"Anderson Williams?"
The man looked up with a faraway gaze. It was as if he knew he heard a sound and his brain told him to react but that was all it was.
"Detective Leo Sung Kim. NYPD."
"Sung Kim… I should know that name."
"I'm sorry about your father but I need to ask you some questions."
"Sure."
"Where were you today?" Leo asked.
Anderson's face switched from anguish to irritation. "The logical choice. Because my father is dead and I found him, that makes me a suspect. All right. I was at school all day. I teach at NYU. Please hurry and check that out so you can stop wasting your time looking into me and find the real killer."
Leo arched a brow. He said nothing to the small outburst nor did he voice his offence. He merely scribbled in his notebook before asking another query. "When was the last time you spoke to your dad?"
"This morning about seven-ish. I'd just finished at the gym and I had a lecture at eight thirty so I had to basically rush him off the phone so I could get to class on time."
"And your reason for coming by today?"
"Today is Friday. We have a long-standing dinner every Friday to catch up and the like. I mean, we don't get to talk all that much because of his being on the bench and my lectures and markings… I was late today—been running late all day. I shouldn't have been…"
"Don't do that. None of this is your fault."
"Then whose fault is it?"
Leo wanted to tell him it was his fault—that as a cop he should have known something was wrong but he licked his lips. "How did your father seem when you last spoke with him?"
"The same—looking forward to our dinner. He called me to remind me we had a date planned." Anderson chuckled softly, sadly. "I always forget things."
"And where were you, say, four or five hours ago?"
Leo noticed the hard way Anderson stared at him. For a while he thought he wouldn't answer but Anderson shrugged. "In a lecture. I told you I was there all day."
Leo made a mental note to check that out then closed the small notebook he always carried and shoved it into his pocket. Though he had more questions, Anderson looked so sick he thought if he kept him there any longer, the man was liable to pass out. Though he skipped his regular don't leave town speech, he did add, "I may have more questions later. Do you have someone to take you home? I don't know if you should be driving right now."
"I'll be fine. I can handle that. What about my father?"
"Well. The ME has to do an autopsy on him. After she's done, you can make arrangements to get him buried."
"Yeah…"
"Before I go—is your father a fan of flowers?"
"Flowers? Not really. He's allergic to quite a few of them—they make him sneeze, irritates his eyes, so he just stayed away from all of them the best he could. Why?"
"No reason. It's probably nothing," Leo replied, handing Anderson one of his business cards. "If you think of anything…"
Chapter Two
Maybe he was dreaming. Anderson sat in the front seat of his car in the parking lot in a complete daze. He was afraid to move, for any minute now he would wake up and his father would be staring at him with worried frustration at his inability to pay attention. Anderson hardly breathed. All he had to do was sit still long enough, the nightmare would be over, and he wouldn't have to be sad anymore. But a car flying by pulled him from his trance and the pain returned without mercy. When he finally got enough strength to leave the car, he walked through his front door, closed it behind him, and reached for a picture on his bedside table. He didn't pick it up but ran a finger over his father's forehead.
"What am I supposed to do now?" Anderson whispered then waited to see if the answer would come. When it didn't, Anderson sat on his bed in the darkened bedroom. As he stared straight ahead, he held the detective's card loosely between his fingers. What was he going to do now? He wanted to cry, to scream—anything—but his body had simply gone numb. His lips slipped open and his breath began leaving him in a hoarse sound. His chest pumped up and down as images of his father's dismembered body flashed through his eyes. Gritting his teeth, Anderson closed his eyes and bit back the growl that threatened to leave his body. He was not accustomed to such loss. He wasn't used to the sight of a dead body, let alone one that had been so disrespected as his father's had been. He couldn't deal.
Turning on the television didn't help any because news of his father's death was splashed all over the channels. Even CNN had it, which shocked him.
Reaching over, he grabbed the phone and held down the one key. There was a slight music and the phone began ringing.
"Hello?"
"Bee…" he replied.
"Andy? Ni hô ma?" Byung questioned in Cantonese.
Anderson's mind was too clogged to reply in the foreign language. Though he'd grown up with his best friend and learned the language fluently, sometimes he just couldn't bother with the complicated conjugations. "Dad's dead," he spoke in English. "He's gone, Bee."
"Whoa! Hold up." Byung's voice was riddled with confusion. "What do you mean, he's dead?"
"Byung please—I can't—I can't deal right now… I need you."
"All right. I'll be there. Just gimme a few minutes to put some pants on."
Anderson hung up the phone before Byung could and sat back against the bed staring at a picture of himself, Jazmon, and Byung. A sick feeling of selfishness soared through him for he knew chances were Byung had a shoot of some kind in the
