Mean Woman Blues

her.”
    “Take care of the kid, okay? He’s my little brother.”
    Skip was elated. On the ride home, she was practically burbling. “I’ve always thought Bettina was our only chance.”
    “But we never had probable cause,” Abasolo finished for her.
    “And we still don’t,” Skip sighed. “Well, we can go talk to her. See if we can get her to give up Lobo.”
    “Yeah, if we can’t find him some other way.”
    “Gonna be pretty hard without more of a name.” She shrugged in frustration. “She’s our only chance. She’s stubborn as hell, but she’s got to know we got Jacomine. We can drag her in; say he ratted her out.”
    “For what?”
    “You name it, Bettina probably did it. She’s got a kid; he’s got to mean more to her than Lobo.”
    “So you’re thinking maybe she’ll get chatty. Hope sure springs eternal.”
    “We’ve got to cut Shellmire in.”
    The sergeant winced. “Yeah, I guess so. But this is our operation, not the FBI’s.”
    “Let’s roll first thing in the morning,” Abasolo said. “One car only, I think.”
    “I’m going to be at Steve’s tonight. Shellmire knows how to get there. Why don’t I get him to meet me at Steve’s, and we’ll pick you up at your place? We can go in my car.”
    She called Shellmire from Steve’s and then began concocting a vegetable pasta sauce.
    Steve overheard the conversation. “Man, I hope you get something, Skip. I’m sorry for thinking you were paranoid. I mean, I knew Jacomine, but I didn’t really think…” He stopped talking, trying to figure out how to finish the sentence, but she knew perfectly well what he meant.
    You could know Jacomine, think you knew what he was capable of, and yet not really know. You could underestimate him because he’d go so much farther than anyone else, was so much crazier on a grander scale. And, it seemed, had a secret source of money and power. Maybe if they got Lobo, they could get Rosemarie.
    * * *
    Terri had been doing a lot of thinking the last couple of days. Her mother was always saying, “You need to reevaluate your values and go to church.” She hadn’t felt the need of the latter, but she’d done a pretty thorough job of the former.
    She couldn’t believe what an idiot she’d been. She flinched when she remembered she’d actually had fantasies about a murderer and con man, had stupid, adolescent doubts about whether Isaac was right for her. Especially after all the doctors and nurses and Lovelace had left them alone and he told her how much he loved her, how he realized it when he saw his father on the show, how much he regretted the doubts he’d had about her.
    That part absolutely embarrassed her to tears. “Oh, Isaac, I was such a whiny little asshole then. I’m so, so sorry,” she’d wailed.
    He’d sketched out his trip to Dallas for her— what he could remember of it— and she was so deeply moved she wanted to be with him forever.
    She felt like a different person now; that period was behind her. One good thing was left: her desire to do something besides paint. She was still an artist; that was a given. It wasn’t about to go away. But she was going to paint differently now, maybe with more of an edge. It was a metamorphosis Isaac had gone through, after he’d given up being The White Monk, and she could feel it happening to her. But she was going to do some other work as well; she’d been given an opportunity, and she was going to grab it. She bustled into the hospital full of news.
    “Isaac, guess what? The bank dropped the charges. I just had a call from my lawyer. George Pastorek’s still my lawyer! Can you believe it? After all this, he still went right ahead and worked on my problem. He said I have to pay him, though— I have to do some more TV appearances with him, tell what happened to me— and he gave me a chance to work for his consumer group this summer, to help pay my way through school. I have to go to New York, but that’s okay, it’s only for a few months.”
    She was a little worried about that part, how Isaac was going to take it. She scrutinized his face; he looked like he’d lost his last friend.
    “Oh, Isaac, I won’t go! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
    “It’s not that. You go. I’m happy for you.”
    “What is it then?”
    “My father died. It was just on CNN.”
    The news hit her like a bullet. “Your father? I’m sorry. But…” She was about to say, “You didn’t love him at all,” but she stopped