“So is a renegade soldier under my watch.” Tyrell paused. “And there’s the matter of the drinking.”
Shame flamed my skin with a hot effervescence.
“I’m sorry,” Tyrell said.
For the second time in minutes I found myself listening to a dial tone.
“Tyrell’s pissed?” Ryan guessed.
“I’m fired,” I snapped.
“He’ll cool down.”
“Andrew Ryan, the voice of wisdom.” I watched black clouds swirl on the surface of my now tepid coffee. “How can you possibly know what Tyrell will do?”
“I know you.”
“Do you? Do you really?” Suddenly, I was collapsing inside. “Months go by, nothing. Then you blow in out of nowhere with your sad story. ‘Poor me, things tanked with Lutetia. I’m all alone. How about a booty call?’”
I knew I was ranting, couldn’t help myself. Finney was dead. Slidell was snubbing me. Tyrell had just fired me. Ryan wasn’t at fault. But he was there in my face so he took the hit.
“And look at you.” I flapped an agitated hand at Ryan. “You’re almost fifty. Who the hell are the Dead Milkmen?”
“Beats me.”
“You’re wearing the T-shirt of a group you don’t even know?” Disdainful.
“I figured it was a charity for the widows and orphans of deceased dairy workers.” Delivered deadpan.
That did it.
I laughed.
“Sorry.” I laid a hand on Ryan’s arm. “You don’t deserve this. Lately, I’m certifiable.”
“But cute,” he said.
“Don’t start, big boy.”
Frustrated, I got up and poured my coffee down the sink. In my condition, caffeine was probably not a good plan.
Minutes later, the phone rang again. I grabbed it.
Slidell’s disposition had improved. Slightly.
“The Jetta is registered to a Mark Harvey Sharp in Onslow County. No police record. We’ve got a call-in down there. Should know something soon.”
Several cells opened sleepy eyes in my subconscious.
What?
No answer from my id.
It was the cemetery all over again.
Ignoring the subliminal stirring, I told Slidell I wanted to be present when he interrogated the driver.
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
Dial tone.
More pacing. Pointless activity. Dishes. Cat litter.
I was sure I wouldn’t hear from Detective Dickhead again. I was wrong. Slidell called back. Background noises suggested he was now in his car.
“We got us a suspect. You won’t believe who was driving that Jetta.”
32
TWENTY MINUTES LATER RYAN AND I WERE EXITING THE ELEVATOR on the second floor at Law Enforcement. Slidell had initially denied my request, finally relented. We could watch, but not participate in the interrogation of the man in custody.
Slidell was at his desk. Ryan expressed sympathy to him for the loss of his partner. Slidell thanked Ryan for traveling to Charlotte to attend the funeral.
“There was never any question. I admired the man. And liked him.”
“They don’t make ’ em like Eddie no more.”
“No, they don’t. Had it been the reverse, Rinaldi would have come to salute at my grave.”
Slidell held up tightly curled fingers. “Brothers in the uniform.”
Ryan high-fived Slidell’s fist with one of his own.
The two spent a few moments recalling the time the three detectives first met.
Then we got down to business.
Slidell phoned to see if the interrogation room was up and running. It was. We trooped down the hall, Slidell in the lead.
Same one-way-mirror window. Same battered table. Same chair once occupied by Kenneth Roseboro, later by Asa Finney.
The chair was now holding the man suspected of killing Finney.
The suspect was around forty with flint gray eyes and short brown hair shaved into whitewalls. Though small, he was fit and muscular. Tattooed on his right forearm were the Marine Corps logo and the words
I was still struggling to wrap my mind around the man’s identity.
James Edward Klapec. Senior.
Jimmy Klapec’s father had been stopped twenty miles south of Charlotte driving the Volkswagen Jetta spotted by Asa Finney’s neighbor.
Klapec’s eyes kept sweeping his surroundings then dropping to his hands. His fingers were clasped, the flesh stretched pale on each of his knuckles.
Leaving Ryan and me in the corridor, Slidell entered the room, footsteps clicking metallic through the wall- mounted speaker.
Klapec’s head jerked up. Wary eyes followed his interrogator across the room.
Tossing a spiral onto the table, Slidell sat.
“This interview is being recorded. For your protection and ours.”
Klapec said nothing.
“I’m sorry about your loss.”
Klapec gave a tight nod of his head.
“You’ve been read your rights.” More statement than question.
Klapec nodded again. Dropped his gaze.
“I want to repeat, you have a right to a lawyer.”
No response.
Slidell cleared his throat. “So. We’re good to talk here?”
“I killed him.”
“You killed who, Mr. Klapec?”
“The satanic sonovabitch who murdered my son.”
“Tell me about that.”
Klapec sat almost a full minute without speaking, face pointed at his hands.
“I’m sure you know about Jimmy.” Halting.
“I’m not judging you or your boy,” Slidell said.
“Others will. The press. The lawyers. They’ll paint Jimmy as a pervert.” It was obvious Klapec was treading carefully, choosing his words. “I didn’t agree with the choices Jimmy was making.” Klapec swallowed. “But he deserved better than I gave him.”
“Tell me what you did.”
Klapec looked at Slidell, quickly away.
“I shot the cocksucker who killed my boy.”
