Читать книгу False Impressions - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 16

9

“This is my first time in the back of a cop car,” I said.

Vaughn had offered me a ride home. Since there was a dearth of cabs, I agreed. But I had to ride in the back. “Protocol,” he’d said.

From the front, I heard Vaughn scoff. “Seems like you would have seen a lot of that real estate back there.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah,” he said, “for all the trouble you find yourself in.”

“Excuse me?” I repeated. “I do not find trouble.” That was untrue, but I wasn’t about to admit anything to Detective Damon Vaughn.

Detective Vaughn had made my life hell a couple of times—first when Sam had disappeared and second when he’d suspected me of killing one of my friends. In a stroke of brilliant luck (or maybe just the gods in my universe doling out some karma) I’d gotten the chance to cross-examine him at a trial recently. And let’s just say it was the best cross of my career. We’d mended fences after that, even shared a couple of cocktails. But the fact remained that no one could irk me like Vaughn.

“Why do you always have to be so nasty?” I asked.

“I’m not. I’m just stating the truth. You get in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, fork you, I do not!” Again, I was shading the truth. Trouble did find me, but I didn’t usually bring it upon myself. At least, to my mind.

“You could have gotten into some trouble at that bar,” Vaughn pointed out. “That’s why I showed up there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked the back of Vaughn’s head as he turned the car on Franklin Street. His hair was shot through with gray, but he was one of those guys who had a lot of hair, probably always would.

“The owner is a buddy of mine,” Vaughn said. “He calls me when he’s got issues but doesn’t want to involve 911. He had an issue tonight.”

“What kind of issue?”

“Suspected prostitution.”

“Really? Yeah, I guess that’s a good way for a bar owner to get closed down—having girls making money that way.”

Vaughn stopped at a light, turned around. He had a rugged face and brown eyes. Those eyes were squinting at me. He shook his head. “You’re the girl he thought was trying to make money that way.”

“What?”

“He said that they had this girl walking up and down the street over and over, as if she was looking for someone. In general, that’s pretty indicative. That’s why they call it ‘street-walking.’”

“My friend was gone,” I said. “I was looking for her! She just disappeared without saying anything. She paid the bill, but I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have let me know she was leaving. I was afraid she was sick or something.”

The light turned green and Vaughn shrugged, turned around and drove through it.

We remained quiet for a few blocks.

“Tell me what happened with your friend,” I heard Vaughn say.

I felt a shiver of relief for the help. I told him about the night. As I spoke, I took out my phone. Still no texts or calls from Madeline. “So what do you think?” I asked, when I’d finished.

Another shrug from Vaughn. “What’s she like?”

“Unique.” I told him what I knew of Madeline Saga, what I’d learned and noticed about her since I met her.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” he said.

“Really?”

“She probably got boozed up and took a header.”

“What’s a header?”

“When you realize you’re wasted and have to put yourself to bed, and you just leave because you don’t want people talking you out of it, and you’re in no shape to say goodbyes. It’s usually a guy thing.”

“She wasn’t wasted.”

“When are you supposed to see her next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Call me if she’s doesn’t show.”

Eventually Vaughn turned up North Avenue, heading east, then turned left on Sedgwick and another left at my street, Eugenie. He pulled over to the curb and put the car in park.

“Well,” I said, “you certainly seem to know exactly where my house is.” I noticed immediately that a fair amount of sarcasm had come out with my words. What was it about Damon Vaughn that got under my skin?

He turned around, his face a snarl of irritability. “Listen, McNeil, I was at your house recently for a couple of break-ins. Remember? And, wait, oh yeah, a murder.”

He had a good point. My neighbor had been killed last year in my apartment, and Vaughn had soon been on the scene, taking care of it.

“So yeah, I remember where your place is,” he said. “I’m not an idiot.” He sounded not so much irritable now as he did hurt.

“I’m not saying you’re an idiot. I’m sorry if it sounded like that.”

Nothing from Vaughn.

I opened the door. “Hey, I’m grateful for the ride. Thanks.”

He picked up his hand as if to wave goodbye, but he didn’t turn around.

“Really,” I said. “Thanks.”

A pause, then, “No problem, McNeil.”

And that, I supposed, was the best relationship Detective Damon Vaughn and I were going to have.