Sharp_Objects

zigzags on the wall and the mini dance floor in its center. I was drinking a bourbon and scribbling down my notes from the day when KC Law plopped down in the cushioned seat opposite me. He rattled his beer on the table between us.
    “I thought reporters weren’t supposed to talk to minors without permission.” He smiled, took a gulp. James’s mother must have made a phone call.
    “Reporters have to be more aggressive when the police completely shut them out of an investigation,” I said, not looking up.
    “Police can’t really do their work if reporters are detailing their investigations in Chicago papers.”
    This game was old. I went back to my notes, soggy from glass sweat.
    “Let’s try a new approach. I’m Richard Willis.” He took another gulp, smacked his lips. “You can make your dick joke now. It works on several levels.”
    “Tempting.”
    “Dick as in asshole. Dick as in cop.”
    “Yes, I got it.”
    “And you are Camille Preaker, Wind Gap girl made good in the big city.”
    “Oh, that’s me all right.”
    He smiled his alarming Chiclet smile and ran a hand through his hair. No wedding ring. I wondered when I began to notice such things.
    “Okay, Camille, what do you say you and I call a détente? At least for now. See how it goes. I assume I don’t need to lecture you about the Capisi boy.”
    “I assume you realize there’s nothing to lecture about. Why have the police dismissed the account of the one eyewitness to the kidnapping of Natalie Keene?” I picked up my pen to show him we were on record.
    “Who says we dismissed it?”
    “James Capisi.”
    “Ah, well, there’s a good source.” He laughed. “I’ll let you in on a little something here, Miss Preaker.” He was doing a fairly good Vickery imitation, right down to twisting an imaginary pinky ring. “We don’t let nine-year-old boys be particularly privy to an ongoing investigation one way or another. Including whether or not we believe his story.”
    “Do you?”
    “I can’t comment.”
    “It seems that if you had a fairly detailed description of a murder suspect, you might want to let people around here know, so they can be on the lookout. But you haven’t, so I’d have to guess you’d dismissed his story.”
    “Again, I can’t comment.”
    “I understand Ann Nash was not sexually molested,” I continued. “Is that also the case with Natalie Keene?”
    “ Ms. Preaker. I just can’t comment right now.”
    “Then why are you sitting here talking to me?”
    “Well, first of all, I know you spent a lot of your time, probably work time, with our officer the other day, giving him your version of the discovery of Natalie’s body. I wanted to thank you.”
    “My version ?”
    “Everyone has their own version of a memory,” he said. “For instance, you said Natalie’s eyes were open. The Broussards said they were closed.”
    “I can’t comment.” I was feeling spiteful.
    “I’m inclined to believe a woman who makes her living as a reporter over two elderly diner owners,” Willis said. “But I’d like to hear how positive you are.”
    “Was Natalie sexually molested? Off the record.” I set down my pen.
    He sat silent for a second, twirling his beer bottle.
    “No.”
    “I’m positive her eyes were open. But you were there.”
    “I was,” he said.
    “So you don’t need me for that. What’s the second thing?”
    “What?”
    “You said, ‘first of all…’”
    “Oh, right. Well, the second reason I wanted to speak with you, to be frank—a quality it seems you’d appreciate—is that I’m desperate to talk to a nontownie.” The teeth flashed at me. “I mean, I know you’re from here. And I don’t know how you did it. I’ve been here off and on since last August and I’m going crazy. Not that Kansas City is a seething metropolis, but there’s a night life. A cultural…some culture. There’s people.”
    “I’m sure you’re doing fine.”
    “I’d better. I may be here for a while now.”
    “Yes.” I pointed my notebook at him. “So what’s your theory, Mr. Willis?”
    “That’s Detective Willis, actually.” He grinned again. I finished my drink in another swallow, began chewing on the stunted cocktail straw. “So, Camille, can I buy you a round?”
    I jiggled my glass and nodded. “Bourbon straight up.”
    “Nice.”
    While he was at the bar, I took my ballpoint and wrote the word dick on my wrist in looping cursive. He came back with two Wild