THE PLYMOUTH was in the parking lot across the street. Even on a warm day, that lot's always cold. The three courthouses surrounding it make a perfect wind tunnel. The car's fresh coat of primer made it look like it had been painted with rust-the Mole always changes the color after the car is used on a job and we hadn't decided on what to use next. It looks like a piece of junk, but it's anything but, with its independent rear suspension, fifty-gallon tank, fuel injection, heavy-duty cooling and shocks, bullet-proof glass, rhino-style bumpers-all that stuff. It wasn't fast, but you couldn't break it no matter what you did. It was going to be the Ultimate Taxicab, but it didn't work out that way.
The woman was standing in front of the Plymouth, tapping her foot impatiently like her date was late. All I could make out was that she was female. She was wearing a tan summer trenchcoat over dark slacks, her head covered with a black scarf and her face hidden behind sunglasses with big lenses. Nobody I knew, but I put my hand in my pocket anyway-some people subcontract their revenge.
Her eyes were on me all the way up to the Plymouth, so I walked past it like it meant nothing to me. But when I heard "Mr. Burke?" I knew there wasn't much point.
I don't like problems out in public-especially when half the public is cops.
"What?" I snapped out at her.
"I want to talk to you," she said. Her voice was shaky but determined. Trouble.
"You got me confused with someone else, lady."
"No, I don't. I have to talk with you," she said.
"Give me a name or get lost," I told her. If she knew my face from the courthouse but didn't have a referral from someone I knew, I was gone.
"Julio Crunini," she offered, her face close to mine now.
"I don't know anybody named Julio, lady. Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying, okay?" And I reached past her to open the Plymouth 's door and get the hell away from her and whatever she wanted. Julio's been out of prison too long, I was thinking-his mouth was getting loose.
She put her hand on my arm. Her hand was shaking-I could see the wedding ring on her finger, and the diamond sparkling in the sun next to it. "You know me," she said.
I looked into her face, and drew a blank. She must have seen what I was thinking-one hand went to her face and the sunglasses disappeared. Her face meant nothing to me. Her mouth went hard, and she pulled away the scarf-her flaming red hair fired in the sun.
"You know me now?" she asked bitterly.
It was the jogger from Forest Park.