Patty stared at Decker, a strange expression on her face. “You do that,” she said. “You do that and tell him something else for me. Tell the bastard I’m out of here. Tell him I shipped his kids back to his ex, and I’ve gone back to Mama in Dallas. Tell the bastard I’ve had it up to here with him.” She made a slash across her forehead. “I’ve had all that I could take. And I want no more part of it or him!”

Decker found a piece of scrap paper and a pen. He offered it to Patty and said, “Why don’t you tell him yourself.”

Patty pushed her hair out of her eyes and took the paper and pen. She sat the baby back on the floor and said, “Good idea. I’ll do just that right this minute!”

Decker said, “You have your husband’s work number?”

“Take one of his business cards,” Patty said as she scribbled. “On the counter.”

Decker pocketed the card and said, “Maybe I’ll call him from the station.”

“Whatever…” Patty paused a moment, then began her furious scrawling once again. “Whatever you want!” She punctuated the end of a sentence and broke through the paper with the pen point.

“Bye,” Decker said.

Patty was on her second piece of paper. She didn’t hear him leave.

23

The warrant had become wet with sweat. Marge dried her palm on her polyester-cotton pants and waited in the driver’s seat of the unmarked for the positions to come over the TAC frequency. Charlie Benko occupied the passenger’s seat, outwardly calm, but he kept shaking his leg up and down, the thing that teenage boys do when they’re nervous or horny. Benko looked at her, gave her a thumbs-up sign, and Marge managed a tepid smile in return.

The block was dark and quiet. The house where Douglas Miller aka Rusty Duralt lived was texture-coat blue with white shutters, its front yard an unadorned square of straw-colored grass. A row of flowerless rosebushes had been planted in a side patch of dirt, an open trench for sprinklers bisecting the plot. A lone porch lamp cast a yellow circle on the cracked cement walkway. The shades in front and back were still drawn. Dawn was another thirty minutes away.

Everything taut, yet seemed to be going smoothly. Marge hoped it would remain that way. She’d obtained the arrest and search warrants at eleven-thirty last night, but Miller had been out for the evening. With a jumbo Thermos of coffee, she did her own stakeout, spotting Miller returning at three-thirty, soused to the gills. Rather than make the bust right there, taking a chance of him decking her or bolting, she called in for backup.