Beach Road by James Patterson Page A

guy looks more like a real cop, heavyset, with a big square face and thick gray hair. His name is J. T. Knight.
    “Dante,” says the younger one. “All right if we talk to you for a while?”
    “The sergeant says I have the right to an attorney,” I say, trying not to sound too much like a wiseguy.
    “Yeah, if you’re a candy ass with something to hide,” says the older one. “Of course, the only ones who ask for lawyers are guilty as sin. You guilty, Dante?”
    My heart is banging, because once I tell them what happened, I know they’ll understand, but I calm down enough to say, “I want Tom Dunleavy in the room.”
    “Is he your lawyer?” asks the younger detective.
    “I’m not sure.”
    “If you’re not even sure he’s your lawyer, why do you want him in the room?”
    “I just do.”
    The younger one leads me down some steps, then another tight hallway, to a room the size of a big closet with a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. There’s nothing in it but a steel desk and four chairs, and we sit there until the older, bigger one returns with Tom.
    From the apologetic way Tom looks at me, I can tell that none of this is happening like he imagined it would. Him and me both.

Chapter 31
    Tom
    “WHY DON’T YOU start by telling us about the fight,” says Barney Van Buren. He is so amped to have a suspect in the box in his first big case that he’s practically shaking. “The fight that afternoon between you and Eric Feifer.”
    Dante waits for my nod, then begins the story he’s waited almost two weeks to tell.
    “I barely know why we squared off. I don’t think he did either. People just started shoving, and a couple punches were thrown. But no one got hurt. It was over in maybe thirty seconds.”
    “I hear he tagged you pretty good,” says Detective J. T. Knight, his right knee bouncing under the metal table.
    “He might have got a couple shots in,” says Dante. “But like I said, it was no big deal.”
    “I’m curious,” says Knight. “How does it feel to get your ass kicked by somebody a foot and fifty pounds smaller than you, what with all your buddies standing on the sidelines watching it happen?”
    “It wasn’t like that,” says Dante, looking at me as much as Knight.
    “If it was such a minor deal,” asks Van Buren, “why’d your friend run to the car and get his gun? Why did he put the gun to Feifer’s head?”
    “That was messed up,” says Dante, his forehead already beaded with sweat. “It wasn’t my idea he did that. I didn’t even know he had a gun. I had never seen it before.”
    I wonder if Dante is telling the truth about that. And if he can tell
small
lies, then what?
    “And how about when Walker threatens Feifer again, says this still isn’t over?” says Van Buren. “It sounds like a big deal to me.”
    “He was fronting.”
    “Fronting?” says Knight, snorting. “What’s that?”
    “Acting tough,” says Dante, glancing at me again for help. “Trying to save face for letting Tom talk him into putting the gun down.”
    “
You two think we’re idiots?
Is that it?” says Knight, suddenly leaning across the table to stick his face in Dante’s. “Ten hours after a fight that’s ‘no big deal’ and a threat that didn’t mean a thing, Feifer, Roche, and Walco are shot through the head. A triple homicide—over
nothing?
”
    “That’s what I was trying to tell you about it being no big deal,” says Dante, his eyes begging the two detectives to please understand and see that what he’s saying makes perfect sense. “The only reason we’re there that night is because Feifer
called
Michael and asked us to meet him there so we could put this drama behind us. And look, here’s the
truth
—Michael was looking to maybe buy some weed on Beach Road. The only reason we ran is because we heard the whole terrible thing happen and thought the killer saw us. The fact that Feifer called and asked us to meet him shows what I say is true.”
    “How’d he