Reilly swept his hand across the table, picked up whatever papers he could in the process, stood, and waved them in Lynch’s face.
“Read these statements, Lynch! They all say that Jeremy went out to take a piss sometime after 10:00! Ask Warner where I was at 10:00! You think she’d let me beat up a kid half my size for no reason!?”
Lynch had no answer. Somehow the thought of first approaching Reilly’s partner never occurred to him. Reilly saw the expression of defeat on Lynch’s face and backed off.
“Okay, Lynch. You’re just doing your job. I get that. I’d do the same, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. You’ve got the real case here. Go find who did Ryan and let me find who killed the kid. Want some coffee?”
“No, I’m good.”
Reilly started to leave.
“If for some reason you think any of these statements will help your case, help yourself. Make copies. Get the PDFs from my case directory. I couldn’t care less.”
The door slammed. Lynch got what he wanted. Reilly’s answers were solid…locked and loaded before Lynch even entered the room.
4. On a Bench
So far, three people who knew Philip, or at least knew who he was, walked by him without saying anything. He was delighted to find that the art of camouflage had as much to do with setting as it did disguise. He didn’t need a mask, or a fake mustache, or even a hat. All he needed was a park bench and a newspaper. Anyone who knew Philip, or had even encountered Philip, would never picture him on a bench at 9:30 in the morning reading a newspaper. The only person who approached him was a complete stranger.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Philip looked up smiling and answered the woman.
“Yes, officer. What can I do for you?”
She smiled back and tapped her badge for clarification.
“School security.”
“Ah, okay. Am I doing something wrong?”
“No. Just giving you some friendly advice.”
Philip put the newspaper down and folded his arms comfortably.
“And what would that be?”
“Well, not to overstate the obvious, but you’re in a school zone, and folks have a tendency to get antsy in school zones. You were sitting on that bench over there for about fifteen minutes, then you moved to that bench for ten more, and now you’ve been here for maybe a half an hour.”
“Oh, I’m just reading my paper. The sun keeps getting in my eyes, so…”
“True or not, all it takes is one teacher looking out a window and getting the wrong idea.”
“Wow! Thank you. That thought never crossed my mind, but it makes perfect sense.”
“So, it’s up to you, but I suggest you finish your paper on the other side of the park.”
“I’m almost done. I have to get to work soon anyway.”
“Have a nice day (pervert).”
Philip found it amusing that she noticed how many times he switched benches but failed to notice that he wasn’t even looking at his newspaper. Had she seen him eyeballing the side of the building, he very well could have been explaining himself to someone else.
Regardless, it was a Monday morning. All he was doing was sitting on a bench, and he got noticed. The fine representative from Cardinal Romero Catholic High School Security was right. School zones are rank with paranoia. He could only imagine what it was going to be like on Sunday. He gathered himself and pretended to walk toward his car.
So, Sunday Mass is out of the question. Whatever, it was worth a look. On to plan C.
5. The Avery Art Gallery
Regarding the arts, what little Potterford had to offer was concentrated into the 200 block of Main Street. The Artisan Community Theater, The Thirsty Poet’s Coffee Shop, and the Avery Art Gallery formed a pretentious triangle that stretched between traffic lights.
During Potterford’s industrial hay day, the gallery was a four-story residential town house. Avery’s renovations (which barely brought the building up to code) put the main show room on the ground floor. On Saturday evenings, it was awash with mood lighting, incense, piped jazz, and scores of tragic hipsters. During the week, it was an art supply store.
Lynch and Gomez entered.
Apart from the few spinning displays, serigraphs of the proprietor’s creations, black curtains (for aesthetics), and a single inconveniently placed register counter, the place was empty.
“Wanna rob the place, acho?”
“Good God, no.”
Lynch hollered “hello” a couple of times until the sound of a body hitting the floor came from behind one of the curtains. A dazed and unshaved fellow in his mid-twenties emerged nursing his left shoulder. He’d been napping precariously on a large roll of canvas. The dismount needed work.
“Good…”
He looked at his watch.
“…morning gentlemen. Welcome to the Avery Gallery. I’m Earl. What can I do for you?”
“Is Mr. Avery done with his class yet?”
“I…uh…he has a class?”
“It’s supposed to be done at 11:30. Does he usually end on time?”
The line of questioning was too much for Earl. In place of a coherent answer, he pointed at a sign that read:
CLASSROOMS DOWNSTAIRS
WATCH YOUR STEP.
Lynch saw no value in breaking up the class and freaking out the students.
“That’s okay, Earl, we’ll wait. Mind if we look around?”
“Help yourself.”
The clerk surreptitiously found his way back to his canvas while the detectives browsed. Lynch spoke.
“He smells lovely.”
“Malaysian cologne and weed, if I’m not mistaken.”
At 11:35, the class filed up from the basement. Bringing up the rear was Wallace Avery. He looked different from his Philly Neighbor photo. He’d grown out his hair and had different glasses, but it was easily the same guy.
He instantly pegged Lynch and Gomez as detectives. Only two types of people showed up at the gallery in pairs wearing neckties, and these two were too unkempt to be Jehovah’s Witnesses. He smiled and waited for his class to exit before he approached.
“Are you here for Earl?”
Lynch chuckled and flashed his shield, as did his partner.
“No, Mr. Avery, but you might want to
