but pulled his notebook from his bag. “The fall for what? What the hell are you talking about?” He remembered the strange voice from the call the day before. “Did you call me yesterday?”
“I ain’t even got a phone.”
Alex couldn’t think of a reason not to tell Downton about Santiago. Everything he knew was in the paper anyway, and it would give him a chance to study Downton’s reactions, and possibly draw him out.
“Santiago’s from a military town near the bases in San Diego. His father was killed in Iraq in 1990, leaving his mother with seven-year-old Eric and sixty hours a week in a department store. Don’t know much else about her or the rest of his family.”
The waitress brought the coffee. Alex sipped his black as Downton added teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar.
“As a teenager, he won chess tournaments and baseball games. He was small, but a good shortstop. Made the all-star team in little league and the all-county team in high school. In old photos, he looks like a pretty normal kid.”
Downton stirred the sugar into his coffee. “He was on the baseball team here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Used to play a bit myself.”
“With your height, I would have thought you played basketball.”
Downton smiled. “Played a bit of that, too.”
“In high school, Santiago had a terrible problem with acne. Not just normal outbreak stuff but boils all over his face. Left deep scars. Can’t figure out why he came across the country, because he got offers from a bunch of California schools that actually care about baseball.
“People who know him from school aren’t talking, and in court he just stares into space. Must be smart enough if he got into NYU, but he just gives you this weird feeling, like he’s not all there. He’s never spoken to a reporter, and nobody knows why he killed Professor Martin.”
Downton rubbed the numbers on his wrist. “Maybe that’s because he didn’t.”
Alex sighed. “Yeah, the boy didn’t do it. So you said. But why follow me? Why not just e-mail me like everyone else with a story to sell?”
Downton laughed. “E-mail? Gotta get to know you a bit ‘for I can truss you.”
“How do you know he didn’t do it?”
Downton leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “Saw it go down.” He looked over each shoulder before adding, “I’m the guy who made the anonymous call to the cops that night.”
He had Alex’s attention now.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Downton explained that he was a small-time pot dealer who sold mostly to NYU students in Washington Square Park. Alex had spent quite a few afternoons there as an undergrad, and realized now why he had recognized Downton.
“Was workin’ the night the prof died,” Downton said. “Hangin’ ‘round the west end of the park, a ways from the statue, when the prof come through. He wasn’t staggerin’ too bad, but you could tell he’d had a few. Looked like just another drunk in the park.”
“Did you know Professor Martin before you saw him that night?”
“No. Didn’t know neither of ‘em. But I see everybody. That’s my business. You get to know who’s who—where they goin’, who dey hang wit’. You got to, so you can tell if somethin’ ain’t right.”
“You sure you didn’t know Santiago?” Alex asked. “Defense said he was in the park to buy pot that night.”
“I told you, I never sold to him.”
“Okay. So what happened when Professor Martin came through?”
“He stopped at the statue and stood there a few minutes.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Dark clothes, white hat—one of those kinda golf caps or captain’s hats. I don’t know what you call ‘em but only white people wear ‘em.”
Alex perked up. If Downton was lying, at least he’d taken the time to learn a few details.“Then what?”
“The kid come from the east end of the park and walked straight by the prof. I was workin’ a deal, watchin’ the prof out the corner of my eye, and a few minutes later he
“I ain’t even got a phone.”
Alex couldn’t think of a reason not to tell Downton about Santiago. Everything he knew was in the paper anyway, and it would give him a chance to study Downton’s reactions, and possibly draw him out.
“Santiago’s from a military town near the bases in San Diego. His father was killed in Iraq in 1990, leaving his mother with seven-year-old Eric and sixty hours a week in a department store. Don’t know much else about her or the rest of his family.”
The waitress brought the coffee. Alex sipped his black as Downton added teaspoon after teaspoon of sugar.
“As a teenager, he won chess tournaments and baseball games. He was small, but a good shortstop. Made the all-star team in little league and the all-county team in high school. In old photos, he looks like a pretty normal kid.”
Downton stirred the sugar into his coffee. “He was on the baseball team here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Used to play a bit myself.”
“With your height, I would have thought you played basketball.”
Downton smiled. “Played a bit of that, too.”
“In high school, Santiago had a terrible problem with acne. Not just normal outbreak stuff but boils all over his face. Left deep scars. Can’t figure out why he came across the country, because he got offers from a bunch of California schools that actually care about baseball.
“People who know him from school aren’t talking, and in court he just stares into space. Must be smart enough if he got into NYU, but he just gives you this weird feeling, like he’s not all there. He’s never spoken to a reporter, and nobody knows why he killed Professor Martin.”
Downton rubbed the numbers on his wrist. “Maybe that’s because he didn’t.”
Alex sighed. “Yeah, the boy didn’t do it. So you said. But why follow me? Why not just e-mail me like everyone else with a story to sell?”
Downton laughed. “E-mail? Gotta get to know you a bit ‘for I can truss you.”
“How do you know he didn’t do it?”
Downton leaned in and spoke in a whisper. “Saw it go down.” He looked over each shoulder before adding, “I’m the guy who made the anonymous call to the cops that night.”
He had Alex’s attention now.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Downton explained that he was a small-time pot dealer who sold mostly to NYU students in Washington Square Park. Alex had spent quite a few afternoons there as an undergrad, and realized now why he had recognized Downton.
“Was workin’ the night the prof died,” Downton said. “Hangin’ ‘round the west end of the park, a ways from the statue, when the prof come through. He wasn’t staggerin’ too bad, but you could tell he’d had a few. Looked like just another drunk in the park.”
“Did you know Professor Martin before you saw him that night?”
“No. Didn’t know neither of ‘em. But I see everybody. That’s my business. You get to know who’s who—where they goin’, who dey hang wit’. You got to, so you can tell if somethin’ ain’t right.”
“You sure you didn’t know Santiago?” Alex asked. “Defense said he was in the park to buy pot that night.”
“I told you, I never sold to him.”
“Okay. So what happened when Professor Martin came through?”
“He stopped at the statue and stood there a few minutes.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Dark clothes, white hat—one of those kinda golf caps or captain’s hats. I don’t know what you call ‘em but only white people wear ‘em.”
Alex perked up. If Downton was lying, at least he’d taken the time to learn a few details.“Then what?”
“The kid come from the east end of the park and walked straight by the prof. I was workin’ a deal, watchin’ the prof out the corner of my eye, and a few minutes later he
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