He poured himself a double espresso and drank it standing up, staring at nothing. Then he called Ham. “Shit, Chris. It’s not even five-thirty yet. Can’t a guy sleep in on a Saturday?” Chris heard a female voice in the background. “Just pick me up when you’re done, Ham.” Ham showed up at six o’clock sharp. He must have booted out his bootie call right after hanging up. Chris had done nothing in the meantime, nothing except drank coffee. They went to pick Charles up and were at the car pound a good half hour before opening time. They sat in the car and waited. Lemieux’s alleged black car awaited, sleek from the rain, behind the wire fence. The fucking car had been waiting for weeks; it could stand waiting for another thirty minutes. He should have been all over that car already. Would have too had she not looked so lost at the precinct yesterday. He had figured a quiet evening was what she needed, him all over her for comfort, then, as soon as she fell asleep, he would have been all over that car.
