Martin Misunderstood

the brim with a man who knew what he was doing. It had been a horrible, stupid mistake to think that this man would be Bruce (and they had both agreed never to tell Jill; it would've broken her heart).

Bruce dropped his hand. 'I dunno, An, this guy's just creepy. If he didn't do this, he did something.'

She nodded a third time, glad that the focus was back on Martin Reed. The pasty man knew his way around the law. He had refused to talk to them without a lawyer present and insisted that he was not signing any statements unless they were written in his own hand. What kind of game was he playing?

Bruce said, 'You should probably take this. I got no traction with him in the car.'

Possibly because Bruce had noted the fat around Martin's wrists as he'd tightened the handcuffs looked like dough squeezing out of the donut maker at Krispy Kreme.

An chewed her cuticles. She thought about Sandra Burke, the way her broken body had been discarded in a drainage ditch. The car had nearly pulverized the woman. Treadmarks crushed into her brain, squirting gray matter on to the road.

The intercom buzzed behind them. Bruce pressed the button, asking, 'Yeah?'

'Reed's lawyer is here.'

'Be right there.' Bruce opened the door to leave, but An stopped him.

'Give me a couple of minutes with him,' she said, indicating Martin with a tilt of her head.

'Sure.'

'Did you get the crime-scene photos back yet?'

'Should be here any minute.'

'Bring them in with the lawyer. I'm going to see if I can get something out of him.'

Bruce nodded and left, letting the door swing back. One of the downsides of being a pretend lesbian was that men didn't open doors for her anymore.

An pulled back her hair into a loose pony tail as she walked toward the interrogation room. There was a small sliver of glass in the door, and she saw Martin still sitting at the table, still clenching his fists. When she entered the room, he stood up, as if they were in a Jane Austen movie. She expected him to say something like, 'Forsooth', but he just stood there, hands clenched, staring at her with his dark green eyes.

'Please sit down,' she told him, taking the chair opposite. 'Your lawyer is on his way.'

'Does he have any experience?'

An was surprised by the question. 'I don't know,' she admitted.

'Because a lot of times people get courtappointed lawyers who aren't experienced,' Martin told her. 'I've read about it – cases where innocent people get lazy lawyers who are blind, literally blind, as in they can't see. Some of them are even alcoholics or have narcolepsy!'

'Is that so?'

'It's very troubling. There have been many books written about this very thing.'

An had never been a fan of public defenders, but she was a cop, so that was hardly an earthshattering revelation. 'My experience with public defenders is that you get what you pay for.'

'Just as I suspected. I appreciate your honesty.'

'Is there anything you want to say to me, Mr Reed?'

'Not until my lawyer gets here. I hope you don't think I am being rude, but this is a very serious situation. Do you realize I've never even gotten a speeding ticket?' He shook his head. 'Of course you do. You'll have already pulled my record. Are you searching my house? Is that why this is taking so long? You're trying to get a search warrant?'

'What do you think we'll find in your house?'

He mumbled his answer, but she heard him clearly enough: 'A very angry sixty-three-yearold woman.'

An said, 'Your mother seems to think you're an alcoholic.'

His lips sputtered, 'She wishes!'

An looked down at his hands, which were clasped together on the table. Bruce had left on the handcuffs, and An had to admit he was right about the Krispy Kreme machine. 'Give me your hands,' she said, taking out her keys. She tried not to touch him as she took off the cuffs, but there was no way to get around it. His skin was clammy enough to make her flesh crawl.

'Thank you,' he said, rubbing his wrists to get the blood back into them. 'Albada – is that German?'

'Dutch.'

He affected a very bad accent. 'Pardonnemoi.'

'That's French.'

'Oui.'

'French again.'

He blinked several times.

An sighed. 'Do you want to tell me where you were last night?'

'I told you that I took my mother to get her trowel.'

'Are you aware that your mother has a restraining order filed against her by the Peony Club of Lawrenceville?'

His throat moved as he swallowed. 'It was just a misunderstanding.'

'And what about the Ladies' Hospital Auxiliary?'

His wet lips parted in shock. 'They filed a complaint, too?'

'Did your mother not tell you that?'

He shook his head, obviously agitated.

'They seem to think she's a violent person.'

'She's not violent. She's just… intimidating.'

An intimidating mother. That was interesting. 'Has she ever hit you?'

'She threw her shoe at me once, but I think that was more because I was listening to the TV with my headphones on. You know, the wireless kind?' An nodded. 'They were interfering with her hearing aid somehow.'

'So, she threw her shoe at you?'

'Only to get my attention.' He spoke as if this was completely logical. 'What does my mother have to do with any of this?'

'I'm a detective, Mr Reed. I put together clues. What I see in front of me is a man who comes from a violent family. I see someone who drives a car with blood on it – blood that belongs to a dead woman.

'Well, okay, that – I'll admit – does not look good.'

'No, it doesn't.'

'I suppose I fit the profile, don't I?' He started nodding, agreeing with himself. 'A loner who lives with his mother. Over-educated, underemployed.'

Well, he'd lost her on those last two.

'I hope you don't think I am a disorganized killer. I am a very tidy man. Ask my colleague, Unique Jones. She's often commented on my retentiveness.'

An would have liked nothing more than to talk to Unique Jones. The woman had a warrant out on her for shoplifting. The home address she had given Southern Toilet Supply was a vacant lot. 'Are you a killer, Mr Reed?'

'No, of course not!' He seemed offended again. 'I told you what happened to my car this morning, how I cut my hands. I am the victim here. Someone is setting me up.'

'Why would someone set you up?'

'Exactly!' he retorted, driving his index finger into the table as if she had made his point for him.

'Where were you last night, Mr Reed?'

He stared at his hands. The red marks from the cuffs were still visible. She saw a strange-looking purple ridge down the side of his thumb. She had noticed it during booking, and he'd mumbled something about an industrial accident.

Martin asked, 'Is 'Anther' Dutch, too?'

'It's the part of a flower where pollen is produced.' She sat back, feeling overwhelmingly tired. 'My father was a botanist. He was hoping for a boy.'

Martin blinked, not understanding.