affirmative.
“In essence, then, you have no alibi.”
He glared at me. “I thought you were here to help me, man. I thought that’s why my uncle sent you.”
Birch’s left carotid artery was throbbing visibly. The cubicle we were sitting in was about sixty-five degrees, but he was sweating. A lot.
“I can’t . . .” He wiped a trembling palm across his mouth.
“Can’t what, Dino?”
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
“Why not?”
He said nothing.
“You seem a little scared, Dino.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Are you telling me somebody’s trying to frame you?”
He nodded.
“Who would that be?”
He shrugged, then looked up at me, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know exactly.”
“What about Pierce Walton?”
“The congressman? Why would he frame me?”
Dino looked down and shook his head. “I voted for the guy last time he ran,” he said. “Beyond that . . .”
“Do you own any guns, Dino?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you fired one?”
“Afghanistan.”
“You went to sniper school at Fort Benning, correct? Isn’t that where the army trains its snipers?”
Birch looked up. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Whoever shot the Hollisters did so from considerable range. He had to have known about how to compensate for bullet drop and doping the wind. He had to have known ballistic coefficients to pull off shots like that. You don’t learn that kind of stuff plinking BB rifles in the backyard.”
“Look, I told you. I never threatened Roy Hollister. I didn’t murder him. I’m not a murderer. I fight murderers, every single day of my life. I protect animals who can’t protect themselves, OK? It’s what I do.”
I watched him and waited.
“You think I did it,” he said.
“I don’t know what I think,” I said.
He turned his head away and his nostrils flared. “This conversation,” he said, “is over.”
“Fair enough.”
I nodded through the glass to a deputy standing guard outside the room and pushed back from the table.
“Do me a favor,” Birch said as I got up to go. “Tell my uncle thanks for nothing.”
T HE LOCAL press corps was gone by the time I exited the building. Only Danika Quinn was left. She was wearing a gray pencil skirt, five-inch stilettos, and a sleeveless green top, flipping through pages of her notebook. I was halfway across the parking lot to my truck before she noticed me and came running.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m Danika Quinn.”
“They teach you that in journalism school?”
“Teach me what?”
“How to say, ‘Hey,’ to strangers you’re trying to establish a rapport with so you can pump them for information?”
“Too casual?”
“Maybe a little.” I climbed into my truck. “Where’d all your other reporter buddies go?”
“There was supposed to be a press conference here to talk about Birch’s arrest, so everybody showed up, but then they decided to call it off until after he’s arraigned. And, by the way, they’re not my buddies. They’re my competitors. Can we talk? Off the record?”
“There’s no such thing as off the record.”
“Hey, I’m a professional journalist. I protect my sources. If you tell me something is between you and me, you can take it to the bank.”
“There’s that word again.”
“What word?—oh, yeah.”
I turned the ignition. Quinn leaned in, giving me a good look at her décolletage. Clasped to the open neck of her blouse was the top of a slightly oversized ballpoint pen.
“You’re a flight instructor,” she said, “out at the airport, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
She smiled. “Let’s just say I have my sources. I’m wondering how a flight instructor rates an audience with an accused double murderer even before the guy meets with his attorney.”
“The world works in mysterious ways.”
I gave her a wink as I drove off. Something told me I’d be seeing her again.
SIX
M rs. Schmulowitz, my landlady, insisted on
“In essence, then, you have no alibi.”
He glared at me. “I thought you were here to help me, man. I thought that’s why my uncle sent you.”
Birch’s left carotid artery was throbbing visibly. The cubicle we were sitting in was about sixty-five degrees, but he was sweating. A lot.
“I can’t . . .” He wiped a trembling palm across his mouth.
“Can’t what, Dino?”
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
“Why not?”
He said nothing.
“You seem a little scared, Dino.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Are you telling me somebody’s trying to frame you?”
He nodded.
“Who would that be?”
He shrugged, then looked up at me, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know exactly.”
“What about Pierce Walton?”
“The congressman? Why would he frame me?”
Dino looked down and shook his head. “I voted for the guy last time he ran,” he said. “Beyond that . . .”
“Do you own any guns, Dino?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you fired one?”
“Afghanistan.”
“You went to sniper school at Fort Benning, correct? Isn’t that where the army trains its snipers?”
Birch looked up. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Whoever shot the Hollisters did so from considerable range. He had to have known about how to compensate for bullet drop and doping the wind. He had to have known ballistic coefficients to pull off shots like that. You don’t learn that kind of stuff plinking BB rifles in the backyard.”
“Look, I told you. I never threatened Roy Hollister. I didn’t murder him. I’m not a murderer. I fight murderers, every single day of my life. I protect animals who can’t protect themselves, OK? It’s what I do.”
I watched him and waited.
“You think I did it,” he said.
“I don’t know what I think,” I said.
He turned his head away and his nostrils flared. “This conversation,” he said, “is over.”
“Fair enough.”
I nodded through the glass to a deputy standing guard outside the room and pushed back from the table.
“Do me a favor,” Birch said as I got up to go. “Tell my uncle thanks for nothing.”
T HE LOCAL press corps was gone by the time I exited the building. Only Danika Quinn was left. She was wearing a gray pencil skirt, five-inch stilettos, and a sleeveless green top, flipping through pages of her notebook. I was halfway across the parking lot to my truck before she noticed me and came running.
“Hey,” she said. “I’m Danika Quinn.”
“They teach you that in journalism school?”
“Teach me what?”
“How to say, ‘Hey,’ to strangers you’re trying to establish a rapport with so you can pump them for information?”
“Too casual?”
“Maybe a little.” I climbed into my truck. “Where’d all your other reporter buddies go?”
“There was supposed to be a press conference here to talk about Birch’s arrest, so everybody showed up, but then they decided to call it off until after he’s arraigned. And, by the way, they’re not my buddies. They’re my competitors. Can we talk? Off the record?”
“There’s no such thing as off the record.”
“Hey, I’m a professional journalist. I protect my sources. If you tell me something is between you and me, you can take it to the bank.”
“There’s that word again.”
“What word?—oh, yeah.”
I turned the ignition. Quinn leaned in, giving me a good look at her décolletage. Clasped to the open neck of her blouse was the top of a slightly oversized ballpoint pen.
“You’re a flight instructor,” she said, “out at the airport, right?”
“How’d you know that?”
She smiled. “Let’s just say I have my sources. I’m wondering how a flight instructor rates an audience with an accused double murderer even before the guy meets with his attorney.”
“The world works in mysterious ways.”
I gave her a wink as I drove off. Something told me I’d be seeing her again.
SIX
M rs. Schmulowitz, my landlady, insisted on
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