After saying goodbye, Leslie hangs up the phone. She ponders what she should do next. She writes down all the private cell phone numbers of the main suspects and family (including a few she doesn’t recognize. Jill Brewster? Tommy Legato? Parker Young? Who the fuck are these people?) from John’s files and stuffs the list in her purse. She is not sure she’ll need them, but she would rather have them and not need them than vice-versa. She decides a real disguise is in order. She hails her cabbie (who offers to run a tab for her as long as she needs one), and he takes her to the nearest Target. Leslie is boycotting Target since the CEO gave money to that batshitcrazy idiot, Tom Emmer, in his bid for governor of Minnesota, but this is an emergency. She needs a wig, and she knows they have them. She picks up a blonde “Marcia Brady” wig, some oversized sunglasses, a fitted gray sweater with nine buttons that she can wear under her jacket, and taupe jeans. She buys some thermal unders so she can layer properly and stay warm. She also purchases a pair of scissors so she can change in the bathroom. It takes her fifteen minutes total, and then she is on her way to the cop shop—after convincing her cabbie that it really is her and not some blonde bimbo.
She knows it’s a long shot to think that she’ll learn anything of importance from the police, but she has to try. For better or worse, they are the ones with the information on the case, which is ice cold by now. Leslie knows she’ll have to do more research, but she’s burned out on it at the moment. For now, she will hit the streets and pound the pavement and all those other stupid clichés. It’s time for some action. Once she reaches the police station, she dismisses her cabbie. If she needs him, she can call him. She intends to swing by the courthouse afterwards, so most of her afternoon is spoken for. She can hail a cab on the street for that short jaunt. Leslie pauses right outside the door so she can unzip her jacket and unbutton the top three buttons of her sweater.
“Can I help you?” The officer at the front desk looks bored as if he would rather be anywhere than manning the front desk. He is young—in his late twenties, and by the corn-fed looks of him, he hasn’t been on the job more than a couple of years. His name is Rex Parkinson, which Leslie duly notes.
“My name is Emily Dickinson. I am an old, old friend of Amy Richardson’s. I went by her house, but she’s not there. No one can tell me what happened to her. Do you know?” Leslie gives the cop a wide-eyed look, making sure to keep her voice soft. She learned at an early age that most men like to help out a woman, especially a woman who is asking for help so explicitly.
“She was murdered last year, ma’am,” Rex, the cop, says impassively.
“What?” Leslie gasps, forcing tears to her eyes. “You’re kidding me!” Leslie fishes out a tissue from her purse and carefully dabs at her eyes. “I have been out of the country for over a year, and this is the first chance I’ve had since I’ve been back to visit her. I’m shocked!”
“Sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
