Fatal Connections

Chapter 9

Before answering, I took half a second to gauge the situation. I couldn't afford too long a pause or they'd assume I was holding back. They had called me in to give a written statement. I assumed our little talk would lead up to that. But since I don't like to assume, I stalled for time.

"Well enough to know he's a good guy. Do you want me to write that down?"

Detective Sully stood clutching a thick file. She shook her head, slowly, as if to loosen her neck muscles. Tucking the file under one arm, she used her other hand to pull out a chair—it scraped the floor with a sound like fingernails on a blackboard—and she slowly sat down. She then picked up the file with both hands and held it in front of her like a flag offered to the bereaved at a military funeral . . . and dropped it onto the table. Thunk!

"Did you know that he has a record?" she asked.

Did it make the Billboard Top 100? Or go Platinum? Or viral? I thought better of saying any of that out loud. After I reined in my sarcasm as far as it would be reined, I said, "For some odd reason, I've never felt the need to do a background check."

Sully smiled in a way that projected an ooh, girl—things I could tell you vibe. "You might be interested to know—"

"I'm not." I was tiring of this game fast. "Do you want me to make a written statement or not?"

"Yes, actually, we do." Detective Gordan's voice was low and even. Apparently, now he was . . . what? The good cop? He added, "First, we'd like to ask you a few more questions and videotape your answers for the record. Would that be okay with you?"

"Sure," I said, then proceeded to answer the same damn questions they'd asked at the crime scene. Maybe a few more, but nothing that provided any earthshaking insights.

Gordon ended the recording session. "Thank you. Now, we'd like you to write it down. Please write exactly what happened this morning when you found the bodies."

Was it my imagination or did he emphasize the last four words? I glanced at Sully. Her lips held the hint of a smile, but her eyes hardened.

"Fine." Let's get this over with. "Got something to write on? A pen?"

Sully shoved a legal pad and pen my way. I dragged them toward me. Then, wrote exactly what I had told them already. I tried to keep it short and thought of shortening it further. Maybe to one sentence with really small words—words with no more than four letters. They watched me write. Your tax dollars at work. I slid the statement across the table. "There. Signed and dated." They stared at me.

I suppressed a nervous laugh. "You guys must really be bored, but I'm glad to have entertained you." I stopped there.

"You also have . . . ." Sully's voice trailed off. "You've had your previous brushes with the law."

Hold on, I thought. Surely, they didn't think I killed my clients.

"Am I under arrest?" I asked. I was fast losing patience. My lizard brain silently screamed at the two detectives. If someone didn't explain what the fuck they really wanted, I'd rip the table off the floor and throw it at them. Maybe sock Miss Stylish in the jaw for good measure. Sully was appraising me, but Gordan's expression didn't change.

"No," she said.

"Then I can go?" I shot to my feet so fast, I toppled my chair backward. It hit the wall and bounced back, grazing the backs of my knees.

Gordan waved his hand dismissively. "Sure." He tossed the word out. I wondered if he ever blinked.