acquaintance.”
Barely acknowledging the greeting, Erik turned to Brian. “Look, Detective Fellows,” he said. “Refusing to talk to you yesterday without having an attorney present was poor judgment on my part. I was so shocked by what was happening that asking for a lawyer was all I could think of, but this mess is some kind of awful mistake. I know there’s been a murder. You told me yesterday that the victim is a girl, but I have no idea who she was or what happened to her. What I do know is that I had nothing to do with it. I want to help you find whoever’s responsible.”
“Really, Mr. LaGrange,” Coulter began, but Erik brushed aside his attorney’s objection.
“I said I want to help, and I do,” Erik declared, looking directly at Brian. “Let’s get on with it.”
The fact that the suspect was ready to cooperate came as no surprise to Detective Fellows. A night in jail often produced remarkable changes of heart when it came to a suspect’s willingness to talk. While PeeWee interrupted the proceedings long enough to announce on tape who was present, Brian removed his notebook from his pocket and consulted it.
“You stopped talking right about the time I asked you what you did after work Friday night. How about if we start there? Tell us about Friday.”
“I came home,” Brian said. “I picked up carry-out Mexican food from Lerua’s after work and brought it home.”
“By yourself?”
“I was with someone else. She wasn’t with me when I got the food, but she came by the house later. That’s the thing. I don’t want to cause her any trouble.” He paused, then added, “She’s married. You won’t drag her into any of this, will you?”
“That depends,” Brian said carefully.
“On what?”
“On your telling us everything you can. We may need to check with her to verify that you’ve told us the truth and can corroborate your alibi.”
“Mr. LaGrange…” Earl Coulter began again, but Erik wasn’t listening.
“Her husband won’t have to know?”
“We can be discreet,” Brian said.
PeeWee Segura, standing behind the suspect, rolled his eyes at this blatant lie, but Erik was desperate and he bought it completely.
“Her name’s Gayle Stryker,” he said. “She and her husband, Larry Stryker, Dr. Lawrence Stryker, run Medicos for Mexico. Gayle’s my boss. She and I have been…well, involved for some time.”
“I take it her husband has no idea that the two of you are an item?”
“Right,” Erik said. “At least I don’t think he does.”
“All right. The lady came to visit, the two of you had dinner together, and then what? Did she stay over?”
“No,” Erik said. He paused, as if considering what to say next. “We had a fight. Gayle got mad and left early.”
“What time?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Maybe ten. Maybe later.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went to bed. The next morning I got up and went for a hike. I was coming back from that yesterday afternoon when you found me.”
“You have no idea how all that human blood ended up in the back of your pickup truck?” Brian asked.
“None at all. It wasn’t there when I came home from work Friday afternoon.”
“When you returned home from your hike, was your truck parked in the same place?”
“As far as I know. I couldn’t swear, but it seemed like the same place.”
“Who else has access to your vehicle?”
“No one.”
“Is there an extra set of keys?” Brian asked.
“Yes.”
“Where do you keep those?”
“In my briefcase.”
“And that is?”
“At home. In the kitchen on the counter. I was carrying the food and the briefcase at the same time. I put them down on the counter.”
“You still haven’t told me how the blood might have gotten there. Are you suggesting someone gained access to your house, took your vehicle, used it during the course of a homicide, and then returned it to your driveway?” Brian asked. “Doesn’t that seem a little far-fetched?”
Erik’s face reddened. “It sounds ridiculous, but that has to be what happened.”
“Who else has access to your house?” Brian repeated with apparent unconcern. “Do you have a cleaning lady, by any chance? Or does Mrs. Stryker have her own key?”
“No cleaning lady,” Erik answered. “Gayle has a garage-door opener. She usually comes and goes through the garage.”
Something about that rang a bell. Brian paged through his notebook until he found his interview with Erik’s neighbor.
“Any other family members living here in town?” Brian asked. “Parents? Brother or sisters?”
“My mother died shortly after I was born. I have no idea if my father is dead or alive.”
Which means, Brian thought, the lady the neighbor saw Erik spending so much time with definitely wasn’t his mother after all.
“Are you a Diamondback fan?” Brian asked.
For a moment Erik seemed stunned, as though he thought the conversation had gone from discussing the murder to a casual “How-about-them-Cubs” bullshit session. “I guess so,” he said.
“Do you have some of their gear?”
“Oh,” Erik said. “Yes. A baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and a jacket. Medicos did a fund-raising event with them last year. Why?”
“What kind of tennis shoes do you wear?”
“Nikes.”
“All right,” Brian said. “That’s it for now. How do we go about getting in touch with Mrs. Stryker?”
“But I thought you said you wouldn’t drag her into this,” Erik objected.
“I said we’d be discreet,” Brian countered. “We need to talk to her to verify what you’ve told us so far. If you’re telling the truth, I’m sure she won’t mind vouching for you.”
Erik looked uncomfortable.
Brian shrugged. “You can give us her phone number now, or we can track her down on our own tomorrow. Suit yourself.”
Erik glanced uneasily at Earl Coulter, as if he was finally ready to take the attorney’s advice. Unfortunately, Coulter wasn’t listening. The Snoozer was sound asleep, his double chin resting on the awful tie.
As Erik was being led back to his cell, he tried to quell another attack of panic. Overnight he’d told himself things couldn’t be all that bad, but in the interview room he had finally glimpsed the totality of what he was up against. A girl was dead-murdered. Her blood was in his truck and most likely on his clothing as well. His machete was the presumed murder weapon. It meant that someone somewhere was trying to frame him for a murder he hadn’t committed. To make matters worse, Erik was stuck with a drunken attorney who was utterly useless.
Erik’s only hope was that once Gayle knew the kind of trouble he was in, she’d forgive him and come to his rescue. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?
The guard took Erik as far as his cell and let him inside. As the bars clanged shut behind him, it sounded as though they were closing forever. He fell onto his cot. For the first time since his grandmother died, Erik LaGrange tried to pray.
J. A. Jance
