impassive stare. 'Had somethin' to run by you,' Fleet ventured at last. 'Call it a hy-po-thetical.'
Monk was not certain whether the satiric twist given the last word was intended to obscure Fleet's difficulty in enunciation. But it did not conceal his fear, or the guile which had driven him here.
'Spit it out.'
Fleet fidgeted, trying out the smile again. 'Not that it happened this way, understand. I'm just wanting to hear what you might think.'
Monk said nothing. Silent, Fleet watched the tape keep spinning.
'Can you turn that damned thing off?' he asked.
Monk did. 'So?'
Fleet glanced at Ainsworth, then tried to look Monk in the eyes. 'S'pose somebody asked to borrow my car the day that girl disappeared.'
'Somebody?'
A trapped, furtive look crept into Fleet's eyes. 'This can't get out, man. You can't tell no one.'
Still Monk stared at him. 'I can't tell 'no one' about something that 'somebody' asked you that maybe never happened. You call so I can watch you tap-dance?'
Fleet looked away. Finally, he said, 'What if I said it maybe was Rennell.'
'Maybe? I'd say we need a warrant for your car. You just went and gave us probable cause.'
* * *
Fleet's ancient blue Cadillac Eldorado smelled like sweat and cigarettes and pot. Payton's prints were on the passenger-side dashboard, Rennell's on the handle of the right rear door.
The rough gray carpet in the trunk compartment was spiky and matted. Caught in its fibers was a strand of green wool; the portion cut out by the crime lab yielded a mixture of semen and saliva. There were also traces of urine—as Monk well knew, corpses often leak.
* * *
They picked up Fleet and the brothers again, separately, then stuck them in three rooms. Monk's message to each was simple: whoever talks first does best. But Payton was stone silent, and Rennell kept repeating in a monotone what Monk now thought of less as a mantra than as a life raft—'I didn't do that little girl.'
In the fourth hour of questioning, Monk came back to Eddie Fleet with the same relentless patience. 'We know she was in your trunk, Eddie. We know that she was dead. Sooner or later someone's gonna tell me how she got that way. When he does, this thing is over.'
Fleet hunched in the chair with folded arms. 'Was she dead when you first saw her,' Monk inquired, 'or were you part of how she died?'
Fleet's lips parted, as if to speak. Then his jaw clamped tight again.
'Don't know about my friend here,' Rollie Ainsworth said in a tone of deep sincerity. 'But in my heart and soul I don't believe you killed Thuy Sen. Maybe I'm wrong, but you don't seem like the type to me.' His voice hardened. 'The thing we know for sure is that you had a part in it.'
The room felt hot and close now: the first sheen of sweat began appearing on Fleet's forehead. Monk and Ainsworth contented themselves with watching.
At length Monk asked, 'You know about accessories?'
Fleet did not answer. Only his body, tense with anticipation, betrayed him.
'I'm not talking about do-rags, Eddie.'
Slowly Fleet looked up at him. 'I'm talking about murder,' Monk continued softly. 'So let's see if you can follow what I'm telling you.
'With murder there's only three types of accessories. First there's accessories before the fact. They're the worst ones—they know a murder's gonna happen, and don't do anything about it. Maybe they even help things along.
'Then there's accessories during the fact. Want to guess who they are?'
Fleet barely seemed to breathe. 'I'll tell you then,' Monk said in a conversational tone. 'They're present when the murder happens, and still don't lift a finger to stop it. You with me so far?'
Still Fleet was silent. 'You're with me,' Monk said. 'You're a real smart young man, and I just know you're with me. So you know damned well if you're one of the first two kinds.
'Course maybe that's why you're so quiet. If I were an accessory before or during, I'd have a whole lot to think about.'
A trickle of sweat made Fleet's left eyelid flutter. He was too proud or scared to wipe it. 'Want to hear the rest?' Monk inquired.
Almost imperceptibly, Fleet nodded. 'Okay,' Monk said. 'Last one's an accessory after the fact. That's where the victim's already dead, and you help cover up. Maybe like getting rid of the body.
'That's the least culpable kind of accessory.' Sitting back, Monk gave him a slow, appraising stare. 'Don't know where you fit in, Eddie. But all three of us know there's a slot for you. Sooner or later we're going to decide which one you are.'
In the silence, Fleet's light brown face glistened beneath the fluorescent lights.
'Thirsty?' Ainsworth asked.
