'You need a better lawyer than the one you've got.'
'Max seems like a nice guy.' He had actually offered Martin some good advice about making sure to align himself with the whites as soon as he got into the cells. Had there been any white people, he would have certainly done so.
'I'm letting you go because forensic tests showed that Sandy's blood on the bumper dried before yours did.'
'You can tell that?'
'Yes,' she told him, sounding tired. 'We can tell that.'
Martin scratched his chin, wondering if he would ever be able to trust Kay Scarpetta again.
'Your car is in the impound lot. Keep your nose clean,' An warned him. 'You're still our main suspect in this case.'
'Yes, I can see why.'
'You also need to tell me what you were doing between the time you dropped off your mother and the time you came home.'
Martin pressed his lips together.
'Mr Reed—'
'I promise you that I would never hurt Sandy. She teased me sometimes, but I know that she cared about me. Sometimes, when people pick on you, it's because, for them, that's the only way they can show affection.' Martin shrugged. 'If you look at it that way, Sandy and I were actually friends.'
An stared at him. She sighed a deep raspy sigh of exhaustion. Martin thought of all the things he would do if he had her all to himself: stroke her hair, rub her feet, change her lightbulbs (even if there were spiders!). He would learn to cook for her. The art of lovemaking would come easily to him, the way that macramé and model shipbuilding had come to him in the ninth grade. And didn't his mother still have some of his ships on the top of the kitchen cabinets? Evie wouldn't still be displaying them after all of these years if she didn't think they were good!
'Mr Reed?'
She had been talking and he'd missed it. 'Yes?' My love . . .
'Leave.'
He saw that she was holding the door open for him. A man sat behind a cage with the envelope containing Martin's personal effects. He turned around to thank Anther – really to get one more look at her – only to see the door slam in his face.
The man in the cage started speaking as Martin approached. 'Count your money, check your belongings and sign here.'
Martin followed each step, counting down to the last penny, checking his wallet to make sure an unclaimed scratch-off ticket was still there. 'Thank you,' he told the man, but apparently the fish were just as impolite as the screws. Or was it the screws who controlled the fish? And why did they call them fish? Perhaps because they were swimming against the tide instead of schooling along with the rest of society?
Martin considered this as he walked through the packed lobby of the jail. There was row after row of vinyl seats, enough to handle at least five hundred people, he guessed. Families were waiting in huddled groups. Grandparents sat alone. Such sadness.
There was a taxi-stand outside the jail entrance. Martin got into the first one, which smelled vaguely of vomit. Or maybe he just became aware of his own smell in the cramped quarters. The driver seemed none too pleased. He rolled down all the windows as he merged on to the interstate. Martin's hair flapped wildly around his face, stinging his cheeks, but he did not care. He stared out the window at the downtown skyline as the driver jumped on I-20, then I-285. It wasn't until they passed Atlanta Airport that Martin realized the driver was taking the longest route possible.
Well, Martin thought. If the driver assumed he was getting a tip, he was dead wrong.
They pulled up in front of the Reed house exactly fifty-two minutes later. Martin was barely able to pay the price on the meter. The driver made it clear this was unacceptable. He backed the cab over a row of Evie's plants as he zoomed down the driveway. The man probably thought he was punishing Martin, but the truth was that Martin was so mad at his mother for not coming to his aid that he did not care how many flowers were sacrificed.
'What the hell are you doing home?' Evie demanded. She stood in the open doorway of the house, bathrobe hanging open. 'You're supposed to be in prison.'
'Jail,' he corrected. 'Prison is where you go when you're convicted.'
'Thank you for the lesson, Mr fucking Smarty- Pants.'
Martin walked up the front steps and went into the house. He stopped at the hall mirror, noting how much he had aged since this morning. Living life on the wrong side of the tracks would do that to you.
'Norton Shaw called. He says you're fired.'
'What?'
'He said to get your things after work and leave your keys in his office. I hope you don't think you're going to stay here freeloading off me. I'm an old woman. I have to look out for myself.'
'Why would they fire me?'
'I dunno, Martin. Lemme go out on a limb here and say it's because you murdered one of your God damn co-workers.'
Martin felt his jaw ache from grinding his teeth. 'I need to borrow your car.'
'Why, is there someone else you want to kill?'
He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. 'One . . . two . . . three . . .'
'I always thought you might be autistic,' his mother muttered as she headed into the kitchen. 'I wonder if that could be part of your defense.'
Martin opened his eyes. His job! His livelihood! His co-workers were the only friends he had. What would he do without this social outlet? Where would he go for the camaraderie, the connection to the outside world? He studied himself in the hall mirror. The hardness in his eyes was new. Was this the man that An had seen, this alternative Martin who viewed the world as a desperate and dastardly place?
Evie tossed the keys at Martin. He tried to catch them as they bounced off his face. 'Fill it up with gas before you bring it back.'
Martin leaned down to pick up the keys. 'It should have a full tank.'
'I had to get some things at the store. I'm an old woman with a fucking criminal for a son. Who knew how long you'd be in the pokey?'
Martin tried not to think about his mother driving. Her cataracts had robbed her of all peripheral vision. She had side-swiped the mailbox last week with the riding lawnmower.
He glanced at his watch. Southern Toilet Supply would be closed by now. 'I'm going to work to clean out my desk,' he told her, sadness enveloping him. How could he be fired? Why would Norton Shaw do this to him? Martin had not been convicted of a crime. He liked Sandy. Why on earth would he kill her? How on earth could he kill her? He didn't even like killing insects.
Evie narrowed her eyes at him. 'If you were really innocent, you'd threaten Southern with a lawsuit for firing you without cause.'
'I am innocent!' he screamed. 'Mother, you know I was home last night.'
She gave her Cheshire Cat grin. They both knew that this was not entirely the truth.
It seemed fitting that Martin drove his mother's car to Southern Toilet Supply. He felt as if he was living inside a Janet Evanovich novel, so it was only natural that, like Stephanie Plum, he was stuck behind the wheel of an elderly relative's powder blue Cadillac. This was no farcical murder mystery, though. This was real life. As if to put a fine point on it, Martin slowed the car at the sight of the police tape marking the scene of Sandy's death.
Poor Sandy. Poor broken Sandy. Sure, she had teased him, but that didn't mean that she deserved to die. Even Evie had said as much. 'What a corker!' she had exclaimed when Martin told her about the fiasco with the glued sex instrument. (Evie had asked about the piece of rubber that the GlooperGone had mysteriously melted into his thumb. Even two weeks later, the faded purple line was still there.)
The car behind him beeped its horn and Martin pressed the accelerator, pulling away from the scene of the crime. He still kept the speedometer well under the limit as he drove to Southern, mindful that An had warned him to keep his nose clean. He thought the warning was very kind of her, but then An seemed like a kind person. He still could not get over the caring look she had given him in the interrogation room just before she'd jumped out of her chair to get away from the splatter of v
omit that flooded the table. He hoped that she had copies of those photos he'd ruined. She would need them for her case.
The car behind him swerved into the oncoming lane of traffic, horn blaring as it darted in front of the Cadillac.
'Oh, dear,' Martin muttered, jerking the steering wheel, trying to get out of the way. The wheels bumped on to the shoulder of the road and he turned sharply into the parking lot of a strip mall, hands gripping the wheel, foot slamming on to the brake. The car shuddered to a stop. Martin looked up in time to see a neon sign blinking to life in the afternoon dusk.
Madam Glitter's. If Martin were really in a novel, this would be a prime example of foreshadowing. Or was it aftershadowing? Because, in fact, the thing had already happened.
The truth was that Martin had, in fact, taken his mother to get her trowel from the Peony Club's storage facility, which was directly across the street from the strip mall wherein Madam Glitter's was housed. Martin had sat in his mother's Cadillac (she refused to be seen in the 'twat-mobile'), watching the sign glow in the evening light. 'Stressed? Tired out? Need a lift?' the letters had asked. 'Professional Massage at Reasonable Prices! Walk-ins welcome!'
Martin had never had a massage, and the truth was that ever since he'd spent three hours scraping the last remnants of the vibrating dildo off his desk, his back was killing him. There was a kink in his neck and a knot just under his shoulder blade that felt as if a hot knife was jabbing between his ribs every time he moved his right arm. What was massage for if not that very thing?
He had thought about the massage the entire drive back to the house, drowning out Evie's complaints about 'that bitch who runs the gardening club like she's the head Nazi at Dachau.'
This is what he imagined: an earthy young woman with a ring in her nose and bare feet would meet him at the front door. Maybe there would be some nice hot tea and cookies. Chimes would tinkle, perhaps the burbling of a small fountain would fill the air. Was there such a thing as a healing touch? Martin had read about a study in one of his magazines where rabbits were being used to test cholesterol medication. One of the rabbit groups showed amazing results, and it was later learned that the keeper of the group had been stroking their backs when she fed them. Could the same thing happen for Martin? Could the loving strokes of another human being change some intrinsic part of him into a happy being?
'I'll be back later,' Martin had told his mother, pulling away from the curb in front of the house as soon as Evie was out of the car.
'What the fuck—' she said, just before the forward motion jerked the car door closed.
As he drove, Martin felt himself relax just thinking about the massage. He even sped, pushing the Cadillac five miles over the posted speed limit. He was picturing this new, reckless side of himself. What would Unique say tomorrow when he managed to slip into the conversation that he had gotten a massage? Would he be some kind of metrosexual because of this? Would he start using scented shaving cream for his weekly shave? Would he get pedicures like Unique? Ha! Wouldn't she think that was funny? Wouldn't she be jealous!
He pulled up in front of Madam Glitter's and parked right outside the front door. As soon as he got out of the car, his feelings of elation started to leave him. Heavy drapes covered the windows. The front door had a large handicap sticker on it, the words, 'We specialize in special needs' underneath. Worse, there was a fast-food restaurant next door, so that when Martin entered Madam Glitter's, he was overwhelmed by the scent of fried chicken.
'You want a massage?' the woman behind the desk demanded. She was large, possibly one of the largest people he had ever seen (and that was saying a lot – there were some beefy women on Evie's side of the family).
'I was . . . uh . . .' Martin felt his feet start to move backward.
'Fifty dollars. I don't take credit cards.' The woman nodded toward a closed door. 'Go in there, take off your clothes and I'll be there in a second.'
Martin stood where he was, frozen in place.
'Move,' she barked, so Martin did.
The chicken smell was even more overpowering in the small massage room. There was a table in the center with a single hand towel at the place where Martin supposed his lower half would rest. He unclipped his tie and hung it on a hook jutting out of the wall. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his dress shirt, and he felt silly for it, because, after all, this was a therapeutic massage, not a date, for goodness' sake.
Still, how long had it been since he had been naked in front of a woman? He tried to think back. There had been a girl in high school, a sweet young lady who wore a back brace to correct her scoliosis. Wendy. Martin smiled at the thought of her, the way her curved spine had felt against his palm. If only she hadn't transferred to a magnet school for smart kids in Atlanta. Then there was Marcia, the woman who worked at the convenience store down the street from Martin's house. That had been something of a misunderstanding, though. Unfortunately, Martin had not realized until he was fully naked that Marcia was, in fact, still fully clothed and walking out the door.
The door opened and he grabbed the towel, covering his nakedness.
'I gotta make this fast,' the woman said, picking up his pants off the floor. She pulled out his wallet as she talked. 'My kid's got the 'flu. I thought he was lying to get out of school, but his sister called and said he has a fever.'
Martin watched her count out fifty dollars and return the wallet to his pants. 'I'm sorry to hear that.'
She reached her hand into an open tub of lotion. 'Lie back on the table.'
Martin got on the table, trying to keep the hand towel over his intimate areas.
'You got kids?' she asked, rubbing the lotion into her hands.
Martin's mouth opened to answer just as her hand went under the towel and her fingers wrapped around his member. 'Good Lord!' he yelped.
'Sorry my hands are cold.' She was staring at the wall, a bored look in her eyes as her shoulder jerked back and forth with her hand. 'I tell you what, sometimes I wonder if the government's telling us the truth.'
'Huh-huh.' Martin was panting so hard he could barely speak.
'I mean, lookit this 'flu thing that's going around.' Jerk, jerk, jerk. 'Everybody I know who gets it, they're, like, laid up for a week, then they get a little better, but two months later, they're still feeling rundown.'
Martin gripped the sides of the table, trying not to fall off.
'Can you really trust the CDC? Aren't they supposed to be tracking this shit?'
'Huh-huh-huh . . .'
'And the FDA – one minute they're telling us drugs are safe, the next minute they're taking them off the shelves.'
'Oh-oh-oh . . .'
'It's like we can't trust a thing they tell us anymore.'
Martin closed his eyes, trying to block out the sight of the fat on the back of Madam Glitter's arm swaying as her hand moved. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, trying to think about Angelina Jolie, Rebecca Romijn . . . it wasn't until his mind conjured the image of Diane Sawyer in a lilac cashmere sweater that he felt himself starting to let go.
It was the dulcet tones of Diane he heard instead of Madam Glitter's harsh voice when she asked, 'You want me to squeeze your balls?'
'Gah! Gah! Gah!' He came like an oscillating lawn sprinkler with a kink in the hose.
Madam Glitter wiped her hands on the towel. 'Sorry to rush you, but I need to get back to my kid.'
Martin stared up at the ceiling, still panting. There was a brown water stain directly over the table. How had he not noticed that before?
She patted his thigh. 'Come on, sport. Up you go.'
Martin struggled to sit up. The vinyl squeaked as he moved. He was sweating. His chest was still heaving.
The last thing she had said to him as she rushed him out the door was, 'You really should have that mole looked at.'
And this was what Martin was supposed to tell Anther, that he had been getting his member massaged while Sandy was being killed? What kind of alibi was that? What kind of
person paid for sex? He would rather be convicted as a murderer than have his mother find out what he had done. Did she have any inkling as to where Martin had really been? Evie was in bed when he returned from the massage parlor. Fortunately, Dancing With the Stars was on his TiVo season pass manager. He had watched Mr T doing the rumba with Joan Crawford and thought, Is this what my life has come to? I actually paid a mother of two for sex? Or was it really sex? Did a handjob count as intercourse? Martin assumed you had to enter someone – or was that a different 'inter' that they were talking about? Internal? He scowled. That didn't sound sexy at all.
Martin put the Cadillac into reverse and drove away from the scene of his real crime. The parking gate was up at Southern Toilet Supply, which was a direct violation of company rules. Of course, Martin didn't belong to the company anymore, so he shouldn't have given a fig. The problem was that he did give a fig. Anyone could break into this place. Maybe these new people who hadn't had to pick 2300 from the machinery didn't appreciate what mayhem vandals could bring to a place like this, but Martin knew first hand.
He pulled the Cadillac into its usual space, surprised to see that the only other car in the lot belonged to Unique. She certainly wasn't one to work extra hours, but maybe her conscience had won her over. Martin had every intention of completing his receivables from the workday he had missed. He may have been fired, but that was certainly no reason to shirk his responsibilities.
Martin took out his keys as he approached the entrance, but found that the door was already unlocked. He didn't bother to turn on the lights as he made his way to the office. There was no point, really. He knew everything from memory – the way the machinery was positioned, the way the shelving was stacked. For half of his life, this had been Martin's home, the place where he had felt valuable, needed. And now it was all gone – lost like a sock in the dryer, never to be seen again.
'Whatchu doin' here, Fool?' Unique's hands moved quickly as she shoved office supplies into her purse.