Christ’s sake, he hasn’t even asked it yet. And if the question’s that hard to answer, well, there’s room for them both under the barn.
Keep calm. Keep smiling. Eye contact. No sudden movement. Maybe raise an eyebrow, as though listening intently. Which one? The right. No, the other one. All right, then, Ronald McFuckingdonald. I’m ready for you.
“And we think you’re potentially an important witness,” he said.
Oh?
* * *
“You own a white Ford Transit,” he informed me, a statement with which I could only reasonably agree. “Showed up on cctv on Queen Street at 3:11 a.m. That’s about two hundred yards and fifteen minutes from where Kerry was last seen,” which certainly made me Idiot of the Week, but was far from a smoking gun. Fairey flipped a seven-by-five print from his jacket pocket: a six-month-old mugshot, Kerry sullen and bedraggled and black-eyed, eight inches of dark roots chasing the tail of a home peroxide. “The blond’s gone,” Fairey continued, “but the expression hasn’t changed. Maybe you remember seeing her? Talking to someone, getting into a car?”
I took a moment to think, considering the farthest distance to which I could remove Kerry in the shortest possible time. Finally, I shook my head. “I wish I could help,” I said. “I just don’t recognize her at all,” which was actually not all that far from the truth. Even after a week of cold turkey and cage fighting, she looked nothing like the harridan in the photograph.
“You’re quite sure?” Green asked. Something in her eyes told me my acting was flawed. Before I could reassure her, however, Fairey shot her a look that told her he’d be asking the fucking questions, thank you very much, all but striking hers from the record.
“You Batman?” he said, returning the mugshot to his pocket and flipping out a notebook in its place.
“I’m sorry?” I replied.
“Insomniac?”
Green rolled her eyes. “Get to the point,” I said, forcing her to hide a smirk.
Fairey smiled graciously. “What were you doing driving around the red-light district at three in the morning?”
Finally, a question I could answer truthfully. “I was on my way back from the seaside,” I told him. “I spent the evening with...” With what? “A friend?” Accurate description or not, I’d said it aloud and it was in Fairey’s book.
“Name?”
“Annie.”
“Annie...?” He stopped scribbling, looked up at me expectantly.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Surname?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Address?” He laughed.
I recited it as well as I could remember.
“I take it you only recently met?”
“Yes, that night,” I confessed. “We...you know. Just talked.”
Green’s hand fell away from her mouth, and she stared at me in undisguised bemusement. Like her, I had no idea why I’d said that.
Whatever, Fairey seemed unconcerned. “I understand,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Listen, how about we take a quick look at that Transit, and then we’ll let you get on with your day?”
I liked the sound of the latter, at least.
The van was empty but for the load straps and a large, plain cardboard box. On the top of the box was a folded woolen blanket. “Box of blankets,” I said.
“May I?” Green preemptively ignored her superior’s silent admonition and stepped up onto the load bed.
“Be my guest.” I smiled, mentally locating the garden fork hung on the wall three feet behind me.
“Thank you,” she said, rubber soles squeaking against the steel floor as she strolled over to the box, squared her jaw and carefully lifted one corner of the blanket. Finding another beneath it, she lifted the second blanket to reveal a third. “Box of blankets.” She nodded.
“What’s under those blankets?” Fairey asked, indicating what was quite plainly a sheet-draped car occupying the opposite side of the garage.
I heard Green nudge the box with her foot as I turned. “My car,” I said, sounding
Keep calm. Keep smiling. Eye contact. No sudden movement. Maybe raise an eyebrow, as though listening intently. Which one? The right. No, the other one. All right, then, Ronald McFuckingdonald. I’m ready for you.
“And we think you’re potentially an important witness,” he said.
Oh?
* * *
“You own a white Ford Transit,” he informed me, a statement with which I could only reasonably agree. “Showed up on cctv on Queen Street at 3:11 a.m. That’s about two hundred yards and fifteen minutes from where Kerry was last seen,” which certainly made me Idiot of the Week, but was far from a smoking gun. Fairey flipped a seven-by-five print from his jacket pocket: a six-month-old mugshot, Kerry sullen and bedraggled and black-eyed, eight inches of dark roots chasing the tail of a home peroxide. “The blond’s gone,” Fairey continued, “but the expression hasn’t changed. Maybe you remember seeing her? Talking to someone, getting into a car?”
I took a moment to think, considering the farthest distance to which I could remove Kerry in the shortest possible time. Finally, I shook my head. “I wish I could help,” I said. “I just don’t recognize her at all,” which was actually not all that far from the truth. Even after a week of cold turkey and cage fighting, she looked nothing like the harridan in the photograph.
“You’re quite sure?” Green asked. Something in her eyes told me my acting was flawed. Before I could reassure her, however, Fairey shot her a look that told her he’d be asking the fucking questions, thank you very much, all but striking hers from the record.
“You Batman?” he said, returning the mugshot to his pocket and flipping out a notebook in its place.
“I’m sorry?” I replied.
“Insomniac?”
Green rolled her eyes. “Get to the point,” I said, forcing her to hide a smirk.
Fairey smiled graciously. “What were you doing driving around the red-light district at three in the morning?”
Finally, a question I could answer truthfully. “I was on my way back from the seaside,” I told him. “I spent the evening with...” With what? “A friend?” Accurate description or not, I’d said it aloud and it was in Fairey’s book.
“Name?”
“Annie.”
“Annie...?” He stopped scribbling, looked up at me expectantly.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Surname?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Address?” He laughed.
I recited it as well as I could remember.
“I take it you only recently met?”
“Yes, that night,” I confessed. “We...you know. Just talked.”
Green’s hand fell away from her mouth, and she stared at me in undisguised bemusement. Like her, I had no idea why I’d said that.
Whatever, Fairey seemed unconcerned. “I understand,” he said with a dismissive wave. “Listen, how about we take a quick look at that Transit, and then we’ll let you get on with your day?”
I liked the sound of the latter, at least.
The van was empty but for the load straps and a large, plain cardboard box. On the top of the box was a folded woolen blanket. “Box of blankets,” I said.
“May I?” Green preemptively ignored her superior’s silent admonition and stepped up onto the load bed.
“Be my guest.” I smiled, mentally locating the garden fork hung on the wall three feet behind me.
“Thank you,” she said, rubber soles squeaking against the steel floor as she strolled over to the box, squared her jaw and carefully lifted one corner of the blanket. Finding another beneath it, she lifted the second blanket to reveal a third. “Box of blankets.” She nodded.
“What’s under those blankets?” Fairey asked, indicating what was quite plainly a sheet-draped car occupying the opposite side of the garage.
I heard Green nudge the box with her foot as I turned. “My car,” I said, sounding
Similar Books
