Tell Me No Lies by Annie Solomon

before, was at the top of their lead sheets. "What's he got to say for himself?" Hank asked.
    Fenelli shrugged. "You and Klimet caught the case. We left that for you."
    "What about ballistics on the round from the vic?"
    "Haven't come back yet. Neither have the phone records."
    "Canvass on the neighborhood around the store?"
    "Deaf and dumb all around," Klimet said.
    "How about a lead on the home address?"
    "Clerk had no idea," said Fenelli. "This Luka Kole kept a profile lower than the ground. No one knows anything about him."
    "We're working through his credit card statements," Klimet said. "Bills we found in the office, stuff like that. So far it's all tagged to the store."
    "Keep digging," Parnell said.
    The meeting moved on to other things, and when it was over, Fenelli turned to Hank.
    "Uniforms said McTeer's a real tough guy. Not too cooperative."
    Klimet wandered over, balled one hand into a fist. "I like tough guys."
    Hank exchanged a look with Fenelli, suppressing his irritation at the younger man's bravado. He picked up the phone, punched in the number for the jail upstairs. "You got a McTeer up there. Bring him down to Interview Two."
    He let Joe go in alone, watching from the observation room behind the two-way glass. A few minutes later, McTeer was escorted in, a wiry white guy with a black do-rag pulled low on his forehead.
    From his record, he was nineteen, an unemployed high school dropout with an address in the projects on the north side of town. He wore baggy jeans that sagged over a pair of expensive Nikes and an old Knicks game shirt with Sprewell printed on the back.
    He sauntered toward the table in the center of the room, hip-hop to the max. "Yo, when you gonna cut me loose?" He danced right up to the two-way mirror, as though Joe were insignificant and the real players behind it "I ain't done jack shit." The accent and body language were perfect homeboy black.
    Not one to be easily dismissed, Joe grabbed the kid by the back of the shirt and shoved him toward the table. "I'm over here, big shot." He forced him into a chair. "Sit."
    McTeer exploded, jumping up the minute Joe let go. "You ain't got no right to be all ova- me with that shit."
    So the kid had a short fuse. Had it exploded over Luka Kole yesterday?
    Joe shoved him back down again; this time a heavy hand forced McTeer's head to the table. "I said, sit"
    McTeer stopped struggling.
    "Ready now?" Beneath Joe's hand, McTeer nodded, Joe let him go.
    The boy raised his head slowly, resentment written all over his face. He glared at Joe, and Hank saw generations of abuse staring out of those stark, dangerous eyes.
    "Where were you yesterday about five p.m.?"
    McTeer continued to stare.
    "You want to get out of here, you'll cooperate."
    McTeer crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair so the front legs pted off the floor. His face was hard and expressionless. He'd been here before.
    Hank sighed, poured two cups of coffee, and let himself into the interrogation room. He set one cup in front of McTeer. "Coffee?"
    McTeer eyed him suspiciously.
    "Black or " From his pocket he took out a couple of packets of sugar and a small tub of nondairy creamer, threw them down in front of McTeer and waited for him Co coffee up.
    "You like the Knicks?" He grabbed a chair and, turning it around, straddled the seat. "That Sprewell, he was something wasn't he?"
    McTeer picked up the cup, sniffed it as though it might be poisoned. "I ain't done nothing," he said sullenly.
    Hank shrugged. "No one said you did."
    McTeer shot a hostile glance over at Joe, then back at Hank.
    "But see, we got ourselves a problem. A man was killed yesterday at the convenience store on Rossvelt. We heard you had words with him earlier in the day, and we have to check it out. So helping us is really helping you. We just want to clear all this up so you can go home."
    Distrust still rife in his eyes, McTeer said, "What man you talking about?"
    "Luka Kole. The man behind the counter."
    "That