afternoon is completely voluntary, is that correct?”
This time the shrug came with a grunt she thought sounded like a reflection of humor. He dropped the pen and opened his hands to draw attention to the cuffs cutting into his meaty wrists. “Voluntary. Right.”
“All right then.” Her hands were fists inside the pockets of her suit jacket. A line of perspiration trailed down her back, and she wondered if Eales could smell her stewing in her own sweat.
“So how ya doing, Detective?” It came out dee-tective.
Kay circled the table slowly, keeping her gaze on Eales’s head. That ugly, shaven scalp with all its cranial ridges and irregular depressions. She shuddered at the evil she knew lurked beneath that misshapen skull.
“Valerie Regester’s dead,” she said when she reached the front of the table again.
“Don’t know who yer talkin’ ’bout.” His voice was low, the words slurred in a lazy Baltimore drawl.
When Kay leaned across the table, she could smell the musk of body odor coming off him and the sour breath that leaked through his crooked teeth.
“Don’t play me for some dumb shit, Bernard. Valerie Regester was the witness who was set to testify against you.”
“Oh, right. The bitch that says it was me she seen dump some broad’s body in Leakin.”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“So she’s dead, huh?” He eyed the pack of Camels.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Nothin’ much surprises me no more, Detective.”
“I know Grogan was in to see you earlier. You’re saying he didn’t tell you the prosecution’s witness had been murdered?”
Something twisted at the corner of his down-turned mouth. Kay imagined he’d just amused himself with a thought.
“Naw,” he said. “The guy ain’t got much of a stomach for that kinda stuff. Weird, him being a criminal attorney and all, huh? So how was she killed exactly?”
“You don’t know?”
“How the hell am I supposed to?”
“She was strangled. Then someone set her body on fire. Not exactly your style, is it?”
“What? You think I got something to do with it? How’s that supposed to work? I bust outta here, kill that lying skank, then break myself back in? Let me tell you, sweetheart, the food ain’t that good in here.”
He lowered his folded hands on the table, the right half-obscuringa two-foot tattooed snake that coiled down his forearm, wrapped around his cuffed wrist, and came to a head along the back of his left hand. The tattoo was old, the ink green with age, and the reptile’s scales had stretched to accommodate Eales’s expanding fat.
“Maybe you got someone to do you a favor, hmm, Bernard?”
He didn’t answer, and Patricia Hagen’s name almost slipped from her lips.
“Funny thing is,” she said, bracing her hands on the back of the empty chair and leaning toward him, “she was burned in a warehouse down in Canton. Twelve hundred block of Luther. Ring any bells?”
He shook his head.
“It should. You worked there. Dutton Mannequin.”
“Now ain’t that a coincidence?”
“Exactly what I thought. So what do you know about Regester’s murder?”
“Nothin’. This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
Kay’s bullshit radar was usually foolproof, but she couldn’t get a firm read on Eales. She guessed it was their history that impaired her judgment today.
Yanking out the empty chair, she sat. From her briefcase she snatched the two five-by-sevens she’d selected from the crime-scene photos and slapped them faceup on the table.
She searched Eales’s face for a reaction.
“Oo-ee, someone sure went all firebug on that girl, huh? Musta really hated her.”
“Someone like you maybe?”
“Hey, I don’t even know the girl.”
“Knew her enough to call her a bitch.”
“Yeah, a lying bitch. And a skank. And I’d say it to her lying face, ’cept she’s dead.”
“What did she lie about, Bernard? Seeing you in the park?”
“No. I was
This time the shrug came with a grunt she thought sounded like a reflection of humor. He dropped the pen and opened his hands to draw attention to the cuffs cutting into his meaty wrists. “Voluntary. Right.”
“All right then.” Her hands were fists inside the pockets of her suit jacket. A line of perspiration trailed down her back, and she wondered if Eales could smell her stewing in her own sweat.
“So how ya doing, Detective?” It came out dee-tective.
Kay circled the table slowly, keeping her gaze on Eales’s head. That ugly, shaven scalp with all its cranial ridges and irregular depressions. She shuddered at the evil she knew lurked beneath that misshapen skull.
“Valerie Regester’s dead,” she said when she reached the front of the table again.
“Don’t know who yer talkin’ ’bout.” His voice was low, the words slurred in a lazy Baltimore drawl.
When Kay leaned across the table, she could smell the musk of body odor coming off him and the sour breath that leaked through his crooked teeth.
“Don’t play me for some dumb shit, Bernard. Valerie Regester was the witness who was set to testify against you.”
“Oh, right. The bitch that says it was me she seen dump some broad’s body in Leakin.”
“Yeah, that’s her.”
“So she’s dead, huh?” He eyed the pack of Camels.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Nothin’ much surprises me no more, Detective.”
“I know Grogan was in to see you earlier. You’re saying he didn’t tell you the prosecution’s witness had been murdered?”
Something twisted at the corner of his down-turned mouth. Kay imagined he’d just amused himself with a thought.
“Naw,” he said. “The guy ain’t got much of a stomach for that kinda stuff. Weird, him being a criminal attorney and all, huh? So how was she killed exactly?”
“You don’t know?”
“How the hell am I supposed to?”
“She was strangled. Then someone set her body on fire. Not exactly your style, is it?”
“What? You think I got something to do with it? How’s that supposed to work? I bust outta here, kill that lying skank, then break myself back in? Let me tell you, sweetheart, the food ain’t that good in here.”
He lowered his folded hands on the table, the right half-obscuringa two-foot tattooed snake that coiled down his forearm, wrapped around his cuffed wrist, and came to a head along the back of his left hand. The tattoo was old, the ink green with age, and the reptile’s scales had stretched to accommodate Eales’s expanding fat.
“Maybe you got someone to do you a favor, hmm, Bernard?”
He didn’t answer, and Patricia Hagen’s name almost slipped from her lips.
“Funny thing is,” she said, bracing her hands on the back of the empty chair and leaning toward him, “she was burned in a warehouse down in Canton. Twelve hundred block of Luther. Ring any bells?”
He shook his head.
“It should. You worked there. Dutton Mannequin.”
“Now ain’t that a coincidence?”
“Exactly what I thought. So what do you know about Regester’s murder?”
“Nothin’. This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
Kay’s bullshit radar was usually foolproof, but she couldn’t get a firm read on Eales. She guessed it was their history that impaired her judgment today.
Yanking out the empty chair, she sat. From her briefcase she snatched the two five-by-sevens she’d selected from the crime-scene photos and slapped them faceup on the table.
She searched Eales’s face for a reaction.
“Oo-ee, someone sure went all firebug on that girl, huh? Musta really hated her.”
“Someone like you maybe?”
“Hey, I don’t even know the girl.”
“Knew her enough to call her a bitch.”
“Yeah, a lying bitch. And a skank. And I’d say it to her lying face, ’cept she’s dead.”
“What did she lie about, Bernard? Seeing you in the park?”
“No. I was
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