?”
She looked uncomprehendingly at him.
“And definitely if you’re preparing to make your escape through a ventilation shaft,” he said. “Gomez hadn’t locked the door of that stall. Isn’t that odd? I mean, you don’t want to be caught in the act now, do you?”
“Maybe.”
“Youmaybelock the door?”
“Maybe you want to be caught in the act. If you’re committing a criminal act.”
“Would anyone want that?”
“To be caught in the act? Oh yes.” Liza leaned across the bar and put her chin in her hands. “I got into the habit of stealing small change from my father’s wallet. I felt so ashamed I started stealing larger and larger amounts so that he’d notice.”
“And did he?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he punished me by pretending he hadn’t found out. Let my own conscience torment me.”
“Did that work?”
“Apparently. I stopped doing it.”
Bob cleared his throat and nodded slowly. “It’s grounds for hope to know that at least we are potentially capable of stopping. Can you get me a whiskey?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, you can have more coffee. What is it you’re hoping to stop doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, Bob. Like you said, this is part of my job.”
“What is?”
“Listening. Pretending to understand. What is it you’re hoping you can stop doing?”
Bob smiled and looked down into his coffee. Drew a breath. “Alice. I give her hell. The divorce papers, the division of property, this new guy of hers—all of it. Even though I know it hurts me most, that my self-contempt just grows and grows when I make myself a worse man than I already am. Sometimes I wonder if what I’m doing is asking for pity. It’s as though I want her to see that the man I once was is going to pieces in front of her eyes. I’m a prick, and my own conscience torments me over it, but I just can’t seem to stop it the way you did. Just the opposite, in fact—I’ve turned into a fucking stalker.”
“Have you asked yourself why you’re stalking her?”
“Actually I don’t think it’s her I’m stalking, it’s more the places where I was once happy. Where I lived with her and Frankie. Where I picked her up from work. I’m stalking the memories. You know, like those people who have their pets stuffed, to re-create something that’s gone from their lives.”
“Do people stuff their pet animals?”
“Oh yes. Even a killer like Tomás Gomez wants his cat back. Incredible, isn’t it?”
Liza dealt with two customers who had come in and ordered beers.
Bob watched her. The friendly, professional manner; the quick, assured movements. An efficiency he was sure made her feel good, the pleasure of doing a job well. The pleasure.I’m stalking memories.Suddenly it lit up for him, as clear as the answer on the Radica 20Q display.
“Where are you going?” asked Liza.
