The Night Crew

tell me about the murder.’’ Cheryl read Clark’s phone number; Anna noted it, doodled around it as they talked. At six-thirty, still chatting, Anna casually picked up the TV remote, aimed it at the set in the corner, hit the power and mute buttons and flicked through the channels.
    At CNN, the Harper kid was flying off the ledge, followed by ten seconds of talking head, then a shot of the pig taking out the Rat. They’d picked the Keystone Kops version.
    ‘‘Cheryl, have you seen the TV news thing about the guy who jumped off the ledge here in L.A.?’’
    ‘‘Well, sure, everybody’s seen it. You can’t get away from it.’’ Then, excitedly, ‘‘Was that you guys?’’
    ‘‘Yeah. It’s getting around. Have you seen the animal rights thing, at the medical center?’’
    ‘‘Oh, the guy with the pig. Cracked me up. Was that you, too?’’
    ‘‘About two minutes apart, story to story. And you’re getting them way up there in Oregon?’’
    ‘‘Hey, it’s not like we’re in Tibet . . .’’ As they talked, the Blue Shirt kid came up—Anna had forgotten his name—but he’d been interviewed again, probably the day after the animal rights fight. The interviewer was not familiar. The kid was wearing a lab coat, had a fat lip, and a couple of grinning professor-types hung in the background of the interview. Louis had made him into the hero of the piece, and that had influenced the stations who’d picked it up: and it was still building.
    What was his name? Like the mountain, right? Not Everest. McKinley. Charles McKinley. He was playing the role just right, Anna thought, watching the muted TV as Cheryl chattered in her ear, a sort of charming, little-boy bashfulness. Anna and Cheryl were still on the phone when Creek arrived, doing his shave-and-a-haircut knock. Anna walked out to the end of the phone cord to let him in, said, ‘‘Cheryl,’’ to him, and he called out, ‘‘Hi, Cheryl,’’ and stuck his head in the refrigerator.
    ‘‘Cheryl says she wants your body,’’ Anna said, as he emerged with a bottle of Leinenkugel Light.
    ‘‘She can have it, as long as she gives it a good cleaning once in a while,’’ Creek said. As Anna repeated his answer, Creek popped the top on the beer and wandered down the hall. A moment later, Anna heard him tinkling on the piano.
    When she got off the phone, she ripped Clark’s number off the scratch pad where she’d written it, looked at it for a moment, then folded it in two and stuck it under a magnet on the refrigerator.
    Clark. She got a Coke from the refrigerator and sat on the piano bench with Creek, facing away from the piano. Creek smelled pleasantly of sun-sweat and turpentine.
    ‘‘You’re early,’’ she said.
    ‘‘Thought you might want to talk, running around after Jason like that.’’ He was chording his way through a fakebook rendition of ‘‘Autumn Leaves.’’
    ‘‘Yeah.’’ She’d told him that morning about the prowler, now she told him about the man in the apartment.
    ‘‘Maybe I ought to look him up,’’ Creek growled, when she finished.
    ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ she said, reaching over to pat his back. His back felt like a boulder. ‘‘He’s got connections with the cops and the cops are talking drugs. You better stay low.’’
    ‘‘I don’t want him fuckin’ with you,’’ Creek said.
    ‘‘I don’t think he will,’’ Anna said. ‘‘I talked to Wyatt about him—I was scared, and called Wyatt, and he knew who he was . . . Oh, and Wyatt told me that his partner was over to interview you.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, I . . . guess.’’
    She felt the sudden evasiveness in his voice: ‘‘Look at me, Creek,’’ she said.
    He shook his head. ‘‘I ain’t looking at you.’’
    ‘‘Oh my God, you jumped her,’’ Anna said, half-amused, half-horrified.
    ‘‘Did not. Jump her,’’ Creek said. ‘‘And that’s a nasty phrase anyway. High school.’’ He segued to a couple of bars of ‘‘Ain’t Misbehavin’.’’ ‘‘But she is a tasty little thing.’’
    ‘‘Pretty hard edges for a cheesecake,’’ Anna said. Creek’s adventures with women sometimes grew complex.
    ‘‘Hey, you know, nobody really appreciates what a woman cop goes through every day,’’ Creek said tartly. ‘‘Especially one with some decent looks.’’
    ‘‘Just how much of her did you look at?’’
    ‘‘None of your business.’’
    ‘‘Ah. And would I be right to suspect that this