âcause after all, Iâm just low-rent?â
Wheeling flushed. âWe can talk or you can cuss me out and Iâll leave. Whatâs it going to be?â
âSay what you came to say.â
Wheeling hunched his shoulders like he had a stiff neck. âFirst off, I didnât talk to the press. We donât do that here. I issue statements after the fact, not in the process of an investigation.â
âSo what are you saying? That no one in the police department said anything to the press and that they fabricated a story?â
Wheeling ran his fingers through his hair, making it look even more wild. The gesture made him seem somehow much younger, almost boyish, and frustrated.
âIâd like to say no one in the department talked, but you and I both know that I canât do that. Iâm busting my ass trying to find out who, if anyone, talked, but Iâm also working on finding your friendâs killer.â
âSo how many people knew I was a witness?â It was hopeless, I knew. In Panama City, everyone knew everything in a matter of moments.
Wheeling shifted on the barstool. âWell, the officers at the scene know you were there, but they didnât know you could identify the killer.â
âI didnât say I could. I said maybe.â
âWell, then I knew and Detective Nailor knew.â
âWhat? How the hell did he know?â
Wheeling looked at me, his eyes unwavering. âHeâs the other homicide detective. We work our cases together, unless one of us is already on a case. In Panama City, thatâs rare. We only have six or eight homicides a year.â He was burning me with the facts while I was still stuck on Nailor possibly being the only other person who knew the details of my statement. I was going to have to do a little investigating of my own. Nailor kept popping up, first at the racetrack, then in my trailer, and now investigating Rubyâs murder. What was the man up to?
A glint of red outside the bay window caught my eye, drawing my attention to the street. A cardinal-red Porsche was slowly passing the trailer, the windows tinted a smoky gray, with a vanity plate that I knew by heart: MR.TNA Vincent Gambuzzo was circling the block, noting the government tags on the standard-issue beige Taurus, and deciding to keep a low profile until the heat was gone.
âListen,â I said, turning my attention back to Detective Wheeling, âit really donât make no never mind to me how you want to explain this. Iâm just asking that you be a little forthcoming with some police protection.â
Wheeling started to say something, but I cut him off. âI know, you canât be placing a cop on my doorstep twenty-four hours a day, and maybe thatâs because of who I am and who the victim was, and maybe itâs because youâre short-handed. Whatever. Iâm just asking for a profile. A high profile. Send a marked cruiser past my house every hour or so.â I was walking toward my door, holding it open and making like Wheeling should quit acting like a big baby Huey and take a cue.
He wandered out into the bright sunlight of another steamy Panama City afternoon with Fluffy once again at his feet, trying her best to trip him up. His car hadnât been gone thirty seconds when Vincent Gambuzzo pulled into Wheelingâs spot on the parking pad and gunned the engine of the tinny-sounding sports car. Whatever version of a Porsche it was, it wasnât the big-ticket, top-of-the-line model. His car was the best he or any other midlevel wannabe could afford.
Vincent de-wedged himself from the driverâs seat and lumbered over to my steps, panting from exertion and the heat of wearing a black suit in the frigginâ tropical nineties.
âAbout goddamn time that cop took off,â he said, heaving himself up the steps. âAny longer and Iâd have run out of gas. Then them damn juvenile delinquents that
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