By the time he makes it into work, there are two cops waiting for him.
Eddie Mae takes one look at Jay and, unsolicited, brings him a can of tomato juice from the vending machine by the parking lot. She sets the morning-after elixir on her desk. Jay downs it in a single gulp, his hand shaking a bit as he returns the empty can to Eddie Mae. He steals a nervous glance through the open doorway to his private office, where the cops are waiting. Detec tives, he can tell by their dress, the starched shirt collars and clean- shaven skin.
“What in the hell happened to you anyway?” Eddie Mae asks, nodding at his bruised face. He knows he looks like hell, and his nerves are only making things worse. He dabs his damp fore head with a corner of his sleeve and straightens his tie. “Lock the door,” he says to Eddie Mae. “And don’t let anybody in.”
“Mr. Porter?”
Jay buttons his suit jacket and walks into his office.
One of the cops, in his late thirties, is seated in front of Jay’s desk smoking a cigarette, Jay’s ashtray resting on his thigh. The other cop, the older one, is standing next to Jay’s filing cabinet, a few inches from the stash of dirty money. Jay wonders how much they know, how much trouble he’s already in.
The young one moves first, returning Jay’s ashtray to his desk and moving quickly onto his feet. He shakes Jay’s hand, the ciga rette resting between his middle and ring fingers. “I’m Detective Andy Bradshaw, Mr. Porter. And this is Detective Sam Widman, my partner.” Widman is still lingering by the filing cabinet, his eyes scanning the stack of files on top. He appears to be reading the names on the labels. He glances at Jay and gives him a simple nod.
The blinds in Jay’s office are open. He takes a measured stride across the room, aware that the cops’ investigation began before he even walked into the room; they’re marking his movements. He pulls a string to close the blinds, then bends to pick up a stray stack of files on the floor, walking them to his desk as if this is all a part of his morning routine. “What can I help you with, Officers?”
“What happened to your face?” Widman speaks for the first time. He’s still standing by the filing cabinet, the heel of his shoe practically touching the drawer where the money is hiding. He’s staring at Jay, waiting for an answer.
“I fell down some stairs,” Jay says.
Widman cocks his head to one side, eyeing the shape and color of the bruises on Jay’s face. “You must have fallen pretty hard, Mr. Porter.”
“Can I ask what this is about, Detectives?”
“You know a man named Marshall Hennings?”
“Pardon?” Jay asks, because at first the name doesn’t even register.
Widman’s partner, Bradshaw, stubs his cigarette into the ash tray. “Mr. Hennings manned a boat you were on, Mr. Porter, the night of August first.”
“Mr. Porter, Mr. Hennings died sometime shortly thereafter,” Widman says. “He was found in his automobile in a ditch along Elysian, north of here. It was more likely than not a car accident, but in the course of our investigation, some questions came up. And, you know, we have to look at every angle.”
“Sure.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Detective Bradshaw says.
“About Marshall?” Jay asks.
“Yes.”
Jay looks back and forth between the two detectives. “Mar shall?”
“Did Mr. Hennings seem all right to you that night?” Widman asks. “Did he seem well?”
“Well, I’d never met the man before, but . . . sure, he seemed fine.”
“And there was nothing unusual about his behavior?”
“No.”
“Nothing unusual about that night at all.”
Jay pretends to consider this. “No, not that I can recall.”
Detective Bradshaw makes a note on a tiny pad he lifts from his shirt pocket. Widman watches him, then glances down at his right shoe, the heel of which he taps lightly against the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. “Jimmy Rochelle, a relative of Mr. Hennings, said something about you asking if Marshall had talked to any cops,” Widman says, looking up. “Why did you imagine Mr. Hennings would have been in touch with law enforcement?”
“Jimmy must have misunderstood me,” Jay says, frightened by how easily the words come, the lie leaping from his lips. “When Jimmy said Marshall hadn’t been heard from, I believe I asked Jimmy if
“He says you called looking for Marshall.”
“Two of his lady friends also said you contacted them,” Brad shaw adds.
“Why were you trying so hard to get in touch with him?”
Jay doesn’t want them to see him thinking. He goes with the first words out of his mouth. “My wife lost a bracelet. We thought it might be on the boat.”
