Moore opened a desk drawer and took out a pink tissue, blew her nose with an unfeminineHONK!and said, “Well, he says they have evidence that Gina was involved in B and D.”
The letters meant nothing to Birkmann. Sounded like a railroad: riding the rails to Frisco on the old B & D. He asked, “What? What’s that?”
“You know, whips. Getting tied up.”
Birkmann still looked blank, and Moore said, “For sexual purposes, for Christ’s sakes, Dave. Bondage and discipline. B and D.”
“Whips?”
“Not real whips, play whips. Flowers said he found one in her bedroom.”
“Play whips? You’ve seen them?”
Moore backtracked. “I assume they’re play whips. I talked to Gina every day, and we worked out together at the Y, and I never saw any whip marks on her. Must be play whips.”
Birkmann didn’t entirely buy that, the backtracking, but had no place to go with it. Instead, he asked, “Who was tying her up? Somebody from Trippton?”
“I suppose...”
“FromTrippton?”
“Dave, Dave... try to pay attention, okay? I mean, you can buy vibrators at Target. People in Trippton do more than the missionary position.”
“I didn’t know that,” Birkmann admitted.
“Maybe that’s why your wife ran off with a donut shop guy,” Moore said.
“You don’t have to be offensive,” Birkmann snapped.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m really upset. Maybe we ought to talk about this some other time.”
“Tell me what Flowers asked you,” Birkmann said. “If I have some time to think about it, maybe I’ll figure something out.”
“Well, he wondered if anyone on the committee might have killed her,” Moore said.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I told him...”
She outlined her conversation with Virgil, and five minutes later Birkmann was back in the donut shop. “Give me two chocolate-frosteds and don’t tell me about my heart,” he told Alice. “Give me the fuckin’ donuts.”
—
Across the street, Moore was back on the phone with a man who had a deep voice. “Dave doesn’t have any idea of what happened,” she said. “If somebody blew his brains out, it’d take him two weeks to notice.”
“You can see where this is going. I mean, it’s freakin’ me out,” the deep voice said. “I’ve had problems with the law, and if Flowers gets to me, he’s gonna hang me up like a piece of Sheetrock. I’m like a cop’s dream. I got a beard, a tattoo on my neck, I got a Harley, I done time for assault. You put that together with whips and chains, the fuckin’ jury gonna airmail me to Stillwater prison. I gotta dosomething.”
“Don’t panic. I put him off. Who else could give you up?” The silence on the other end of the line lasted a couple of beats too long, and Moore’s voice went cold as she half repeated what she’d said:“Who else could give you up?”
“You... weren’t my only clients.”
“Clients? Clients? What are you talking about? We didn’tpayyou.” More silence. “Did wepayyou?”
“Gina... helped me out from time to time.”
“Oh my God, you’re a hooker,” Moore screamed. “Have I got AIDS?”
“No, you don’t fuckin’ have AIDS. I’m not a hooker. I’m asexual therapist, registered by the State of Minnesota. Listen, I gotta think about this. This is a murder case, and running won’t do me no good... not if my name comes up.”
