She didn't bother looking at the ripped photograph again before throwing it in the trash and it's not because she didn't want too but rather she wills her eyes closed as she bows her head. Her empty hand collapses against her thigh and her breath comes out hard and steady. She pinches her eyes shut perching her fingers on her forehead. She doesn't want to cry. She just wants to survive. She fills her lungs with air as she promises not to fuck it up again.
His phone call shatters her thoughts and her resiliency skills are not where they need to be. It's easy to say yes to him and she really does hate herself for her unwillingness to hesitate where he is concerned. She has to fix that. It moves to the top of her list. He doesn't give many details, just that he needs her, and she knows that's not what he means. This is business. He's never really given her any real reason to think otherwise but in their time together his hints and body language cloud her judgment of their situation. Non-verbal communication accounts for 92% of meaning and understanding. She heard that somewhere. Maybe it was in detective school learning how to deal with difficult suspects. It sounds right.
He stands on his porch, rifle in one hand, thermos in the other, and he waits for her. She's on his mind. He's not looking for excuses. He knows the truth will hurt her and it was part of the gratification he was looking for. He's ashamed of that now. The white streak of her pickup truck slows as it hits the dirt and kicks it up in a whirlwind. His steps are slow and measured as he descends to meet the Hemi charged beast.
She doesn't smile. She doesn't ask as he walks to the passenger side and slides in; rifle first, his legs filling the floor well, and she tells herself not to stare at their uncommon length and how the loose denim doesn't hide the fullness of his thighs.
"Ruby is putting out the APB."
"Copy that."
He looks at her profile. There's so much he wants to say to her but none of it is any good and it won't do any good either. Not now.
"Where do you want to start?" She asks, cranking the steering wheel to finish the 180 degree turn back to the paved road.
He's not sure what she means at first but answers, "Her office, I suppose, that's where the medical records should be."
Her lips won't break the seal to utter the words she feels. Besides, she's afraid that any admission now would force her into complete subjugation, and that she can never allow. Instead she pushes her Ray-Bans against the frame of her nose with the tip of her index finger and she lets it linger there for just a moment longer than usual as if an accent point on her complete mind shift.
This is business.
Donna's burned van still occupies the parking lot from where the tow truck dropped it. She doesn't bother to ask why it's not at the impound yard for evidence as she looks over at him, rolling her eyes up and down his frame, in complete judgment over his lack thereof. He feels it. Maybe knows he deserves it but he keeps his eyes straight ahead and points towards the building in silence.
She doesn't acknowledge nor defer to him but she clears her throat. She can communicate non-verbally too. The black etched, "Dr. Donna Monahan, Psychiatry Services," slaps her in the face as she checks the handle confirming the door is locked. They walk the exterior of the building looking for any signs of forced entry. She pulls out her cell phone and punches the ten digits with her thumb. She doesn't ask. She doesn't consult with him she just goes about doing her job.
His hands rest on his hips, his jaw grinds, and the wheels turn and spin. He hears her series of Okays and thank you's.
"The alarm company is sending a responsible party down here with a key. The ETA is twenty minutes." She says and drops her phone back into her breast pocket. He notices she has on her thermal and only one button is undone. Her jacket is zipped and she looks everywhere but at him.
"I'm driving back to the gas station and getting a cup of coffee if you want to stay here and wait."
He attempts a corner smile, "I have my thermos." Not really offering but inferring. It's a trademark.
"No thanks." She says and walks away from him.
Before he can decide his course of action she's gone. Just like that. He sits on the front curb, his forearms rest on his knees, and the lack of anger on her part are just as surprising as the lack of urgency on his.
She pulls the Dodge to a stop and steps out with Styrofoam cup steaming from the brim. He watches as she purses her lips, blowing first, and taking a short sip. A white Prius enters the parking lot, "Bell Alarm and Security," scrolled on the side. The words squished into a gold liberty bell.
The security guard, clad in all black, with bell insignia patches steps out and greets them.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
"That was quick." She says.
He smiles at her. His fresh face and eagerness are easily recognizable and familiar to her. She's used to men looking at her with relative pleasure. Maybe that's what drew her in? He never really paid attention to her. Not that kind of attention.
The guard unlocks the door and they enter clearing each room.
"Dispatch says the alarm hasn't been activated since the break-in."
"Break-in?" Walt asks as if he really did not know about it.
The guard flips open his basket weave notebook cover, "Looks like, June 6th, we received an alarm call, and Cumberland County deputies came out and took the report."
"You have the report number?" She asks.
"Sure do." He smiles and writes it down for her.
Vic takes the note and smirks noticing the phone number beneath the incident report number and the name Joe Hensley written next to it.
"I noticed you weren't wearing a ring." He smiles and this time she notices his perfectly straight white teeth. "I hope I'm not being completely unprofessional or inappropriate." He says.
"It never stopped anyone in my department."
She says and looks at Joe while Walt's eyes cringe ever so slightly. You would only notice the distaste in his face if you knew him well.
"Can you stick around for a few minutes and lock up for us?" She asks and Walt notices the softness in her voice.
"Sure." Joe takes the clue and waits for them outside.
"Do you know who we are looking for?" She asks before pulling open a file cabinet drawer. He listens for judgment in her voice but it is absent.
"She called him Desmond." He says and his eyes connect with hers for the first time.
There's pain there.
He feels it too.
"No last name?" Her eyes don't flinch or move and he's not sure if she's blinked.
He shakes his head and his voice is so low he clears his throat, "No."
"There's a lot of fucking files here." She says and pauses.
"Yup." He slings open the top drawer.
She stops, "Do you think we need a warrant?"
"Exigent circumstances."
He says but he stops and runs his thumb over his lips. It's a move she normally would become slightly unglued over and even though the prickly feeling is present on the back of her neck she takes the deep dive into the case. She walks away, looks outside of the glass door, and sees Joe leaning against the Prius, and though he's tall and filled out and probably the guy she should be interested in she's not.
Vic glances down at the appointment sign-in sheet and quickly scans the pages.
"Walt, I got a Desmond here, Desmond Chan."
He steps into the hallway empty handed, "Any others?"
She cuts him a look, "We're in Wyoming."
He smacks his teeth.
"He was here two weeks ago it looks like he's a regular Wednesday appointment except for the past couple of weeks."
She walks outside without another word and he watches her smile at the tall handsome guard. The recalcitrant wisp of hair floats free from her ponytail and she tucks it back behind her ear as her smile broadens. The tall man smiles back and Walt feels his stomach tighten and his face flex. It perplexes him.
He steps out and past them and waits in the passenger seat.
Joe sets the alarm and locks the front door. He waves as he leaves in the Prius.
She slams her door shut as he finishes the smooth transmission of information to Ruby. They sit in silence as she turns the engine waiting for an order or an apology. He fingers his breast pocket retrieving a Wyoming driver's license. He reads the address to her and she glances at the picture, then back at him.
The smugness eases in-between the vowels and syllables, "You don't know her address?"
He stays silent and rubs his jaw.
Five minutes into the twenty minute drive she asks, "How much do you know about her?"
"Enough." He says.
