“How do you know that?”
“Because I work with people,” I replied. “I can tell after a very short period of time what tone I need to take with someone. Wayne may have been afraid of you at first and tried to run, but if you hadn't been so pushy to begin with, I think we could have avoided the confrontation.”
Bill stared at me a long while, then said, “You realize I'm a trained FBI agent, right? I was simply following the protocol I deemed fit to use on a drug dealer.”
“I know exactly who you are. And your training is fine and dandy, Bill. I'm just saying I do believe things would have gone much smoother if you'd have been a little nicer. And I'm asking that you be pleasant to Mrs. Wilson. Frankly, after what I just witnessed, I’m hesitant to introduce you. I don’t want your training and protocol to ruin my friendship with her.”
Turning back toward the window, I hoped he realized I wasn't requesting a behavior change. I demanded it. Mrs. Wilson deserved better.
“I’ll be on my best behavior with her, Patty.”
As I knocked on Mrs. Wilson's door, I glanced over at Bill again. “Please remember to be polite. She's an elderly woman. Show some respect.”
He rolled his eyes as she answered.
“Patty!” she said. “What an unexpected surprise! Who’s this fine-looking fellow?”
“This is Special Agent Bill Hart of the FBI,” I said. “He's looking into Charles' murder.”
“It's lovely to meet you, ma'am,” he said with a grin, taking her slender palm in his as his Texas accent suddenly became more pronounced. The heavier it became, the less intimidating he was, and I wondered why. Perhaps people linked a thick accent with friendliness? “I just need to ask you a few questions and I was hoping it would be a good time for you.”
“Of course. Come in. Always happy to help law enforcement.” Once we were seated in her tidy living room, she offered us tea.
“I'd love some,” Bill said. “Thank you so much.”
My goodness. Wasn't he pouring on the charm, now thicker than maple syrup.
“You told me you hate tea,” I murmured.
“I do, but you said I had to be polite. She offered, so I took her up on it.”
I sighed. Mrs. Wilson brought over a white porcelain tray lined with pink flowers and a matching tea pot and cups. “Sugar and cream?” she asked as she poured.
Bill glanced over at me and I realized he had no idea which combination would make the golden water more palatable.
“Both for me,” I said, giving him a slight nod.
“Same here,” he said.
As Bill settled back into the cushions, I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He sipped the brew and hid a scowl, but then smiled. “It's delicious, Mrs. Wilson. Thank you.”
“What can I do for you two?” she asked.
“Bill is looking into Charles' murder for the police,” I said. “He just wanted to ask you a couple of questions and requested that I accompany him.”
“Oh, of course,” she replied, her gaze firmly on Bill. “Such a shame. What can I tell you about it?”
“I've read your statement, so there's no need to tell me everything again. I just have a few follow-up questions.”
Mrs. Wilson sipped her tea, staring over her cup expectantly.
“I was wondering if you saw Charles' friend, Wayne, around that day.”
“Yes. He was here early in the day... I can't remember what time. Probably before noon, though, if my memory serves me correctly.”
“And did you see him later in the afternoon?”
“I believe so, but I can't be certain. Patty said he stopped by the day after and she spoke to him.”
As I picked up my cup, I tried to hide my surprise of finding an inconsistency in Wayne's story. He'd told Bill he'd never come back that afternoon, only the next day. My gaze slid over to Bill. Had he caught it as well?
The smile never left his lips and he sat forward as if everything Mrs. Wilson said was important and he had become enthralled with listening to her. He gave her the audience she seemed to want.
While working, I'd used similar tactics with chatty customers. A smile and nod even while tuned out did wonders to placate people, and I felt that's exactly what Bill was doing to Mrs. Wilson.
“Do you remember what Wayne was wearing when you saw him the day of the murder?”
She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips as she set down her teacup. “I can't be certain, but maybe jeans and a patterned sweater. That sounds about right.”
Bill tipped back his cup and drank it in one long swallow, then set it down. “Thank you for your time, ma'am. It's been greatly appreciated.”
We stood and the three of us moved toward the door. I now used the crutches as a means of support, but also placed my full weight on my bad foot.
“Thank you again for speaking with me, ma'am,” Bill said. “It's been wonderful meeting you.”
We walked down the hallway in silence to my apartment. Ringo greeted us when I unlocked the door. As Bill shut the panel, I turned to him excitedly. “Did you catch it? The inconsistency?”
He nodded. “I did. Wayne said he wasn't here twice that day, but that sweet old lady says she thinks he was.”
I slowly walked over to the couch without my crutches and sat down. “Why did you ask what he was wearing?”
“Because if I can get another witness in this building who says he saw Wayne here that afternoon wearing that awful sweater, I'm one step closer to nailing him.”
Chapter 12
That evening, I stared at the television but didn't track what Lassie was up to. My mind swirled around Charles' murder, considering all the suspects and trying to figure out who'd killed him.
For some reason, the thought of Wayne being the killer still didn't sit right with me, but I couldn't peg as to why.
