Rubout Read Online Free Page B

person? How tall was the person?” I wanted to hear more, but then I was sick again.
    When I stood up, sour-mouthed and shivering, aman handed me his white silk handkerchief. Terrific. Homicide Detective Mark Mayhew had been watching me barf my guts out.
    “Francesca, are you okay?” he asked, and he sounded like he meant it.
    “I’m fine,” I lied.
    “Do you want to go inside and sit down? Can I get you a drink? Have someone drive you home?”
    I answered no to all his well-meant suggestions. Every time I met him, I had to remind myself that he was married. Mark was the nicest fashion plate I’d ever met. Even at 2:00 A.M . the man was beautifully dressed. He took off his trench coat and put it around my shaking shoulders. It felt warm and smelled faintly of some spicy, manly scent. He was wearing a blue-striped silk shirt like the Perry Ellis I gave Lyle for his birthday and a gray suit so well cut it almost hid his shoulder holster.
    “Nice outfit for hanging around alleys,” I said.
    “So is yours,” he said. Suddenly I was very aware of my long black boots, leather pants, and dark hair, wild in the damp night. This wasn’t the way I usually dressed when I saw Mark. This was a nice outfit for an alley. It was an even better outfit for the nearby Cherokee Street Stroll, where the prostitutes paraded. He didn’t ask why I was dressed like a hooker, but I gave him an explanation anyway.
    “I was at the biker ball,” I said. “As a guest. For once I didn’t have to do a column.” But now I did. I was within throwing-up distance of a major story. I should be covering it for the
Gazette.
I slipped into my reporter role. I wore it like armor. If I worked hard enough, I wouldn’t think about the other murderI saw, years ago. I still had nightmares about the dripping blood. I knew this would be one of the bad nights with bad dreams. But I could fight them off for a while if I played reporter.
    “Sydney was beaten with a bike chain, wasn’t she?” I said. I wanted Mark to confirm it. He wouldn’t.
    “The autopsy will tell us for sure,” he said, a noncommittal answer.
    I tried again. “Why were the uniformed officers asking Mitch to describe someone? He seemed pretty drunk. Is he a suspect?”
    This time Mayhew laughed. “Mitch a suspect? No, he was upstairs in the men’s room—he pointed overhead at a square, lit window that looked out on the alley—”about twelve-ten or so, which is about ten or fifteen minutes after Sydney left the building. He says he stuck his head out for some fresh air and saw a little old lady—his words—hurrying down the alley toward Utah Street.”
    “That information must be a big help,” I said sarcastically. Older women were as common as dandelions in this aging neighborhood.
    “Did he get a description?”
    “Yeah,” Mark said. “Mitch told us that she was ‘not too fat’ and wore what he calls ‘an old lady coat.’ He says it was maybe dark blue or black. The woman had a dark hat pulled over her hair, which was maybe gray. Or maybe white. She also carried a ‘big black old lady purse.’”
    “That only describes every third older woman in South St. Louis,” I said.
    “I know. But we’ll look for her anyway. Maybe the woman—if she exists—saw something in the alleyand got spooked. But I’m not sure how reliable his description is. The condition Mitch is in, I’m surprised he didn’t see two old ladies walking a pink elephant.”
    “If he saw any alcohol-induced animal, it would be a Clydesdale. Mitch was doing his best tonight to keep the Busch family in the style to which they’re accustomed.” The massive Clydesdale horses pulled the beer wagons in parades and commercials for the nearby Anheuser-Busch brewery.
    Mark took a formal statement from me. He started with the questions he already knew the answer to: where I worked and what my address and phone number were. Then he asked what was my business in the alley.
    “I wasn’t doing any