Read Online Done for a Dime by David Corbett - Free Book Online Page B

electricity, as he picked up his glasses from the table and put them on, fitting the earpieces in place.
    “Toby, is that right?” the nearer one said, sitting down. He was the older of the two, rangy and tall, with rust-colored hair and worry bags beneath the eyes. He had freckles, wore a modest wedding band, and carried himself with an air of rumpled loneliness.
    “I’m Detective Murchison,” the man said, then with a nod to the other added, “This is Detective Stluka.” This guy was stocky and flat-faced, with black hair and cop eyes.
    “Toby Carlisle?” Murchison, the sad one, asked.
    “No,” Toby said softly, clearing his throat. “Marchand. Toby Marchand.”
    The stocky one said, “You told Sergeant Holmes at the scene the victim was your father.”
    Toby flinched at his tone. “He is my father. Marchand is my stepfather’s name.”
    “Stepfather?”
    “He lives in Denver. He and my mother are divorced.”
    The two detectives looked at each other. Toby, feeling his skin grow warm, went to loosen his tie, only to discover his collar already undone, the knot lying at his breastbone. He remembered the officers hunched around him, the smelling salts.
    Murchison said, “I wish we could give you time to get your mind around what’s happened, Toby. Prepare yourself. But we can’t. First seventy-two hours after a homicide are crucial.”
    The man’s eyes, his voice, they were strangely gentle, inviting, like sleep.
    “I understand.”
    “You told someone else tonight it’s your father who lives in Denver.”
    Toby stiffened. “That’s not true.”
    “What’s not true?”
    “My dad lives here. I mean, he did.”
    “But you said otherwise. Earlier tonight.”
    “I don’t—”
    “After your father was thrown out of the club in Emeryville. The owner, she came up to you, asked if you knew him. Asked if he was your father. You said no.”
    Toby sat back. A sickness bubbled in his stomach. The detectives waited. His mind cleared suddenly; he realized what the man had just said.
    “Thrown out—you know about the fight at the club.”
    “We know a lot of things, Toby. The investigation’s almost complete.”
    “But if you know about the fight, then Nadya—”
    “She’s at the hospital. She’s fine.”
    One guilt fed the other. His father’s death, Nadya’s being left alone to deal with—what? “The officer at the scene, he—”
    “She’s being treated. She’s safe.”
    “That reminds me.” It was the black-haired one, Stluka. He reached into his pocket, took out a driver’s license, showed it to Toby. “Stephanie Waugh?”
    Toby took the license from him, studied it, puzzled.
    “It was in your girlfriend’s purse. Along with her real ID.”
    Toby tried to hand it back. Murchison said, “Been a lot of little white lies told tonight, Toby. Too many.”
    “Listen, I—”
    “Let me stop you. This is important. I absolutely need to know you understand, Toby, we can’t help anybody—not you, not your girlfriend, not your family—with false information. Won’t help. Can’t help.”
    Stluka got up at that point, whispered to Murchison, “I’m gonna get to that thing we talked about,” then left the room. Toby watched him go as Murchison edged his chair an inch or so closer.
    “The truth, Toby. No more stories. No more telling one person one thing, another person another. It’s already caught up with you.”
    Toby turned back toward that voice, and as he did an odd sense of weightlessness came over him, the kind of sensation he associated with dreams in which he suddenly took flight. The thrill of terror. At the same time, he detected an echo of something else. An invitation to surrender. The two things fit together somehow. Don’t be scared, he thought. Tell the man it was you. Say you want to confess—what part does truth really play in this? Your father was murdered while you yourself wished him dead. Even if somehow, someday, they find out who really fired the gun, it