Angels Burning Read Free Page B

volunteering,” Singer says to me. “I was afraid the detective was going to ask me to do it.”
    â€œI wanted to do it,” Blonski says.
    I look at them sitting side by side: one with thick dark hair parted fastidiously on one side, long limbs folded into his seated body umbrella-style, a live-wire jumpiness about him; the other a human ATV, head shaved, leaning back in his chair with eyes half-closed like he’s about to nod off. They’re two seemingly very different young men, physically and mentally, but to someone my age all that matters is they’re both twenty-three, which means they’re exactly the same.
    â€œWere any missing-persons reports filed recently for a teenaged girl?”
    â€œNothing in our county,” Blonski responds.
    â€œToo bad it’s summer and school is out. An absentee list from the high school would be a good place to start looking.”
    â€œWon’t the state police be doing all that stuff?” Singer asks.
    â€œI’m sorry, Officer, would you like the day off?”
    His face reddens.
    â€œNo, it’s just that . . . ” he begins.
    â€œWe’re going to conduct our own investigation. We know the area and the people living in it better than they do. Corporal Greely welcomes our help.”
    â€œWelcomes?” Blonski wonders skeptically.
    â€œFeels obligated to accept our assistance,” I correct myself. “I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, we’re going to brainstorm.”
    Singer gets up from his chair and heads for the door. Blonski lingers.
    â€œShe might not be from around here,” he says.
    â€œOnly someone from around here would think to dump a body out at the Run,” Singer counters.
    â€œMaybe the killer is from around here but the girl is from somewhere else?”
    Singer disagrees.
    â€œHow would he have found her? Have you ever run into anyone around here who isn’t from around here?”
    Blonski gets up and leaves. I stop Singer as he’s heading out my office door and hand him one of my new pumps.
    â€œCan you get out that scuff?” I whisper to him.
    â€œSure thing, Chief,” he says.
    I NEVER USE the locker room. I’m surprised to find that it’s neat and clean. I realize immediately that I don’t have a towel, soap, or a comb. There’s a faded blue beach towel with a picture of a shark on it, fangs bared, folded and sitting on the end of the bench. I pick it up and inspect it. It’s dry and it doesn’t smell. Wrapped inside is some kind of bodywash.
    As I walk past the mirror, I stop and stare dumbly at my reflection. I can’t believe I just had a conversation with two of my men in this condition and they were able to keep straight faces. I look like a chimney sweep.
    I can’t help thinking about my mom and what her reaction would have been to my appearance. She was obsessive about personal cleanliness to the point where she named her first child after her favoritesoap. She took at least two showers a day and set aside a full hour every evening for her religiously observed bubble bath complete with lit candles, soft music on the radio, fizzy pink Mateus wine in a plastic gold chalice from a Renaissance Faire, and an altar set with shiny glass bottles, tubes and ceramic pots with metallic lids, and sparkly silver lipstick cases.
    Her desire to be immaculate didn’t extend past her body, however. I can’t ever recall seeing my mother run a vacuum or wash a dish. Our grandmother used to stop by sometimes and tidy up until I got old enough to do it, but her visits weren’t often enough to combat the filth, piles of clutter, and soiled clothes that accumulated everywhere.
    I always wished Grandma would get mad at Mom and tell her she needed to be a better mother and a better housekeeper, but she thought her daughter’s refusal to attend to such mundane domestic tasks was perfectly acceptable