“Buck Reinhardt.”
She thought it over, then stepped back and let him into her apartment.
It was bare bones inside, thrift-store decor: a beat-up sofa, a beat-up love seat, a scratched coffee table, a standing lamp, all of it arranged on an oval braided rug the color of beef gravy, none of it matching. In the small dining area, which was separated from the tiny kitchen by a counter, was a cheap dinette set that had recently been painted white. The one item in the place that looked new and expensive was a television with a thirty-five-inch screen, situated on a stand so that anyone lounging on the old sofa would have a good view. The television was on-an Adam Sandler movie-but muted. A bottle of dark red nail polish stood on the coffee table.
Brittany stayed on her heels all the way to the sofa where she plopped down and stared up dismally at Cork. She didn’t ask him to sit.
“So how is it you think I can help Buck Reinhardt?” she asked.
“Are you aware he’s the primary suspect in the Kingbird murders?”
“How could he be? He was home when that happened.”
“And you know this how?”
“I heard it around.”
“Then maybe you heard around that it’s only a matter of time before that alibi collapses. Nobody’s buying it. The sheriff’s people never believed it for a second and they’re doing everything they can to break it. Pretty soon the whole truth’ll come out.”
“Why should I care?”
“Mind if I sit?”
She pursed her lips and nodded toward the love seat. As Cork settled in, she bent and began removing the wads of tissue from between her toes.
“Got a name for the baby yet?” Cork asked.
She came up fast and stared at him with surprise.
“Let me ask you another question,” Cork went on. “Does the Buzz Saw provide health coverage for its employees?”
She eyed him warily. “No.”
“Have you got health coverage?”
“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Buck pay for it?”
“Look, you need to leave,” she said, doing her best to sound incensed.
Cork leaned toward her in a confidential way. “Brittany, I know that Buck was with you the night the Kingbirds were killed. If you come forward, it’s the best thing you could do to help him.”
“Right.”
“The sheriff’s people aren’t the only ones convinced that his alibi is a lie. He’s at the top of the Red Boyz’s hit list. If you don’t help clear his name, it could very well cost him his life.”
She frowned and didn’t look convinced.
“I’m not after Buck,” Cork said. “I’m after the man I believe is responsible for the Kingbird killings, and I think that’s Lonnie Thunder.”
She started to speak but held back. Then a mean little gleam came into her eyes. “That’s not who Buck thinks did it.”
“No? Who does he think?”
“Elise.”
“What makes him believe that?” Cork asked, trying to maintain a neutral response.
“He has this shotgun, some kind of special thing. When he got home Saturday night-”
“After he’d been here?”
“Yeah.”
“What time did he leave?”
“Midnight, maybe twelve thirty.”
“Okay, go on.”
“So he gets home and Elise has this shotgun in the living room. Buck can tell it’s been fired. She claims she used it to scare off a cougar that had been sniffing around the place.”
“Buck didn’t buy that?”
“He says that ever since Kristi died, Elise has been crazy. Doesn’t sleep, drinks too much. He says sometimes she scares him.”
“Scares Buck?”
“That’s what he says.” She looked away, stared at the television where there was only movement, no sound. Her mouth went thin as a pin. “He was going to leave her, then Kristi died.”
“Leave her? And marry you?”
“A ring and a father for our baby, that’s what he promised.”
Cork thought that as fathers went, Brittany could have done a lot better for her child than Buck Reinhardt. And as a husband, Buck was hardly a prize. But none of that was Cork’s business. He had what he came for and he stood up.
“I’m going to be talking to the sheriff in a bit, Brittany. I’m going to tell her everything you’ve told me. It’ll clear Buck, but a lot of shit’s going to hit the fan.”
She gave a brief bitter laugh. “Like that’s never happened with me before.”
“The sheriff’s people will want to talk to you. If they were to ask, is there any way you can prove Buck was with you that night?”
“Have ’em talk to Mrs. Schickle in apartment 113. She’s better than a damn watchdog. Never sleeps, sees everything.”
“Thanks, Brittany. You’ve been a real help.”
She went back to pulling tissue from between her toes. “I just hope to God Buck sees it that way.”
On his way out, he stopped at apartment 113. Mrs. Schickle was indeed an all-seeing eye, and when Cork gave her his business card and explained that he was helping the sheriff’s department, she was only too happy to talk. He had the feeling that even if all he’d shown her in the way of authority was a bubble gum card she would just as eagerly have told him everything.
Outside in the parking lot, Cork looked back at the building. It was an ugly box of tan brick three stories high, one of the new constructions on the west side of town that had been thrown up as Aurora continued to grow. It wasn’t the kind of place anybody lived permanently. Brittany Young probably saw it as a stop on her way to the sprawling house Buck Reinhardt had built on Skinner Lake. There was always the possibility that it might work out better for her than it had for either the current or the previous Mrs. Reinhardt, but Cork didn’t hold out much hope. Because Buck was the constant in the equation, the outcome, he suspected, was dismally predictable.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When Elise Reinhardt opened the door, her hand held a small glass full of whiskey and her eyes held a look full of mean. Her gaze shot from the sheriff to Ed Larson, to Simon Rutledge, and finally to Cork.
“We already gave to the widows and orphans fund,” she said.
“Elise, I wonder if we can come in and go over a few things with you.” The sheriff was firm but not unpleasant.
“Again?”
“It’s important.”
“I can see that from the backup you brought.” She stepped aside and waved them in. “Hell, let’s get this over with. I’ve got a steak to grill.”
They came in and stood clustered in the living room. Though it wasn’t particularly dirty or cluttered, the place felt neglected. Flowers drooped in a vase on a table. The air in the room carried a distant unpleasant odor, like dirty socks.
