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careful about Robert Sinclair. He had a lot more than just baseball bats in his arsenal.

Sarah

    M y phone rang once tonight, close to eleven o’clock. Hoping it was John, I said “Hello” in the sultry voice I’d been practicing, but it was only Robert.
    “Where the hell you been?” he asked, then apologized for swearing.
    “Right here.”
    “Good old Sarah, the homebody.”
    “Don’t start, Robert, okay? I’m not in the mood.”
    “I seem to remember hearing that before.”
    “What?”
    “‘I’m not in the mood.’ That used to be your favorite expression, as I recall.”
    I sighed. “What do you want, Robert?”
    “Why do you always have to talk to me like that? Why can’t you be nice?”
    “I don’t know. Why can’t you call me when you’re sober?”
    Robert laughed. “Before any man takes you on, he needs a twelve-pack and a fifth.”
    “So what do you want?” Even when he’s drunk, Robert never calls without a reason.
    “Are you busy?”
    “No. But I don’t feel like listening to you ramble.”
    “Aw, Sarah,” he said.
    I didn’t respond.
    “Sarah,” he said again, his voice soft.
    I thought, here we go again. First he gets drunk, then he gets nostalgic and maudlin.
    “I’m up to my ass in cases,” he said.
    I still didn’t reply.
    “Remember that girl we found dead over at Pine Haven?”
    I knew who he meant, but I felt like giving him a hard time. “Pine Haven is a cemetery.
Everyone
there is dead.”
    “The one who was murdered, then propped up against a tombstone, naked.”
    “I remember.”
    “Well, I got that one, plus five missing persons.”
    “What are you doing working missing persons?”
    “They sent the reports over to Homicide when Shorty retired. All the precinct had left was Corbin, and he’s on disability for at least six more months,” Robert complained, sounding more sober by the minute. But I knew that he had to be soused. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be talking to me about his work.
    “I was sittin’ here tonight, going over those reports, looking for someplace to start,” he went on, “when it hit me. Those might not be missings after all. Since when do five stable, employed, respectable women come up missing in less than a year? I think they’re dead.”
    That’s how Robert has always been: give him a cold, and he’ll call it pneumonia. Now he has some missings, and he’s calling them murders.
    “Where are you?” I asked.
    “The office.”
    “Do you want me to come and get you?” I didn’t wanthim driving home drunk. Internal Affairs had already given him three “final” warnings.
    “Don’t worry. I’ve switched to coffee. I’m on my second cup.”
    “Good,” I said. “So why did you call?”
    “I wanted to ask you about that girl—the one in the cemetery. Didn’t you say she was a customer of yours?”
    “She came in only once that I remember. What was her name—Harris?”
    “Right. Maxine Harris. What kind of books did she buy?”
    “Oh God, Robert, how am I supposed to remember that? It was months ago.”
    “It’s been longer than that since we made love, but I remember every detail.”
    I told him to have another cup of coffee—with Lane—then I hung up on him.
    The phone rang again right away. I answered, but only because I was hoping (again) that it would be John. There was no response. Just silence, except for what sounded like someone breathing.
    It was late, but I couldn’t sleep. I thought reading might help, so I pulled my copy of Rimbaud off the shelf. I noticed that it was pretty beat up; the cover was starting to separate from the spine. I hadn’t bought it new. A customer brought it in, wanting to sell it to Harry, but it was too ragged to suit him. When he turned it down, I offered the woman two dollars, and she took it.
    I have a special tape that I brought home from the shop. Harry buys it in bulk. It’s wide, clear, and strong—perfect for holding a book together. I placed a strip over the spine of