LITMIR.BIZ

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nyah, nyah … hated you first.

      Some transforming moments could be personal and harsh: the court siding with the ex-wife in a custody battle, stripping a caring father of rights or limiting them. It was ugly and it happened, but it was a problem with a legal system, not a gender. There were women who despised men, it was true, and sometimes for nothing but the need of an enemy. They were female Blankleys, often doomed to strident and unsatisfying lives.

      But usually it was a personal failure transformed into someone else’s fault. Sometimes the moments were seismic, others so small you wondered how they registered on the psyche, until one learned that inbred insecurities ripen a psyche for bruising at every turn. Hit me, these folks seemed to say. Once hit, they spent the rest of their lives whining about it and wanting you to pity their bruise. When it began to fade they hammered at it until fresh blood leaked beneath the skin.

      I wondered if Blankley had such a transformational moment, and if that moment had registered in the legal system, occasionally the case. And could I use a little psychic jiu-jitsu to pop it out in the open?

      I made a deal out of pulling the phone from my pocket, then faked a call. I pursed my lips and frowned, listening to nothing. I aimed the frown at Blankley, still declaiming his tenets. He looked at me looking at him.

      “What?” he scowled.

      I shrugged. “Nothing.”

      “I’m a tax-paying citizen and I’ve got a right to know.”

      “Seems you’ve had a problem or two,” I generalized, starting to walk away, giving him rope. He jumped in front of me, his face demanding, accusatory.

      “No way. Neither of them filed a formal complaint. How can there be a record?”

      “There are two types of records. Official and call reports.”

      “It’s ILLEGAL!”

      Waltz picked up the thread. “Officers go on a call, they write down where and when and what.”

      Blankley’s head snapped toward Waltz. “They lied.”

      “The officers lied?”

      “The BITCHES lied. I wasn’t harassing them. I was explaining how they could better themselves by listening to me instead of that righteous woman shit! They’re all catty, manipulative, egomaniacal. Then they turn around and accuse me of being self-absorbed. I was trying to recover my manhood.”

      Waltz looked at Blankley’s crotch, raised an eyebrow. “They stole it? Maybe you should have filed a theft complaint.”

      Blankley’s chin quivered with anger. “You’re trying to humiliate me. I’m filing a complaint with your superior!”

      Waltz pulled out his cellphone, flipped it open. “I’ll dial. You can complain. Her name is Lieutenant Alice Folger.”

      Blankley turned red and made a noise like a balloon losing air. He opened his mouth to unleash another rant. Shelly waggled his finger, No, like disciplining a puppy.

      Rain was falling in earnest when we stepped outside and we ran to the car, jumped inside. Waltz sighed, brushed back damp hair with his palm.

      “You ever get the feeling that only about twenty per cent of adults are adults, Detective Ryder?”

      “Really, Shelly? I’ve always found it closer to ten.”

      We wrote off Blankley as no threat to the conference, just a sad boy with a small life. He’d had a couple of failed relationships and lacked the maturity to puzzle out what went wrong, deal with it, move on. It was easier when the women were at fault, or better, part of a vast conspiracy to de-male him in some way. No one de-males the J. William Blankleys, they do it on their own, almost eagerly.

      We got back to the station and I found Harry had called. I went outside to the street, stood in the recessed doorway of an office building and phoned him. He sounded odd, tentative. Maybe it was the connection.

      “The Doc’s place took a Breaking and Entering a couple weeks back. Nate Allen responded. He said that about halfway through, the Doc got squirrelly, like she was nervous about having things looked at. She said nothing was taken. Nate thinks something unspoken was going on. Like maybe something got taken that Doc Prowse didn’t want anyone to know about.”

      “Strange. Nate figure what that might have been?”

      “No idea. Did you know the Doc had a place in Gulf Shores?”

      “Sure. Her hideaway.”

      “Cute little place. According to a neighbor, the Doc sees the occasional patient there, but it’s been a couple years. Unless the Doc was analyzing ghosts.”

      “How so?”

      “The neighbor says the Doc hung out a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign like she was seeing patients, but the neighbor lady never saw anyone. This was every Saturday afternoon for two months.”

      “Sounds like Vangie’s taking a nap,” I said. “What else?”

      “There’s a posterized photo on the back of the door in Dr Prowse’s home office. When the door’s closed the picture’s directly across from her desk.”

      “And?”

      “It’s a picture of a naked man.”

      Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t stanch a chuckle. “Vangie was a young sixty-three, Harry. She’s allowed.”

      “Uh, Cars, the photo’s of your brother.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “The naked guy is Jeremy. He’s sprawled out on a quilt. It’s, uh, real odd.”

      “Uh, listen, Harry … got to … there’s a meeting up.”

      “Sure. Later.”

      I closed the phone, dropped it in my pocket, missed, picked it off the pavement. Vangie had a photograph of a nude Jeremy where she could see it as she worked. Right across from her desk where she could look into his eyes!

      The horror of Vangie and my brother as lovers and co-conspirators made me physically ill. Saliva flooded my mouth and bile spasmed to my throat. I covered my mouth, sprinted toward a trash receptacle, vomited before I got there. A car full of teenagers went past. They whooped, yelled, laughed. I leaned against a lamppost and watched the street tilt and whirl, like a ride at a carnival.

       Chapter 18

      “Ryder. You OK?”

      The voice was at my back. I turned, saw Folger approaching. Behind her, in a loading zone, was her ride. She’d obviously seen me at my less-than-best and pulled over to poke a little fun at the puking bubba. I waved her away, not sure I wanted to talk to anyone again, and certainly not her.

      “No problem, Lieutenant. I’m fine.”

      She stopped two yards away, hands on her hips, studying me. “Sure, all the fine, problem-free people I know upchuck in the street. You been drinking? You look wobbly.”

      “Not a drop.” I patted my gut. “A stomach thing, I guess.”

      She stared at me, nodded. “Come on, let’s go to a place not too far from here. I call it home. I’m bone-tired and calling it quits for today. I’ll give you a cup of hot tea to get your delicate tummy right. I’ll even put a couple cups of sugar in it. That’s how Southerners like tea, right? Like syrup?”

      “That’s iced tea. Listen, Lieutenant … I’ll be OK.”

      She looked at the trail I’d deposited on the pavement and jerked her finger over her shoulder at the cruiser. “Drop your butt in the car, Ryder. Or I’ll run you in for littering.”

      She

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