'Can you tell us what happened between you and Marcie Millar at the library Wednesday evening?' Detective Holstijic asked, plunking down on the sofa. Detective Basso remained standing, scrutinizing the family pictures arranged on the mantel.
His words took a moment to register. The library. Wednesday evening. Marcie Millar.
'Is Marcie okay?' I asked. It was no secret I didn't hold a warm, affectionate place in my heart for Marcie. But that didn't mean I wanted her in trouble, or worse, in danger. I especially didn't want her in trouble if it appeared to involve me.
Detective Basso put his hands on his hips. 'What makes you think she's not okay?'
'I didn't do anything to Marcie.'
'What were the two of you arguing about?' Detective Holstijic asked. 'Library security told us things were getting heated.'
'It wasn't like that.'
'What was it like?'
'We called each other a few names,' I said, hoping we could leave it at that.
'What kind of names?'
'Stupid names,' I said in retrospect.
'I'm going to need to hear those names, Nora.'
'I called her an anorexic pig.' My cheeks stung and my voice was humiliated. If the situation hadn't been so serious, I might have wished I'd invented something a lot more cruel and demeaning. Not to mention something that made a little more sense.
The detectives exchanged a look.
'Did you threaten her?' asked Detective Holstijic.
'No.'
'Where did you go after the library?'
'Home.'
'Did you follow Marcie?'
'No. Like I said, I came home. Are you going to tell me what happened to Marcie?'
'Can anyone vouch for that?' Detective Basso asked.
'My biology partner. He saw me at the library and offered me a ride.'
I had a shoulder propped against one side of the French doors leading into the room, and Detective Basso walked over and took up a post on the opposite side, across from me. 'Let's hear about this biology partner.'
'What kind of question is that?'
He spread his hands. 'It's a pretty basic question. But if you want me to get more specific, I can. When I was in high school, I only offered rides to girls I was interested in. Let's carry that a step further. What's your relationship with your bio partner… outside the classroom?'
'You're joking, right?'
One side of Detective Basso's mouth hitched up. 'That's what I thought. Did you have your boyfriend beat up Marcie Millar?'
'Marcie was beat up?'
He pushed up from the doorway and positioned himself directly in front of me, sharp eyes boring into me. 'Did you want to show her what happens when girls like her don't keep their mouths shut? Did you think she deserved to get a little roughed up? I knew girls like Marcie when I went to school. They ask for it, don't they? Was Marcie asking for it, Nora? Someone beat her up pretty bad Wednesday night, and I think you know more than you're saying.'
I was working hard to suppress my thoughts, afraid they might somehow show on my face. Maybe it was a coincidence that on the same night I complained to Patch about Marcie, she took a beating.
Then again, maybe it wasn't.
'We're going to need to talk to your boyfriend,' Detective Holstijic said.
'He's not my boyfriend. He's my biology partner.'
'Is he on his way here now?'
I knew I should be up-front. But on further reflection, I could not accept that Patch would hurt Marcie. Marcie wasn't the nicest person, and she'd acquired more than a handful of enemies. A few of those enemies might be capable of brutality, but Patch wasn't one of them. Senseless beating wasn't his style. 'No,' I said.
Detective Basso gave a stiff smile. 'All dressed up for a Saturday night in?'
'Something like that,' I said in the coldest tone I dared.
Detective Holstijic pulled a small notepad out of his coat pocket, flipped it open, and clicked his pen. 'We're going to need his name and number.'
Ten minutes after the detectives left, a black Jeep Commander rolled to the curb. Patch jogged through the rain to the porch, wearing dark jeans, boots, and a thermal gray T-shirt.
'New car?' I asked after I opened the door.
He gave me a mysterious smile. 'I won it a couple nights ago off a game of pool.'
'Someone bet their car?'
'He wasn't happy about it. I'm trying to stay clear of dark alleys for the next little while.'
'Did you hear about Marcie Millar?' I threw it out there, hoping the question would take him by surprise.
'No. What's up?' His answer came easily, and I decided it probably meant he was telling the truth. Unfortunately, when it came to telling lies, Patch didn't strike me as an amateur.
'Someone beat her up.'
'A shame.'
'Any idea who might have done it?'
If Patch heard the concern in my voice, he didn't show it. He leaned back against the porch railing and rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his jaw. 'Nope.'
I asked myself if I thought he was hiding something. But reading lies wasn't a strong point of mine. I didn't have a lot of experience. Typically I hung around people I trusted… typically.
Patch parked the Jeep behind Bo's Arcade. When we got to the front of the line, the cashier laid eyes first on Patch, then on me. Back and forth they went, trying to make a connection.
'What's up?' Patch said, and put three tens on the counter.
The cashier trained his watchful stare on me. He'd noticed that I couldn't stop staring at the moldy-green tattoos covering every available inch of skin on his forearms. He moved a wad of gum? tobacco? to the other side of his bottom lip and said, 'You looking at something?'
'I like your tat-,' I began. He bared pointed dog teeth.
'I don't think he likes me,' I whispered to Patch when we were a safe distance away.
'Bo doesn't like anybody.'
'That's Bo of Bo's Arcade?'
'That's Bo Junior of Bo's Arcade. Bo Senior died a few years ago.'
'How?' I asked.
'Bar brawl. Downstairs.'
I felt an overwhelming desire to run back to the Jeep and peel out of the lot.
'Are we safe?' I asked.
Patch slanted a look sideways. 'Angel.'
'Just asking.'
Downstairs, the pool hall looked exactly like it had the first night I'd come. Cinder-block walls painted black. Red felt pool tables at the center of the room. Poker tables scattered around the fringe. Low track lighting curving across the ceiling. The congested smell of cigar smoke clogging the air.
Patch chose the table farthest from the stairs. He retrieved two UPs from the bar and popped their caps on the edge of the counter.
'I've never played pool before,' I confessed.
'Choose a cue.' He motioned to the rack of pool sticks mounted on the wall. I lifted one down and carried it back to the pool table.
Patch wiped a hand down his mouth to erase a smile.
