Nightwork by Joseph Hansen Page A

to answer your questions.” Kilgore got to his feet without trouble this time. “Get out of here.”
    “Paul Myers doesn’t care if you’re sleeping with his wife—not anymore. Neither do I. If that’s all you have to hide, why not answer my questions?”
    “You care. You’re implying collusion between us—me and Angie—Mrs. Myers, I mean.”
    Dave raised his brows. “Am I?” He went to look out the door at the Jaguar again. No crime in progress. He turned back. “You mean I think you murdered Myers so as to marry his widow and share in the insurance money?” Dave gestured to indicate the school and its burdens. “You’re hard up. A hundred thousand dollars would hire a lot of help. No? You could ride your exercise machine all day.”
    “Silencio Ruiz killed Myers,” Kilgore said.
    “There are reasons to doubt that,” Dave said. “Where were you on the night Myers crashed and burned? You didn’t visit Angela Myers that night.”
    “She was at her parents’ house,” Kilgore said. “Her mother needed her. The old man was acting up. She took the children and stayed there overnight.”
    “And where did you stay?”
    “Right the hell here,” Kilgore said. “And no, I can’t prove it.” He came from behind the desk, fists bunched. “And I don’t have to prove it. Not to you. I know what you’re doing. Trying to link Angie to Paul’s death so your company doesn’t have to pay. And you think you can get to her through our relation—through me. Well, the hell with you, mister. Just leave, all right? I’m warning you.”
    Dave pointed to the wall. “That certificate says you graduated from the California School of Engineering. Did they teach you how to wire up an explosive device? And detonate it by remote control?”
    Kilgore narrowed his eyes. “Do you carry a gun?”
    “I’m licensed to carry a gun.” Dave smiled. “Why do you ask?”
    “Because if you haven’t got a gun on you,” Kilgore said, “I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
    “Not bright,” Dave said. “It would draw adverse attention to your school. And the Sheriff’s department would wonder about your overreaction to a few harmless questions. Also”—he smiled again, and patted his ribs on the left side where a holster would be if he owned a holster, if he owned a gun to put into a holster—“maybe I have a gun. What was Myers hauling in his semi at night up in that canyon?”
    Kilgore looked sulky. “How the hell should I know?”
    “Angie Myers doesn’t know either.” Dave lit a cigarette. “Neither of you gave a damn about Paul Myers, did you? You had each other, after all.”
    “Don’t smoke in here,” Kilgore said.
    Dave said, “I’m leaving in a minute. She was beaten up about the time he was killed. That must have upset you, caring for her as you do. How did it happen? Who did it to her?”
    Kilgore went back to his desk but didn’t sit down. “She wouldn’t say.” He picked up a stack of unopened envelopes and sorted through them, frowning. “Why wasn’t it Paul? He was nothing but a truck driver, after all.”
    “You seem ready with your fists, yourself,” Dave said.
    “And your face doesn’t look marked.” Kilgore let the envelopes fall. “Which is remarkable, considering the things you say to perfect strangers.”
    “Nobody’s perfect,” Dave said.
    A voice called across the play area. “Mr. Kilgore?” Kilgore muttered impatiently, rounded the desk, passed Dave. A fragile-looking young woman in big tinted spectacles stood in the open doorway of the complex under the rubber tree. Red paint had splashed the front of her skirt. “I’ve got a mini-riot.” She sounded on the edge of tears. “Can you settle it, please?” Kilgore sighed and jogged across the sunlit space. The two of them vanished into the building.
    Dave left the office. He tried the door of the unit next to it. The door opened. At the rear of the room was a kitchenette with a breakfast bar and two stools.