While we waited for Zanadakis, I watched Roland through the mirror with the state trooper who’d brought him in. Michaud extended his thickly muscled legs under the table. Every once in a while, he smiled at his bearded reflection, knowing we were hiding behind it.
“Where did you find him?” I asked the trooper.
“At his trailer. He keeps it on a lot on Falls Pond in Dickey. We’ve been over there more than once. He’s a fan of fireworks at all hours of the night. His neighbors love him to death.”
I should have realized he had a local residence since he damn well wasn’t living in the rubble of his former home. “He came willingly, then?”
“Didn’t even argue.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Why?”
“What about a lawyer? Did he ask for one?”
“No.”
“Shit,” I said again.
Roland had an alibi. And the odds were that it was solid.
Zanadakis arrived, soaked to the skin. He removed his dripping trench coat and handed it to a trooper to hang somewhere to dry. Then he excused himself to use the bathroom to towel off. He returned five minutes later looking no less waterlogged, but having washed off the bug spray.
MacLoon brought him a mug of Tim Horton’s finest.
“Before you get started,” I said, “you need to know that Roland Michaud was positively the man I saw at Angie’s house two days ago.”
“Did they argue?”
“No.”
He ran a hand through his still-damp hair and went into the interrogation room.
Zanadakis introduced himself and took his seat. There were a few minutes of chitchat. We listened through the speaker that piped the conversation into the sweltering room.
“Do you know why we asked you to come in?” the detective asked.
“I’ll take a wild guess. It has something to do with a dead girl at the Valley View?”
His French accent seemed more pronounced than I’d remembered. Maybe it was being back in the Valley.
“Evangeline Bouchard was your girlfriend, I understand.”
“Your word, not mine. We drank and smoked together, and we had sex.”
“You don’t seem broken up over her death.”
“I’m grieving on the inside.”
“This is going to go faster if you don’t act cute.”
Roland winked at the mirror. “Gee, Detective, I think you’re cute, too.”
The door to our little room opened, and it was Stan Kellam. He said nothing as he squeezed in. We had already been standing shoulder to shoulder. Now we were packed together as if testing the approved load limit of an elevator.
Zanadakis’s voice came over the speaker: “For the record, I want to state that you have waived your rights to have an attorney present. Is that correct?”
“Oui.”
“When was the last time you saw Angie Bouchard?”
“Yesterday in Presque Isle. We had plans to go to Edmundston. Guy I know just opened a bar there. Le Cyclope. Angie told me she couldn’t come. She wanted to check on the motel. She thought someone might buy it someday. What a joke that was!”
“And you didn’t offer to go with her?”
“No.”
“And you got back home when?”
“Two hours ago. More or less.”
“Where did you stay when you were in Edmundston?”
“I didn’t get her name.”
“That might be a problem for you.”
“Fuck no, it won’t.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I was in Canada. Get it? I went through customs two nights ago in Edmundston. And I came back through Fort Kent today. Talk to the agents. Check their video. I’m not your killer, Detective.”
“Thank you for clearing that up.”
“My pleasure.”
Roland removed his jacket to reveal that his black T-shirt was sleeveless. I could see his bare arms all the way to the shoulders. Once again, I saw the raised scar that reminded me of a cattle brand.
“How does it feel being back in this room?” Zanadakis asked.
“This is actually my first time here. If you’re referring to the shit that went down when my old man was murdered, those interviews took place in Houlton. You weren’t there then, or I would have remembered you, as handsome as you are.”
“You’re quite the charmer, Roland.”
“I have a gift.”
“Did Angie mention being scared of anyone or anything when you last saw her?”
“There was a creep who showed up at her place. Stupid-looking son of a bitch. He claimed to be a game warden, but he wasn’t dressed like one. I think he might have been an impostor. You should check on him.”
“We’ll do that. Anyone else bothering her?”
“Nope.”
“The Valley View has been closed for two years and is in rough shape. What made Angie decide she needed to cancel her plans in Edmundston and rush back there?”
“She didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“We had an agreement. She didn’t butt into my life, and I didn’t butt into hers.”
I pressed a button on the intercom so that I could be heard in the interrogation room. “Ask him about the brand on his arm.”
Zanadakis glared into the mirror with obvious disapproval.
“This thing,” Roland said, fingering the circle of raised scar tissue below the shoulder bone. “I got this when I was a kid. It was kind of an initiation ritual. Everyone had to get one if you wanted to be in the club.”
I pushed the button again. “What club was that?”
He had recognized my voice. “The Fuck You Club.”
“Calm down, Mr. Michaud,” said the detective.
When Roland rose to his feet, it was like a bear rearing up on his hind legs. In spite of himself, Zanadakis gave a start and pushed himself from the table.
“That’s him, isn’t it? The warden investigator?”
“Never mind that.”
“I want to leave now,” the big man said. “Is that OK, or do you need permission from the man in the mirror?”
36
Zanadakis had no grounds to hold Roland Michaud, not even as a material witness. The border had hardened in the past decade with the arrival of surveillance drones and undetectable sensors. On occasion, people still managed to slip back and forth over “the slash”—the cleared strip in the woods between the United States and Canada—but most of them triggered an alarm in the process that brought hard-assed Border Patrol agents swarming.
In other words, it was just about impossible
