EDITING: Politics and Poison

Chapter Fourteen: Secret Passage!

Frank Hardy: "Joe's pretty good, isn't he? I hate to admit it. But I admire his balls. It's always good to see him doing it right, the way I taught him." Collig took a sip of coffee, and nodded at the one way glass, which gave us a view of the River Heights Police Station interrogation room. It was pretty standard: a large metal table and four chairs.

Joe straddled his backwards, arms hugging the back of the chair, chin atop it, facing Sam Davies. He was casual, acting the way he would at home.

Beside him, McGuinness was a thick file.

Davies was shuffling his sneakers and kept checking the clock at the back of the room. He tried to act like he didn't care about what was going on. But his nervous nail biting and constant preening, alluded to his unease. After all, he was young. It was hard to tell his exact age. Years of drug usage had corroded his face and his few teeth were badly cared for, crooked and the wrong color. I guessed that he was in his early twenties, my age.

I realized that Collig was still talking. He was saying, "if Ezra and Joe can't get anything from Davies, Deirdre will walk. They don't have nearly off-"

I held a finger to my lips, glanced meaningfully up at the wall mounted speakers.

"So Sam, who do you work for?" Joe was asking.

"Don't work for no one anymore," Davies sneered. "I'm a solo artist, like Beyoncé." He smirked and leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Jesus. This was like a bad cop show!

"I don't get it," McGuinness interjected.

Joe turned his head, explained in a low voice, "She's a singer. Used to be a part of a girl-band called Destiny's Child. But now she's a pop star. She's really famous, like really."

"She sings too," Davies added, sneering.

Joe scowled. "I wasn't talking to you. Anyway, you want to joke? How often do you shower?"

Hannah was right, there was no way in hell that Deirdre would date this rat, not when her date zoning was restricted to rich, good-looking guys with great connections, I thought. Looking over at Collig, I saw him shake his head. I assumed he was amused by Joe's theatrics.

"That's bullyin', ain't it Captain?" Davies stabbed a finger at my brother.

McGuinness responded by sticking earphones into his ears. They were yellow and black, with the tiny rubber ends that are supposed to stick into the cavity of your ear. They didn't work for me, as they always fell out. I cracked a grin at his message: not listening.

"Alright, so you're a pop star, without a band," Joe conceded. "Is Deirdre your client?"

"Not sayin' nuffin."

"Alright then." Joe pulled out a folder, displayed the photographs of Greer's body, and the crime scene, as well as Carson Drew's pumped gastric contents. I could see them from my elevated vantage point, and memories I'd tried to forget, stirred in my mind: the crime scene and its smells, the concern of the inn staff, and my confusion about whether I would sleuth or not.

"These making you talk?" Joe continued, after he'd let Davies have a good look. "Because they made me gag, and say something beginning with F and ending with K!"

"Fuck." Davies sat back heavily in his chair. "This the murder?"

Joe nodded, mouth a thin line. Oh God, he'd put on his poker face. "Yep. You going to talk now? Otherwise you can get charged with this murder, along with Deirdre, and you can go to prison for a very long time."

Davies wet his lips. His mouth opened and closed a few times, before he finally gasped, "what do ya wanna know? Like, that? I didn't do that!"

"Were you dealing drugs to Deirdre Shannon?"