You’re the one looking for information on James Smith. Well, I know he killed the woman in this picture. He got drunk down at MacCready’s and told me but the cops need to hear it from someone legit. Find out who she was.
Cat.
I read it out loud, interrupted only by a single “for fuck’s sake” from Dorinda.
“This is the thing you wanted me to look into, isn’t it?” She sounds tired. “The cold case?”
“The one.” I get my phone out. “Let me call Ezra. He might remember the name the cop who came to the hospital.”
“This the guy you were with last Saturday?”
I give her a half shrug in acknowledgment, which makes her purse her perfectly red lips. “Whichever detective he talked toprobably isn’t on duty at this time of night, but it makes sense to loop him in. Go ahead and call him. I’m going to change.”
She wrestles her boots off and disappears into her bedroom. I start to compose a text, then decide a phone call is in order. The phone rings half a dozen times, and I’m ready to hang up when Ezra says, “What?”
There’s a heavy bass beat in the background.
“Where are you?”
“What?”
“Turn the music down or step outside.”
“Fuck.” He fumbles something and the volume drops. “What can I do for you, Damon Clemens?”
He’s speaking so carefully I figure he’s pretty drunk. I decide to keep things simple. “Do you remember the name of the cop who came to the hospital, asking about James Smith?”
“No.”
“Okay, well, sorry to have interrupted—”
“I got his card in my wallet.”
“Great. I need his contact info.”
“Why?”
I take a minute to weigh the pros and cons of telling him the truth. Fuck it. He’s in this too. “Someone, uh, broke into my apartment and left a picture of a woman—”
“What does she look like?” No longer careful but not slurring his words either.
I glance at the picture again. “Pretty, blond hair, lots of makeup. Looks like one of those glamour shots they used to take back in the day.”
“Fuck. What’s your address?”
“Can’t you just give me the cop’s name and phone number?”
“I need to see the picture. Text me your address and I’ll be there as soon as Uber can bring me.”
Dorinda comes out of her room, wearing Lululemon’s finest. “Just get the number,” she hisses.
I wave her off. “Okay, I’ll see you soon, I guess.”
He clears his throat. “Thanks, Damon. I owe you one more.” With that, he hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone.
Shaking my head, I text him the address, ignoring Dorinda for the moment. I can tell by the intensity of her stare that she’s got questions, and I’ll answer as many as I can. I just need to find some level of chill first. This night has taken more than one crazy twist, and—”Hell, it’s not midnight yet. We’ve got time.”
“I’m going to pour some wine,” Dorinda says. “I have the feeling we’ll both need it.”
