Read The Fifth Script: The Lacey Lockington Series - Book One for Free Online Page B

that I know aren’t true—things that I don’t mean—and I get paid for doing it.” She spread her hands, palms up. “Which makes me a whore wouldn’t you think?”
    “Probably not. A whore can hang onto to her integrity—a liar can’t.”
    She rolled her eyes ceilingward. “Oh, Dear God, the semantics, the semantics !” It’d have been an excellent spot for her silvery laugh but she held it in check.
    “All right, you’re into politics. At what level—precinct—ward?”
    “No, I’m not into politics—well, yes, possibly—indirectly, I suppose—but just occasionally, by coincidence.”
    “There was a politician’s response, if I’ve ever heard one.”
    “You dislike politicians?”
    “Not all of them.”
    “Why not all of them?”
    “Because I don’t know all of them.” He was thinking that she might be a plant, one of Netherby’s Internal Affairs gestapo, sent to clinch the case against him by tacking on a charge of attempted rape, or something equally ridiculous—heresy, perhaps, or counterfeiting, or attempting to dry up Lake Michigan.
    She was saying, “Okay, I’m a journalist. How’s that?”
    Lockington’s scowl was dark. “Well, it ain’t good, but at your age there could still be hope.”
    She was pivoting on tight buttocks, slipping downward from the arm of the overstuffed chair to its cushion, like an otter into water, Lockington thought—not a ripple. He’d caught a flash of a navy blue half-slip. That’d make her panties powder blue, probably. He liked her spunky approach, her chipper personality, but he was beginning to experience grave misgivings about having permitted her to walk into his apartment—he was in enough trouble already, but she was in and the trick would be to get her out, short of throwing her out. These were perilous times—a man could get sued for next to nothing.
    She was smoothing her skirt, leaning forward, brown eyes flashing. She said, “Mr. Lockington, I’m here to apologize—I’m late, I know—I should have come a couple of weeks ago.”
    Lockington sat on his living room couch, elbows on his knees, head cradled in his hands, face expressionless, weary eyes riveted to the faded pattern of his brown carpeting, a new line of thought weaving its way into his thought processes—he might have a tiger by the tail here, she might be a wacko. In his fifteen years of police service, Lockington had learned one thing well—all of the Chicago area loonies weren’t confined to mental institutions, there were more of them out than in. He’d encountered his share of unapprehended crackpots and he knew the warning signs, one of the surest being a strange ability to construct imaginary platforms of reference capable of supporting kaleidoscopic networks of illusory injustices—rudimentary paranoia. But the human mind was a labyrinth with as many dead ends as thruways, and there were innumerable variations of the basic disease, at least one of these causing its victim to behold himself as offender rather than offended. Lockington hadn’t dug into the self-accusatory bracket, nor did he intend to, but there existed a solid possibility that he’d just run into one of its prime exhibits. This female was wound to the limit, one more turn of the key and she’d fly to pieces like a two-dollar wristwatch. If she wasn’t riding some sort of chemical high, she’d probably gone over the wall of the nearest funny farm. They’d never set eyes on each other, yet here she was, claiming that she was two weeks overdue with her apology. Obviously she wasn’t playing with a full deck, and it was imperative that he proceed with extreme caution until he could distract her long enough to get to his bedroom telephone. Guardedly, Lockington said, “Apologize—apologize for what ?”
    She said, “We’ll come to that shortly.”
    “That’ll be fine.” Lockington’s tone was cajoling—he didn’t know what the hell was in that big powder blue handbag.
    She gulped