"Family tried to call you, urgent. No answer for weeks, so they asked us to check. We went in with a key from your landlord."
Jo squirmed in her chair, glancing across at David. "Weeks? Weeks? We've only been gone a week or two!"
The cop frowned. He looked like he was giving a blood alcohol test by eye and nose. "Ms. Pierce, our records show that your last day at work was February fifteenth. Same for your sister. Last time anyone saw any of you was the next morning. Today's date is April thirteenth. I think your people had a right to be concerned."
"Shit."
Jo looked pale, worse than her normal fair skin. Scared. Now the freckles stood out like a rash. But that date explained the shrunken snow-banks along the road that had graced their walk to the cop shop. Mud Season, Maine's least lovely face.
The silence stretched out until David felt compelled to fill it. "Why the crime scene tape? We were out celebrating. What's wrong with that?"
"Food rotting, mail piling up, looked suspicious. So we called in a lab team. The forensics guys came up with blood between the kitchen tiles. A lot of blood, looked like, then somebody had scrubbed it up. Maybe murder. We secured the scene in case the DA wanted more tests."
Oh. Brian's blood, from when Fiona had set a street gang on him, trying to capture him. He'd staggered back to Maureen for help. But they didn't want to talk about that . . .
"Brian cut himself, bad. Kitchen knife. You go into their apartment, as well? Find the old bandages, same blood type?"
The cop nodded, reluctantly. "Yeah. Forensics says there's not much doubt, blood type is rare as hell. But we still want to talk to this 'Brian Albion' of yours. Some street rats got beat up in an alley. One died. They identified him, by name. Kids like those, we wouldn't take their word for what day it was. Myself, even if the story's true I think he's done us a favor. But we still need to talk to him, to close the file."
Right, thought David. And you think I'm drunk enough to believe that. Then you'll sell me some prime Florida swampland.
The sergeant consulted his notes. "You say you spent last night in Toronto. Can you give me a name for the motel?"
David glanced at Jo and shook his head. She waved it off. "Wrong. Last night was Syracuse. Toronto was last week. Brian had to return a car to this friend of his. Apartment, not motel."
He burped and tasted recycled vodka. Damn good thing there wasn't any law against walking under the influence. "No. Car was in Detroit. Toronto was that big blue crew-cab pickup."
The cop was getting pissed. "Look, my notes say that you claim to have rented a blue pickup in Kentucky. Is that the same vehicle?"
Jo blinked and stared at David. "We were in Kentucky?"
David nodded and then shook his head, trying to clear it. "Fort Knox. Brian wanted to see the old tanks and stuff at the Armor Museum." He flopped a hand at the police sergeant. "Brian was in the British army for years. Officer, Gurkha Scouts, SAS, all that macho stuff. Probably could take out one of those Russian tanks with a pocket knife."
The cop's frown deepened. "British Counsel says those records are . . . confused. There seem to have been three or four different 'Captain Brian Albions' at different times, going back to the Second World War. Some embassy people would like a word or two with him after we get through. You sure you don't know where to find him?"
David thought he smelled the smoke of burning bridges. "Look, are we charged with anything? Do we need a lawyer?"
He almost saw thoughts chasing across the sergeant's forehead: "They've asked for a lawyer. They're drunk and incompetent. There are so many contradictions in this statement, it would be laughed out of court. Whole frigging thing stinks."
The cop shuffled papers in their file. "You've got a citation here, 'Possession of a useable amount of marijuana.' Civil fine. That's it."
Hell. Two joints in his guitar case. Three, and they might have tried to stretch it to "Intent to distribute," a felony. Anyway, another hundred bucks shot to hell.
The cop's chair groaned as he leaned back, his face a study in disgust. "Time was, I could toss both of you into cells for the night, let you sober up. Can't do that any more. Bleeding hearts." He made the phrase sound like cussing. "But it's a slow night, and I don't have anything better to do. We all can just sit here and talk until you decide to tell this numb old cop something close to the truth."
His eyes narrowed, and he squinted first at David and then at Jo. "Now let's start in from the top. What kind of car is Albion driving?"
Jo swayed in her chair, face shiny with sweat. "I don't feel good." She lurched forward and vomited across the desk, drenching papers and the sergeant's lap. He jumped up and swore, inventively and at length, while he rescued their file. The reek of puked alcohol filled the room, and David's stomach churned in sympathy.
The cop stood behind the desk and shook his head, jaw clenched. "I come on duty at 3:00 tomorrow. I want your butts in those chairs when I walk through that door. Clean, sober, and ready to talk. And I want a story we can check. Understand?"
David nodded. The sergeant pulled out a small manila envelope and tossed it to David. "Answering machine tape. Get her out of here. Call her family."
"Can we use the apartment?"
"Hell, go ahead. Just get out of my office!"
The air outside was cold and damp and raw, threatening rain or sleet, stinking of four months of winter filth finally surfacing again. It didn't help him any in fighting back the
