“I need to talk to an inmate.”
“White or black?”
“Black.”
“Good. There’s an awful case of lice being passed around.” Everyone knew the coloreds didn’t get lice. “Keller’s going to have to set off a can of DDT back there. It’s the third time this year. The smell is just awful.” Holly took a pen off the desk and held it over a sheet of paper. “Who’s the girl?”
Amanda felt a thickness in her throat. “Male.”
Holly dropped the pen. “You want to go back there and talk to a black man?”
“Dwayne Mathison.”
“My God, Mandy. Are you crazy? He killed a white woman. He already confessed.”
“I just need a few minutes.”
“No.” She vehemently shook her head. “Keller would have my scalp. And rightfully so. I’ve never heard anything so crazy. Why on earth would you want to talk to him?”
Not for the first time, Amanda realized that she would be better served to plan out her explanations in advance. “It’s for one of my cases.”
“What case?” Holly sat down at the desk to organize the papers. There were two more bottles of bourbon on the blotter, one of them almost empty. The cut-crystal glass between them showed a permanent ring from Keller’s constantly replenishing his drink throughout the day. Crude renderings of a penis and a pair of breasts were carved into the soft wood of the desk.
Holly looked up at her. “What is it?”
Amanda pulled around another chair, just as Trey Callahan had this morning at the Union Mission. She sat across from Holly. Their knees were almost touching. “There are some missing girls.”
Holly stopped collating. “You think the pimp killed them, too?”
Amanda didn’t outright lie. “Maybe.”
“You should tell Butch and Rick. It’s their case. And you know they’re going to hear about this.” She put one hand on her heart and held up the other, as if swearing allegiance. “They won’t hear about it from me or my girls, but you know it’ll get around.”
“I know.” There was nothing more prevalent in any police force than gossip. “But I want to do it.”
“Mandy.” Holly shook her head, as if she couldn’t understand what had happened to her friend. “Why are you inviting trouble?”
Amanda stared at her. Holly Scott had a dancer’s lean body. She ironed her long red hair straight. Her makeup was expertly applied. Her skin was perfect. Even in this miserable heat, she could be photographed for a magazine ad. That she took near-perfect dictation and could type 110 words a minute were probably factors Keller had not even considered when he’d hired her.
Amanda reached back and closed the door. The typewriters were just as loud, but it engendered a feeling of confidentiality.
She told Holly, “Rick Landry threatened me.” She didn’t feel right bringing Evelyn’s name into this, but Amanda was telling the truth when she said, “He called me a slit in front of my boss. He cursed at me. He told me I should stay the … the F away from his case.”
Holly’s lips pressed together in a straight line. “Aren’t you going to listen to him?”
“No,” Amanda said. “I’m not. I’m tired of listening to them. I’m tired of being scared of them and doing all their bidding when I know better than they do.”
The words were said quietly, but there was an air of revolution about them.
Holly nervously glanced over Amanda’s shoulder. She was afraid of being heard. She was afraid of being any part of this. Still, she asked, “Have you ever been into men’s holding?”
“No.”
“It’s awful down there. Worse than the women’s side.”
“I assumed it would be.”
“Rats. Feces. Blood.”
“Don’t oversell it.”
“Keller will be furious.”
Amanda forced up her shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe this will give him that heart attack you’ve been waiting for.”
Holly stared at her for a good long while. Her blue eyes glistened with tears that did not fall. She was visibly afraid. Amanda knew she had a kid and a husband who worked two jobs so they could live in the suburbs. Holly went to school at night. She helped out at church on Sundays. She volunteered at the library. And she came here five days a week and put up with Keller’s advances and innuendo because the city was the only employer around that followed the federal law mandating women be paid the same salary as men.
And yet, Holly held Amanda’s gaze as she reached over for the phone on Keller’s desk. Her finger found the dial. There was a slight tremor in her hand. She didn’t have to look down as she dragged the rotary back and forth. Holly put through calls for Keller all day long. She was silent as she waited for the line to engage. “Martha,” she said. “This is Holly up in Keller’s office. I need you to have a prisoner transferred to holding for me.”
Amanda watched her carefully as Holly relayed Dwayne Mathison’s information. She had to shuffle through the papers from Keller’s desk to get his arrest record, which had his booking number. Her hands steadied as they performed the familiar task. Her nails were short and clear-coated, like Amanda’s. Her skin was almost as white as Jane Delray’s, though of course absent any track marks. Amanda could see the thin blue lines of the veins in the back of the other woman’s hand.
She looked down at her own hands, which were clasped in her lap. Her nails were neatly trimmed, though she hadn’t bothered with polish the night before. The skin along the side of her palm was scratched. Amanda didn’t remember injuring herself. Maybe she’d scraped off the skin while she was cleaning her father’s house. There was a piece of metal sticking out of the refrigerator that always caught her hand when she cleaned it out.
Holly put down the phone. “He’s being transferred. It’ll be about ten minutes.” She paused. “I can call them back, you know. You don’t have to go through with this.”
Amanda had other things on her mind. “Can I use the phone while I wait?”
“Sure.” Holly groaned as she hefted the phone around. “I’ll be outside. I’ll let you know when they’re ready.”
Amanda found her address book in her purse. She should be scared about coming face-to-face with Juice again, but looking at her scratched hand had put a question in her mind.
She kept an index card in the back of her address book that listed the numbers she used on a daily basis. Butch was constantly leaving out details in his notes. Amanda had to call the morgue at least once a week. She usually talked to the woman who handled the filing, but today she asked for Pete Hanson.
The phone was picked up on the third ring. “Coolidge.”
Amanda considered hanging up, but then she had a flash of paranoia, as if Deena Coolidge could somehow see her. The jail was only a few buildings down from the morgue. Amanda glanced around nervously.
Deena said, “Hell-o?”
“It’s Amanda Wagner.”
The woman let some time pass. “Uh-huh.”
Amanda looked out into the typing pool. All the women were hard at work, backs straight, heads slightly tilted, as they typed the pages of a handbook that would more than likely be used as toilet paper by half the force and target practice by the other. “I had a question for Dr. Hanson,” Amanda said. “If he’s around?”