“Nothing new to tell you, I’m afraid.”
“Anything on the weapon?” Kip called.
“Nothing.”
“Charges?”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
Vincent was back at Fairmont. That he wouldn’t speak, that he was at the scene, it made for a simple puzzle. There was no one else in the frame. State cops occupied the back office, Boyd and his men, pulling in locals and making noise. It was winding down already.
Inside the station he found Leah Tallow on the front desk, lights on the phone blinked frantically. “Crazy in here this morning. You hear the news?”
Walk watched her pick up another call and make no comment.
They’d called in Louanne Miller, a decade older than Walk. She sat behind her desk and ate nuts, a neat collection of shells by the telephone, mute to the furor.
“Morning, Walk. Busy in here. Got the butcher in.”
Walk stopped and scratched the stubble on his cheek. “Where?”
“Interview room.”
“What have they got him in for?”
“Think they tell me anything?” Louanne ate another nut, choked a little and washed it down with coffee. “You need to get some sleep, Walk. And maybe a shave.”
He looked around, the appearance of normal. Leah’s sister owned the florist on Main and dropped an arrangement in each week. Blue hydrangea, alstroemeria and eucalyptus. Sometimes he thought the station resembled a set, maybe a daytime TV cop show, they played their parts, background extras, nothing more.
“Where’s Boyd?”
She shrugged. “He said not to talk to the butcher till he gets back.”
He found Milton in the small room at the back of the station that they might’ve used for interviews, had they ever had to take a statement. Milton clutched his chest, massaging like he needed to get his heart firing again. Stripped of his apron, Walk still smelled blood, as if it were matted to every hair that carpeted Milton’s body.
Walk shoved his hands deep into his pockets. He found himself doing that more now, the drugs again, nothing helping.
Milton stood. “I don’t know why they told me to hang around. I have to get on. I came to them, after all.”
“With what?”
Milton looked at his shoes, loosened his collar and fired his cuffs. He’d dressed for the occasion. “Remembered something.”
“And?”
“I like to look out, right. Watch the water, the sky, got my Celestron, computerized now. You should come over one time and we could—”
Walk held up a hand, too tired for it.
“That night, before the shot. I think I heard yelling. Had my window open, I was broiling a little rabbit, you know, leave it overnight, soften the bones.”
“Think you heard?”
Milton looked to the lights above. “I heard yelling. An argument.”
“And this has only come to you now?”
“I could be in shock still. Maybe it’s wearing off.”
Walk stared at him. “You see Darke that night?”
A moment before he shook his head. Maybe a couple of seconds but Walk caught it. There had been mention of Dickie Darke’s name in connection, but that mention had come from Walk himself. Duchess wouldn’t say anything about the man. Walk wondered if she was scared.
“Brandon Rock.” Milton puffed out his chest. “The car … this morning. I get up early, and that guy comes home at all hours. I need my sleep, Walk.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“You know we had another person drop out of the Watch. It’s like they don’t care about the neighborhood anymore.”
“How many you down to now?”
Milton sniffed. “Just me and Etta Constance. But she can’t watch all that much with the one eye. Peripheral.” He waved a hand around for effect.
“I sleep better knowing the two of you are looking out.”
“I document it all. Big suitcase under my bed.”
Walk could only imagine the kind of notes the man kept.
“I was watching a show and the cop took a civilian on a ride along. You ever thought about that, Walk? I could bring a little cotechino … spice up the cabin. And then after we could—”
Walk heard noise outside and turned as Boyd filled the doorway. Broad, buzzcut, soldier to cop.
Walk followed him out.
Boyd led him to his own office and then sat heavily in his chair.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Walk said.
Boyd leaned back and stretched, his shoulders big as he steepled fingers behind his neck. “I just got back from the D.A.’s office. We’re going to charge Vincent King with the murder of Star Radley.”
Walk knew it would come, but hearing it straight from Boyd still rocked him.
“The butcher told us he saw Vincent King get into it with Dickie Darke a few nights prior. Said it looked like Vincent was warning him off. Jealous. Right outside the Radley house.”
“And what does Darke say about this?”
“Corroborates. He came in with his lawyer. Big fucker, right. Sounds like he was seeing the victim, though he says they were just friends.”
“Milton, the butcher. He’s called a lot over the years, likes to watch the town, you know. He gets … excited. He sees things that maybe aren’t there.”
Boyd licked his teeth and pursed his lips. He was always moving, like holding still would see his middle fill out and his hairline race back. Strong smell of cologne. Walk eyed the window and wanted to pop it open.
“We’ve got Vincent at the scene, prints. His DNA on her. She had three broken ribs, his left hand was swollen. He won’t deny it, won’t say anything. It’s easy, Walker.”
“No residue,” Walk said. “The gun. No residue and no gun.”
Boyd rubbed his chin. “You said the faucet was running. He washed his hands. The gun. We’ve had people out, everywhere, but we’ll find it. He kills her, loses the gun, returns and calls it in.”
“Doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ve had the ballistics report back. The bullet they pulled was .357 Magnum, hell of a kick. We ran the address and it turns out Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in the mid-seventies.”
Walk watched the man, not liking where he was going. Walk
