Now: Four years later, and I know it all. Not that it helps one fuck.
* * *
“Lieutenant Beckwith Lookinland, Ritual Crimes.”
“Beck.”
Silence—not even breathing. Went on so long I actually started saying, into it: “It’s, uh—”
“I know who it is, David.”
So cold.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Told myself: Don’t say it. Do not say it.
“This girl in the lot—”
“I’m not going to discuss police business with you.”
“Look, I just think I might have something.”
“Well, we did set up a line for tips—just a minute, I’ll get you their number.”
“Fine, that’s how you want to play it. Here’s your tip, okay? The Cyprian Temple’s reopened. Down on Quentin. Off of Jenner.”
“We’re already looking into some leads.”
“That one of them?”
No answer.
“C’mon, Beck,” I said. “You know what this reminds you of.”
“Talking to you reminds me of a lot of things, David.”
“You gonna check it out, at least?”
Beck paused. Carefully: “You are not my partner any more, David. You aren’t even a cop. This is not your case, and I am not having this conversation.”
“Oh, fuck you, Beck,” I snapped back. “All I want to do is help.”
“And why would that be, I wonder?”
Thinking: Do not.
Synaptic finger-pop. Bone echo.
Anything else but that.
Electroshock crackle to the limbic region. My dick jerking up like Hitler’s arm, meat-puppet on a string.
Blurting, unable to stop myself:
“Because I love you.”
“So you keep saying,” he replied, and hung up.
* * *