“Sit in that chair over there. You will find a panic button under the edge of the table. It’s big enough you can operate it with your knee if need be. It rings an alarm out here that can’t be heard in there and will bring me pronto. You find it?”
Delorme felt under the table. “Got it.”
“All right, then.”
He closed the door and locked it. Delorme tried to pull her chair closer to the table, but it was bolted to the floor. She wrote several single-word reminders on a sheet of notepaper, the soft lead smearing her attempts at neat strokes and loops. The chair was too far from the table, and in no time at all her neck started to hurt.
The clack of the lock made her jump. The door opened and the guard steered Fritz Reicher inside. The prisoner was manacled at wrists and ankles, the two restraints connected by a short chain that kept his wrists low and before him in a monkish attitude. He was thirty years old, six-three, with enormous hands. The manacles did little to diminish the impression of physical power.
“Fritz, you’re gonna behave yourself, right?” the guard said.
“Yes, of course.” The German accent was still strong, but Reicher had a pleasant voice, melodious and surprisingly soft for a man of his size.
“You know what happens if you don’t, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Yes, of course. Yes, of course. You got a way with words, Fritz.” The guard had him lean against the wall. He knelt and unlocked the ankle manacles. He stood again and pulled the connecting chain through, turned the prisoner around, and unlocked the wrist restraints.
Delorme had expected the manacles to stay on. She thought about saying something.
“Sit.”
Reicher sat and folded his hands in his lap.
“You stay seated throughout, understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t move out of that chair until I come get you, understand?”
“Yes, of course.”
“All right, then.” The guard put his key in the door and looked back at Delorme. “I’ll be right out here.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She wondered again if she should ask about the restraints, but the guard looked as if he knew what he was doing.
He went out and closed the door behind him. Bolts slid home. Then nothing. No sound of him walking away. No sound of anything at all from the corridor. From somewhere beyond the prison walls, a truck horn honked long and loud. Men’s voices echoed along distant corridors, involved in a game or a fight.
Reicher remained still, a mild expression on his face. Even sitting down, he looked extremely strong. Years ago, at the academy, Delorme’s instructor in hand-to-hand combat had stressed that physical power was not just a matter of muscle. “Big muscles are one thing, but they’re not everything. You can get these big-boned guys, tall, wide in the shoulders, even if they’re quite skinny-even if they never work out-with formidable advantages of reach, obviously, but also incredible grip, not to mention the kind of leverage that can snap a major bone like that.” The snap of his fingers had reverberated around the gym.
Delorme introduced herself and told Reicher the reason for her visit. Loose ends on the Choquette case. If he was helpful, she would ask that his co-operation be noted in his file.
He showed no sign that he remembered her. That was not surprising, as her own involvement in the Choquette case had been peripheral, her testimony confined to minor matters.
She expected a demand for a more exciting quid pro quo-cigarettes, more privileges, the usual barter. A note in the file was pretty cheap.
“It’s a mistake,” Reicher said. He turned his head and looked at the door.
“What’s a mistake?”
He turned his head back to look at her. “He should not have removed the manacles. This is not the way.”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“It’s an error because of last week. My lawyer was here. For lawyers they remove restraints. It’s proper protocol. This is not. I worked in security. This is bad security.”
“Do you get the news in here, Fritz?”
“Ha ha. Yes, of course.”
“Then you know about Marjorie Flint? The senator’s wife?”
“Yes, of course. Poor woman, freezing to death like that.”
“Do you know anything about her-or about the senator-besides what you may have read in the news?”
“No, I’m afraid, nothing.”
“Are you sure? Her name never came up anywhere? Did you see her picture on the news?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“No, I don’t know her. Freezing to death like that, it’s no joke.”
“Would you actually tell me if you did know her?”
“Ha ha. Yes, of course.”
“Fritz, are you on a lot of medication?”
“Do you think I am?”
“You repeat yourself a lot. You say ‘Yes, of course’ a lot. And you laugh at weird times.”
“I see. Possibly I am being medicated without my knowledge.” He pronounced it nollich. “They could give me things, I wouldn’t know. I have to eat what they give me. Ha ha, you think I’m on medication. Interesting. Did someone inform you of this?”
“No. What about Laura Lacroix-does that name ring a bell?”
“Who?”
“Laura Lacroix.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know this name.”
“You’re sure?”
Reicher seemed to throw off his lethargy. He sat up and leaned on the table, the change in posture doubling his size.
“Do you half a dog, Detective? Did I already ask you this?”
“I don’t.”
“Damn. It’s too bad.”
“Laura Lacroix was Leonard Priest’s girlfriend. Briefly.”
“Ha ha. Leonard.” Lennet. “Yes, of course. You know I can tell you nothing about Leonard. Some people, yes. Ha ha. Not Leonard.”
“He claims she came to Club Risque. I thought perhaps you might remember her.”
Delorme pulled the photo from the file. Reicher reached for it but she pulled it back.
“Ha ha. I’m just trying to see.”
“You can see.” She tilted it to counter the glare.
“Pretty.”
“Do you recognize her?”
“Not really. But she is Leonard’s type. They all look the same, Leonard’s girlfriends. The ones he really likes. She looks like you. Ha ha.”
Garth Romney’s position was beginning to make more sense. Whatever else Fritz Reicher might be, he was not a great witness, drifting in and out like a faint signal. Then there was his size, his accent, his air of aggressive indifference. Not to mention the stupid laugh. You might not automatically brand him as a murderer, but it was easy to imagine him standing by while someone else did the murdering. “Yes, of course,” he would say. “Kill the lady, yes, of course.”
Delorme started to ask him about the night of the murder, but Reicher’s mind was elsewhere. “You don’t half a dog, okay, it’s fine. But perhaps you are knowing some veterinarian? Or the-what do you call it-the animal authorities. The shelter people? I want to walk dogs. It’s my plan. For when I’m getting out. Leonard says he will
