Civil Twilight by Susan Dunlap

thought of that. But it’s not the answer, even if for anyone other than John it’d make sense. I was going to hunt him down last night, check at Gary’s house, at Mom’s, at Lost Sock—”
    “Lost Sock?”
    “His apartment. He acts like he lives there, but he’s almost always at Mom’s because he wants to keep an eye on her—not that she appreciates that. The family joke is that John’s apartment exists only in his imagination, like the place where lost socks and keys end up.”
    Leo grinned. “But you don’t think John’s there.”
    “He would have called.”
    “But he didn’t.”
    “Because something happened. Because he had to ditch his phone, because he’d called someone he didn’t want the police or someone to know about.”
    “But they can subpoena his phone records.”

    “Not right away. He’ll buy a week or more at least.”
    “Then why wouldn’t he call you from some other phone?”
    “He wouldn’t want that number on my record.”
    “But a pay phone?”
    “When was the last time you came across a pay phone that worked? But wait, he might have left a message here, on the land line! Did he?”
    Leo shrugged. I leapt for the phone. Two voicemail messages. The first from last night at 9:33 P.M. “Darcy”—it was a woman’s voice. The traffic noise in the background was so loud I had to press the receiver against my ear—“I’m so sorry. I would have liked dinner . . . really . . . if things’d been . . . different.” She— Karen! —laughed. A car door—hers?—slammed. “Later, huh?”
    I played it again, desperate to turn back time. Her voice was breathless, just like it had been at the top of Greenwich Street as we stood panting. I saw her again, in the blue linen shell and slacks that made her running shoes look out of place. Her blonde hair blowing in the easy breeze. Back then. But now as she spoke, I felt her drawing away from the phone as if watching for something—no, someone. The person who shut the car door. The person who’d soon kill her? She’d thrust out last words—“Later, huh?” in a single breath.
    I stared at the white wall in front of me.
    Leo still sat on his futon. Someone else would have been overcome with curiosity, but he was waiting.
    Very carefully I saved Karen’s message. “I was with her less than an hour, but, the thing is, I was so focused on her, trying to figure out—” I stopped. That was one part of this Leo didn’t already know. “It was like a script summary.”
    He seemed to hesitate, as if balancing the need to speak with the lack of invitation. “Like one version of a script?”

    That wasn’t quite it. “Like the first act was missing.”
    He nodded. “So you were penciling in possibilities as you went?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Be aware.”
    “Yeah.” I played the tape again in my mind. “Things change. Karen’s changed entirely, gone. But her voice, her words are still there. They’re not going to change.”
    “But you will.”
    “Maybe.”
    He didn’t insist though we both knew he was right. I could understand or could choose not to.
    The second message was from Korematsu, telling me to call.
    I saved that, too.
    Leo pushed himself up to standing. “I’m off to a meeting. And you? What are you going to do?”
    “Call Korematsu.”

12
    I LEFT A MESSAGE for Korematsu, saying I was returning his call, not asking how come he was still doing the scut work on Broder’s case, much less what was what with that case. Had they found the evidence on John’s car? Had they—God forbid—found John? Was Korematsu planning to sit on me till they did? I barely had time to hurry Leo away from the zendo so he didn’t muddy the waters I was about to jump into, when an unmarked car squealed to a stop. I walked out into the courtyard to draw Korematsu’s attention as Leo turned the corner onto Columbus.
    “I’m glad you called, Darcy.” Translation: surprised you called.
    I nodded. I’d been right: it was a mistake to see