get Walker’s number?” asks Van Buren.
“I really don’t know. I saw Feifer talking to my cousin Nikki at Wilson’s; maybe he got it from her.”
“And how did you feel about
that?
” asks Detective Knight.
“About what?”
“About Eric Feifer putting the moves on your cousin.”
When Knight says that, he’s leaning halfway across the small table again, so when I bring my hand down hard in the middle of the table, he jumps back as if a gun went off.
“You’re the one with the problem,” I say, my face in Knight’s now, even more than his was in Dante’s. I’m bluffing, but Knight doesn’t know that. “Dante had nothing to do with these murders. He was there. That’s all. Now he’s here to share everything he saw and heard that night. But either the tone of this questioning changes, or this interview is over!”
Knight looks at me as though he’s going to throw a punch, and I kind of hope he will. But before he makes up his mind to do it, there’s a hard knock on the door.
Chapter 32
Tom
VAN BUREN STEPS outside, and J. T. Knight and I continue to glower at each other until his partner returns with a large brown paper bag. Van Buren places the bag behind his chair and whispers something to Knight.
I can’t make out Van Buren’s words, but I can’t miss his smirk. Or Knight’s, either.
What the hell is this about?
“Let’s all calm down here for a second,” says Van Buren, a trill in his voice belying his words. “Dante, did you stop at the Princess Diner in Southampton on your way out here tonight?”
Dante looks over at me again, then answers. “Yeah, so Tom could use the bathroom.”
“Tom the only one who used the bathroom?”
“No, I think Clarence went too.”
“You think or you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So that left you alone in the car? Is that right?”
“I didn’t need to go.”
“Really?”
“What are you getting at?” I ask Van Buren, who maybe isn’t as dumb as he seems.
“An hour ago we got a call from someone who was at the diner at about two thirty this morning. The caller says they saw a very tall black man throw a gun into the Dumpster in the parking lot.”
“That’s a lie,” says Dante, shaking his head and looking at me desperately. “I never got out of the car. Didn’t happen.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, why don’t you send a cop out there and look for yourself?”
“We did,” says Van Buren, a smug smile creasing his lips. Then he reaches behind his back and drops a sealed plastic bag on the table like a poker player triumphantly laying down a full house.
Staring up at us through the plastic and looking almost obscene is a handgun with a black plastic handle and a dull steel barrel.
“I’ve never seen that gun in my life!” cries Dante. “And it’s not Michael’s gun either.”
I cut him off. “Dante’s not saying another word.”
Chapter 33
Tom
I DON’T KNOW what feels worse—what just happened, or the thought of facing Marie. I stagger up the stairs into the small waiting area, where Marie and Clarence jump from their chairs and surround me.
Behind them, steep sunlight streams through the glass door to the parking lot. It’s 8 a.m. Dante and I were in that box for two hours.
“What’s happening to my grandson, Mr. Dunleavy?”
“I need some air, Marie,” I say, and walk through the door into the cool morning.
Marie follows and stops me in my tracks. “What’s happening to my grandson? Why won’t you look at me, Mr. Dunleavy? I’m standing right in front of you.”
“They don’t believe him,” I say, finally meeting her eye. “They don’t believe his story.”
“How can that be? The young man has never lied in his life. Did you tell them that?”
Clarence puts his arm around her and looks at me sympathetically. “Tom’s doing his best, Marie.”
“His best? What do you mean, his best? Did he tell them Dante had no reason on earth to commit these crimes? And where’s the
“I really don’t know. I saw Feifer talking to my cousin Nikki at Wilson’s; maybe he got it from her.”
“And how did you feel about
that?
” asks Detective Knight.
“About what?”
“About Eric Feifer putting the moves on your cousin.”
When Knight says that, he’s leaning halfway across the small table again, so when I bring my hand down hard in the middle of the table, he jumps back as if a gun went off.
“You’re the one with the problem,” I say, my face in Knight’s now, even more than his was in Dante’s. I’m bluffing, but Knight doesn’t know that. “Dante had nothing to do with these murders. He was there. That’s all. Now he’s here to share everything he saw and heard that night. But either the tone of this questioning changes, or this interview is over!”
Knight looks at me as though he’s going to throw a punch, and I kind of hope he will. But before he makes up his mind to do it, there’s a hard knock on the door.
Chapter 32
Tom
VAN BUREN STEPS outside, and J. T. Knight and I continue to glower at each other until his partner returns with a large brown paper bag. Van Buren places the bag behind his chair and whispers something to Knight.
I can’t make out Van Buren’s words, but I can’t miss his smirk. Or Knight’s, either.
What the hell is this about?
“Let’s all calm down here for a second,” says Van Buren, a trill in his voice belying his words. “Dante, did you stop at the Princess Diner in Southampton on your way out here tonight?”
Dante looks over at me again, then answers. “Yeah, so Tom could use the bathroom.”
“Tom the only one who used the bathroom?”
“No, I think Clarence went too.”
“You think or you’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“So that left you alone in the car? Is that right?”
“I didn’t need to go.”
“Really?”
“What are you getting at?” I ask Van Buren, who maybe isn’t as dumb as he seems.
“An hour ago we got a call from someone who was at the diner at about two thirty this morning. The caller says they saw a very tall black man throw a gun into the Dumpster in the parking lot.”
“That’s a lie,” says Dante, shaking his head and looking at me desperately. “I never got out of the car. Didn’t happen.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes, why don’t you send a cop out there and look for yourself?”
“We did,” says Van Buren, a smug smile creasing his lips. Then he reaches behind his back and drops a sealed plastic bag on the table like a poker player triumphantly laying down a full house.
Staring up at us through the plastic and looking almost obscene is a handgun with a black plastic handle and a dull steel barrel.
“I’ve never seen that gun in my life!” cries Dante. “And it’s not Michael’s gun either.”
I cut him off. “Dante’s not saying another word.”
Chapter 33
Tom
I DON’T KNOW what feels worse—what just happened, or the thought of facing Marie. I stagger up the stairs into the small waiting area, where Marie and Clarence jump from their chairs and surround me.
Behind them, steep sunlight streams through the glass door to the parking lot. It’s 8 a.m. Dante and I were in that box for two hours.
“What’s happening to my grandson, Mr. Dunleavy?”
“I need some air, Marie,” I say, and walk through the door into the cool morning.
Marie follows and stops me in my tracks. “What’s happening to my grandson? Why won’t you look at me, Mr. Dunleavy? I’m standing right in front of you.”
“They don’t believe him,” I say, finally meeting her eye. “They don’t believe his story.”
“How can that be? The young man has never lied in his life. Did you tell them that?”
Clarence puts his arm around her and looks at me sympathetically. “Tom’s doing his best, Marie.”
“His best? What do you mean, his best? Did he tell them Dante had no reason on earth to commit these crimes? And where’s the
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