“Could he have been his stepdad?” Rosa asked. “Perhaps the two men looked alike.”
“They both go by the name Boyd. Sanchez would’ve found out by now if they weren’t related.”
After entering the unlit building that housed the tilt-a-whirl, Miguel and Rosa paused, their eyes adjusting to the darkness that was in juxtaposition with the flashing neon lights. The carnie Rosa assumed was Mr. McCooey had just loaded a new batch of riders. Several seashell-shaped cars spun in circles on their tracks, all the while weaving around one another in a way that evoked fear, or at the very least, adrenaline, in Rosa’s veins, especially as they gained speed. However, she thought with a slight smile, a trip on a carnival ride wasn’t much different from driving through London with her mother at the wheel. Rosa’s experience with Gloria’s driving wasn’t much better.
Mr. McCooey’s eyes darted in several directions when he saw them approach the platform.
“Police?” he said.
Rosa clucked her tongue. Some people had a sixth sense when it came to the law.
“It’s okay, Mr. McCooey,” Miguel said, “I’m Detective Belmonte from the Santa Bonita Police Department, and this is WPC Reed from the London Metropolitan Police.”
Mr. McCooey’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on that we need international police involved?”
“I’m simply consulting,” Rosa said smoothly, then asked, “Did you hear anything about what happened to Victor Boyd last night?”
Mr. McCooey let out a low whistle, and for the first time, Rosa noticed the large gap between his teeth. With hair greased and combed into a sloppy fringe—the fashionable duckbill—he crossed large biceps across his chest, his T-shirt untucking from one side of his work jeans, which tapered to narrow cuffs at his ankles.
“Yeah, everyone’s talking about it,” Mr. McCooey said. “Someone knocked him off?”
“Who’s everyone?” Miguel asked.
“All the carnies. We talk. Anything happens ’round here, we all know about it.”
“How well did you know Victor Boyd?” Rosa asked.
“As much as I know anyone at this place. He did his job; I did mine. A bunch of us went for a beer after closing sometimes, but can’t say I ever had a conversation with the guy.”
“So, you two were on friendly terms?” Miguel confirmed.
Another gap-toothed whistle. “I guess. Same as anyone.”
“Same as Jimmy Thompson or Skip Stevens?” Those were the only other carnies Rosa knew by name.
“Ha!” Mr. McCooey sneered. “Skip, sure, but that little twerp Jimmy? Nope, he ain’t like the rest of us.”
Rosa shared a look with Miguel. More than a little animosity there, aimed at someone other than their victim.
“Mr. Thompson and Victor Boyd were friends, though, right?”
Now Mr. McCooey’s laugh came with raised eyebrows. “Friends? No way. Victor hated that runt. Poked fun at him all the time.” Mr. McCooey smacked a palm with his fist. “Said he’d give him a knuckle sandwich."
Rosa grimaced. That sounded exactly like the Victor Boyd she’d known at the end of her schooling in Santa Bonita. Before they could ask further questions, Mr. McCooey stopped the ride and let on a new set of riders. As he did so, Miguel and Rosa conversed in hushed tones.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have released Jimmy Thompson quite so fast,” Rosa said.
Miguel gave his head a quick shake. “We had nothing to keep him on, but I’d say we certainly need to speak to him again.”
“For a third time,” Rosa pointed out. If anyone seemed guilty, it was Jimmy Thompson. He’d admitted to being on Victor’s control platform and rigging the bucket yesterday. Who was to say he hadn’t removed the rubber sheath and moved a wire simultaneously?
Gary McCooey returned.
Without any preamble, Miguel asked, “Any other carnies that Mr. Boyd didn’t like? Or who didn’t like him?”
“Nah,” Mr. McCooey said. “We all joked. All got along. It’s Jimmy Thompson that never fit in. I’m surprised he’s not the dead one.”
Miguel glanced at Rosa, but she had another question at the ready. “There were three ladies who came through your ride around the time of the incident.”
Gary chuckled, relaxing as though he, too, knew this interview was nearly over. “Lotsa ladies were on my ride yesterday,” he said. “You want me to remember three of ’em?”
Yes, Rosa did want that. Undeterred, she described the dresses her new friends had been wearing. After mentioning Marjorie’s long red ponytail and striking green A-line dress covered with black polka-dots, his eyes noticeably brightened.
He snapped his fingers. “Her, I remember. The redhead! She was flirting with me!”
Rosa could imagine the wild-hearted Marjorie flirting with this carnie but not with any serious intention. “And she was with some other ladies?”
“Yeah, yeah. I think there were two of ’em. Talked to me the whole time they wove back and forth in that line,” he said, pointing. Rosa looked to the roped area that guided riders through the building. It would have taken the ladies a good hour to get through the line last night, which well accounted for their whereabouts during the time of Victor’s death.
“And the lineup was full yesterday afternoon?” Rosa confirmed, motioning to the queue.
“Sure was. Least three times as many as this.”
Rosa looked to Miguel, and in silent agreement, they nodded and turned back to Mr. McCooey. Thanking him in unison, they made their way out through the exit.
They squinted as the bright light of day greeted them, and Rosa cupped a hand over her eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun.
“Looks like you can cross your friends off our list,” Miguel said. “Well, except for Gloria, but I’m about to head to the Lobster Bar to confirm her alibi.”
Rosa was a little surprised Miguel hadn’t already done so, but on the other hand, his delay spoke to its lack of priority and that Gloria wasn’t
