Page 65 of Tear Me Apart
“Come on, girl,” he says quietly, and Kat follows him out. He stands in the doorway for a moment, staring at the detritus of his life, then closes the door with a gentle snick, goes to the kitchen, and the open bottle.
35
The hangover is bad. It is made worse by the need to rise from the rumpled bed and answer the calls of nature, for both Zack and the dog. The sun’s incessant climb burns his eyes, and of course, Kat decides it is a morning to be happy, to run and frolic, tugging hard at the leash until Zack relents and guides them to the dog park. He unsnaps her lead and she takes off running, long legs loping over the dead winter grass, to the very edge of the park, the border of the woods, where she stops, on point, and stares into the darkness. The thick fur ruffles along her back, and a soft growl comes from her throat.
A deer in the woods probably, or some other creature. He whistles for her, sharply, a hand going to his head as if the pain can be contained, but she doesn’t move.
He finally stalks across the park to get her, and even then she resists, looking back over her shoulder and whining as he pulls her away.
“Come on, Kat. Knock it off, and I’ll go by Publix and get you a bone. Wanna bone? Wanna yummy bone?”
Kat is not in the mood for his kind of play. She wants to growl at the trees. She hangs her head and plods next to him, the very picture of dejection.
They are a pair.
Walking away, he smells hyacinth. Strange, since it is late winter, and nothing is blooming yet. Vivian wore a similar scent, but not exactly the same. His heart squeezes, as it does every time he thinks about his dead wife. He sniffs again, but the smell is gone. All in his mind. Nothing unusual there. Over the years, he’s caught a perfumed whiff at the strangest times, and almost always when there are no flowers in sight. He went to a doctor once, after looking up olfactory hallucinations and finding out it could actually presage a stroke or other terrible illnesses. The doctor checked him out thoroughly, told him he was still in mourning, and reassured him there was nothing physically wrong.
Mentally, on the other hand...
Back up the hill, he unlocks the front door and practically has to push the dog inside. She finally gives in and trots to the kitchen, ears perked. He follows, slightly chagrined to see the mess. The empty bottle—no wonder he feels like hell warmed over—is sideways in the sink, the glass on the counter, a sticky pool of dried Scotch next to it.
“Impressive showing, Zack.”
He cleans up, then makes himself some eggs and bacon. He scarfs them down straight out of the pan, standing over the sink, tops it with orange juice, reheated coffee from yesterday’s pot, and a handful of Advil. He throws a crunchy bone to Kat, who eyes it but doesn’t pounce. He heads to his office.
He boots up his computer, pulls his cell phone from the charger. He’s missed a call, and there is a message. The number is one he recognizes—Metro Nashville Police.
Crap, the call came in half an hour ago, while Katerina acted up in the park. He fumbles with the phone in his hurry to return the call, not bothering to listen to the message.
“Can I speak to Bob Parks, please? Homicide.”
A click, then silence, then the phone starts to ring. And ring. And ring.
Finally, a voice answers, “Homicide.”
“I’m looking for Sergeant Parks.”
“He’s out. Leave a message?”
“I’ll call back.”
He clicks end, then presses the button to play his voice mail.
“Mr. Armstrong, this is Sergeant Parks. I have meetings this morning, but if you are free this afternoon, I’d like to sit down and chat about your wife’s case. Please call me back and let me know if I can stop by your place. This is my cell.”
Heart pounding, Zack writes the number on the flap of a torn envelope, then dials it from memory. One of his talents, long numbers stick with him as soon as he sees them written down. It makes him fun at parties, where he can recite Pi out through a hundred numbers.
When he used to be fun, that is.
“Parks.”
“It’s Zack Armstrong. You called?” He sounds hopeful. He can’t help it; it has been so long since there’s been anything from the cops.
“Right. You around after lunch? I’d like to sit down and talk.”
“Have you found something?”
“Not really, I just wanted to get briefed and up to speed on the case. I work a little differently than Gorman. I like to have my hands in things. Especially cold cases.”
