After a moment, Fleet nodded again. Companionably, Ainsworth said, 'I'll get us all a Coke.' He left Monk staring at Fleet.
With mild interest, Monk wondered if Fleet would meet his eyes. For a moment Fleet seemed ready to try, then looked down again.
Ainsworth came through the door, which was still ajar, clutching three cans of Coke.
Monk accepted one, then placed the second can in front of Eddie Fleet. Ainsworth took a swallow of his and leaned against the wall. Still quiet, Fleet studied the cool red cylinder, beading with its own sweat as he watched.
'Maybe,' Ainsworth suggested, 'we should leave you with your thoughts. Maybe you'll figure things out before Rennell or Payton does.'
Monk stood abruptly. Before Fleet could form an answer, they closed the door behind them.
* * *
In another interrogation room, feet propped on the table, Monk and Ainsworth drank their Cokes while they observed Eddie Fleet on a video monitor.
Fleet was slumped forward, face in his hands. The inspectors kept watching with the casual interest of anthropologists studying an all-too-familiar species. 'Sort of sluggish,' Ainsworth remarked. 'Quiet, too. Not like Ralphie Menendez.'
Monk emitted a laugh. Left alone after absorbing Monk's dissertation on the degrees of murder, Menendez had muttered on videotape, 'Goddam, fifteen fucking years'—repeating the minimum sentence for murder in the second degree.
'Ralphie,' Monk said nostalgically. 'Hardly left us anything to ask.'
'At least he was entertaining. I'm getting fed up with these three.' Ainsworth turned from the monitor. 'So which one we go back to?'
'Fleet.' Monk nodded toward the video cam. 'Look at him.'
On the monitor, Fleet's hands were cupped over his mouth, as though he were about to vomit.
* * *
'You ready to help us out?' Monk asked.
Eyes averted, Fleet nodded.
'No rehearsals,' Monk said curtly, switching on the tape recorder.
For a time, Eddie watched it spin. Then he gathered his thoughts and began to speak. Listening, Monk had to give him this much—Eddie Fleet could tell a story so vividly that Monk could see it happening.
* * *
The knock on Eddie's door had sounded heavy, urgent.
Eddie was alone. One eye shut, he peered out through the keyhole. In the night outside stood a massive form which could only be Rennell.
Eddie cracked open the door. 'What is it, bro'?'
'We got need for your car.'
Somehow Eddie knew that 'car' included him. Beneath Rennell's accustomed monotone he heard an urgency close to panic, and the big man's feet shifted from side to side. In Rennell this passed for jitters, Eddie thought—he must be high on crack.
Eddie fished his car keys from the drawer where he kept his Saturday night special, taking the gun as well.
* * *
In the six-block ride to the brothers' house, Rennell said only, 'This is trouble, man.'
He would not say more. But whatever Eddie had imagined was erased from his memory once Payton, eyes bright with crack and panic, yanked him inside.
Lying on the floor was a small Asian girl with spittle coming from her open mouth. It took a few seconds for Eddie to absorb that she was dead.
'What the fuck . . . ?' he whispered.
Payton backed one step away. From behind him, Rennell said dully, 'Choked on come.'
'Whose come?'
When no one answered, Eddie felt himself begin to shake. 'You make her do this? That's a kid, man.'
A spark of anger flashed in Payton's eyes. 'No time for this shit,' he snapped. 'We got to get rid of her.'
Fleet stared down at the girl as though he'd been asked to pick up a dead rat. 'No way, man. Not me.'
Payton's fevered eyes shot a peremptory glance at Rennell. From behind him, Fleet felt the big man pin his arms back in a hammerlock. He cried out, Payton's half-crazed face two inches from his.
'Shut up,' Payton hissed. 'You trying to wake up Grandma?'
* * *
They forced Eddie to pick up the child by her hands.
Her fingers were stiff and cold. Drool kept dribbling from her mouth, like she couldn't keep the come down. Eddie felt the bile rising in his throat.
