Stones and Spark (26 page)

Reaching over to my right, I pick up the telephone receiver and wait for him to do the same. Six inches of Plexiglass separate us.

That, and a whole 'nother world.

"Please?" I ask, when he doesn't pick up the phone on his side.

His brown eyes are as shiny as glazed pottery, baked at two thousand degrees.

"I really need to talk to you," I tell him.

He snatches the receiver. It looks like a toy in his enormous hand.

"Thank you," I say.

His mouth tightens.

"Is it bad in here?"

"What do you think," he growls.

"I think we need to talk. About Drew."

"Yeah. Right. Guilty 'til proven innocent. That's how it works."

"No, that's not how it works. But I want to know about the restraining order."

His jaw knots. "What about it."

"We weren't supposed to be at your restaurant."

He cuts his eyes to the left, taking in the armed guard standing beside a locked steel door then
returning to me. "I need to explain myself, that it?"

"She's my best friend. If this situation was reversed, how would you feel?"

"Same as now, innocent."

"Okay. Where were you Friday afternoon?"

"I was cooking you onion rings."

I take the jab with a nod. "Before that. Like, where were you around three o'clock?"

"I was checking on some land."

"Real estate?"

His scowl is frightening. "Real estate? I say anything about real estate?"

"You said land."

"Yeah, turf." He almost spits the word at me. "I went to check on turf."

"What turf?"

"Where I saw you—"

"The baseball field?"

"You seen me at some other field? I don't think so."

My fingers go numb. I can't feel the phone.

He narrows his eyes. "Why you lookin’ at me like that?"

Because I can't breathe, because that rope tied around my ribs is getting so tight it's cutting off all my air, because everything else swims into focus. The phone, I can smell the stink of it, like dirty, greasy coins. The lights shimmering with fluorescence. The guard shifting his weight, his shoes squeaking.

"Hey," Titus says. "You got something to say to me?"

I swallow a gulp of air. "You were at that baseball field, on Friday."

"What I said."

"What time were you there?"

"I don't know—"

"What time!"

He glares at me. "Why you want to know?"

"Tell me. Now."

He takes a long moment before responding. "Around three."

"Are you sure?"

"Are you deaf?" he asks.

"How long did you stay at the field, after three o'clock, on Friday afternoon?”

"I get it." He leans back, his lips curled with disgust. "I get it now. The police sent you in here. Need another statement, that it?"

"No. It's me. And I want the truth. Who was there?"

"Where?"

"At the baseball field."

"Nobody."

"You didn't see Drew?"

He stares at me, hard. "I know you ain't deaf."

"Why—why did you go to that field on Friday?"

"Why's it matter so much?"

Because the hypothesis that Officer Lande proposed just might be right. But I'm not ready to spring that, yet.

"I've seen that sign, on your restaurant. With the hours. You close at two."

"So."

"So on Fridays you open for dinner. When? Four-thirty?"

He comes forward, inches from the Plexiglass barrier, the phone gripped so tightly his knuckles look white. "I went to that field 'cause it was gonna rain. You hear me now? Rain. It was gonna rain on Saturday. But that field for rich kids, they say it can take water, a lot of water, how it's kept up and all. So I went there to check the turf. You got it now? You got every last word for the cops?"

His voice is cold as stone.

"You went," I take another breath, "because you're the umpire."

"Yeah, the umpire." In that same cold voice he explains the umpire is responsible for calling the game due to rain. But if the umpire thinks the turf is okay, the players are safe, he can keep the game on. He planned to do that, but Saturday morning even the rich-kid field was puddled and muddy.

I remember that morning, riding my bike through that heavy rain, how the maple leaves washed from the trees, how the water dripped on the leaves at Teddy's house, how the gray gloom blanketed the lab while we examined the soil from Drew's bike tire.

It rained.

"And what about your niece?" I ask.

"Oh, man." He shakes his head, leans back in the chair. "Okay. What about my niece?"

"The restraining order. I know all about it."

"You don't know nothin’."

"I know Drew and I shouldn't have been eating in your restaurant."

"And what—I asked you to come?"

"Free shakes."

"Believe me," he says, "I regret that."

He stands up suddenly.

The guard at the door startles, steps forward, hands on his weapon belt. He looks at me, searching for signals, like I can tell him what threat the big guy poses.

But when I look back at Titus, he's replacing the phone in the carrier so gently, so softly I barely hear the line click dead.

The hallway that Officer Lande leads me down, away from the visitor’s room, is scrubbed like a hospital. But nothing can get rid of the smell. It's a sour-and-salty odor, like panic brewed with fear.

At the end of the hall, she opens an unmarked door. The dwarf detective is inside, waiting. Aside from him and his red nose, the room's as spare as anything I've ever seen. Concrete floor. Two plastic chairs. One steel table, dented. There's also a drain in the floor, like they hose down the room to clean it.

"So, what'd he say?" he asks, before I even sit down in one of the plastic chairs.

"Not much."

Officer Lande sits across from me at the table. The detective leans against the wall. Right next to him is a four-foot mirror that any functioning idiot knows is two-way with people on the other side watching. And listening.

"Think he's innocent, don't you?" he says.

"I never said that."

"But you don't think he's guilty."

"I don't think I know. For sure. Do you?"

"No, but I'm not naive."

What's with this word? Why is everyone saying it? I grit my teeth. "I'm not naive."

The detective laughs but when it turns into a cough, he yanks out that disgusting handkerchief.

"Do you even know the definition of naive?" I demand.
Officer Lande reaches across the table, touching my arm. I yank it away. "Do you?"

He wipes his mouth. "Course I do, sweetheart."

"Naive means simple. If I'm so simple, how come I'm the only person in this room who seems to care that there's a difference between circumstantial evidence and forensic proof?" My voice reminds me of the tone my father takes when he’s schooling courtroom lawyers in legal procedures, people who
should
know what to do but for some reason refuse to do it.

His beady little eyes shift to Officer Lande. And her eyebrows are up, like she's stunned
.

"Did you hear me?" I ask.

"Sure," he says, taking his time wiping his bulbous nose. "Watch a ton of TV, do you?"

We can't watch TV at my house because my mom's too paranoid for anything halfway current. The news? No way. That's why they watch black-and-white movies she's seen ten times. There are no surprises. I glare at him
.
"I never watch TV."

"Well, sweetheart," he says, "there's a big difference between circumstantial and forensic, but you're forgetting some other things. There's experience. Law enforcement instincts. Knowledge that comes from doing this job for years and years. And every one of those things says sexual predators never wake up suddenly and decide to quit their filthy habit. They get worse. They always get worse." His little eyes are on me. "He ever make a move on you?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Just your little friend."

"My little—?” I stare at him. "You mean, Drew?"

"Yeah."

I glance at Officer Lande but she's inspecting the sleeve of her blue uniform. I wait for her to look up. But she doesn't. "What are you implying?"

"Sweetheart, we know all about the two of you."

"Who?"

"You and your little friend. Keep to yourselves. Think you're smarter than everyone else. Very anti-social."

"We're not anti-social."

"How many times you seen this Williams character outside his greasy spoon?"

"Once."

He glances at Officer Lande, an expression of I-told-you-so.

"When was that, sweetheart?"

"Five minutes ago."

"Don't play games with me."

"I saw him this afternoon. Or yesterday. Whatever time it is now."

"Where?"

"At the baseball field."

Officer Lande looks up. Their eyes meet.

"He told you he was there, right?" I ask.

There's a long pause.

"We picked him up at the field," she says. "But when were you there?"

"It was the second time, when he was there as the umpire . . . "

My voice trails off because their glances are snapping back and forth and something invisible swirls in the air, dangerous and dark as the stench. My inner attorney leaps to her feet, reminding me the Fifth Amendment was created for really good reasons.

"Raleigh." Officer Lande leans into the table. "Did you and Drew play around that baseball field?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Sweetheart,” he says, “don't protect that guy. Or your buddy. You'll only get in more trouble."

My inner attorney demands a real attorney.

Officer Lande touches my arm again. "Raleigh. You want us to find Drew. Don't you?"

I nod.

"Tell us everything you know."

I lower my head. My inner attorney pleads due process, right to avoid self-incrimination, but when I look up, Officer Lande's hard face and soft eyes make me believe she wants the truth too.

"There's clay," I mumble.

"Clay—" The detective comes forward. "I knew it. Whole game is about guys. So who's Clay?"

What a moron.

I turn to Officer Lande, expecting her to get this, but she doesn't look like she thinks the dwarf is the stupidest guy on the planet. The look on her face says next she's going to tell me is it's fine for him to call me Sweetheart.

"Clay," I say slowly, "is soil. Dirt? You know, on the ground."

"Okay." She nods. "What about it?"

"There's clay in Drew's shoe that matches the clay at that baseball field. It's really specific, not just any old clay."

"You mean, in the shoe you found at the quarry?" she asks.

"Right."

"The shoe you gave to me," she says, "and that we took as evidence."

"Yes. You can check it, look at the sole, you'll find red pieces of clay that look like icicles."

The next glance between them is no split second snap. It lingers. It hangs there. It goes on and on until Officer Lande's eyes brush over the mirror and the detective pushes himself from the wall and suddenly his whole very ticked off demeanor has changed to his version of Good Cop. Which isn't very good. The fact that he's trying to make me like him is freaky.

"Lemme get this straight," he says, trying on another smile, "you found her shoe, and I guess you decided to look at the dirt in the treads. That right?"

I don't say anything.

"You took some dirt from the shoe. And then you checked out the dirt."

I can feel the atmosphere shift. And I decide to shut up. I am not naive.

"Well, Sweetheart, lemme explain something to you. You might think you know all about crime, but there's this thing called obstruction of justice. You've heard of that, right? It's when you interfere with a police investigation. And you know what happens to people who do that? They go to jail. You like what you see in here?"

I push my inner attorney down. "Drew's my best friend."

"I don't care if we're talking about your grandmother--you don't touch evidence."

"But you wouldn't even know about that soil if I didn't find it first."

He laughs. It doesn't turn into a cough.

I glance at Officer Lande. She's not laughing. She's not even smiling.