Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

away. “Shit.” The detective’s mouth was a horizontal line. He looked tired, which made sense. It was early. The guy had come out here first thing.

I said, “It was two of the guards who arranged it, if you want to know. One of them was a big guy with tattooed forearms, a whale and a shark. The other was his buddy, slim with an ill-fitting uniform, like he’d been fat once and lost weight suddenly.”

He said, “A skinny fat man.”

I said nothing.

The detective glanced at the guard, who watched us through the glass. He licked his lips. Then he said, “I’m Jim Smithson, Detective, Port Morris PD. I just need to ask the question, okay? Where you were last night, between five and six p.m.”

I said, “Up on the old fire tower.”

Smithson nodded as if a ritual exchange of passcodes had been accomplished. “Fine. That’s all I needed you to say. Lucky for you that’s what another person says, and she carries a lot more water around here than you do. Lucky for you, she came in. That and the GSR tests came back negative from the lab, confirming the presumptive. So, you’re good to go, Mister Keeler. On behalf of the Port Morris Police Department, I apologize for holding you. We are just doing our job.”

“Who fingered me, was it an anonymous tip?”

His eyes closed and he looked away as he spoke. “I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.”

I said, “What about the girl I was with?”

“Miss Chapman was released last night.”

I wondered what Chapman had told the investigators. Had she admitted to being at the Beaver Lodge last night, or did she lie and tell them she was somewhere else? If so, where. Those were questions that I kept to myself. It occurred to me that they might not have even questioned her.

I said, “So you think that’s it?”

“That’s it.” Smithson stood up. He looked like he could use a caffeine intravenous drip, and maybe that wouldn’t be enough.

I said, “Sit back down. That’s not it, detective.”

He stood with his hand on the chair. “What?”

“Sit down. We’re not done here.”

Smithson wavered, but he sat back down.

I said, “Guy named Deckart. Has a sidekick name of Willets. At least those are the names they gave me. Do you know them?”

“Any reason I should?”

“Yesterday, those two were following Jane Abrams and her friends, and from what I understand, they were pursuing a campaign of intimidation against them.”

He said, “Who is Jane Abrams?”

I said, “Don’t be funny.”

“I’m not being funny. Who is Jane Abrams?”

“The woman killed at Beaver Falls Lodge.”

Smithson smiled, as if he’d managed to trick me. “And how would you know anything about Beaver Falls Lodge?”

I said, “I’m not playing. You’re the cop, do your job. I didn’t kill Abrams, you know that. So quit delaying. I’m giving you information that can help you find the people who did. Maybe you want to take notes and write this down, so I don’t have to repeat myself.”

Smithson rapped his fingers on the table between us. “Why would this guy intimidate her?”

I said, “I don’t know. Fact is that they did. I said write it down.”

“What?”

“What I’ve just told you. Write down the names, if you don’t have them. So you can look into it. Do your job, Smithson.”

“What do you know about my job?”

“Detective, you might get shot tomorrow, or wind up eaten by a killer whale, who knows. Shit happens. If you write down the pertinent facts in a case, I assume that the person coming after you might find them useful. If nothing else.”

Smithson dropped his gaze and licked his lips. Patted his pockets and pulled out a small notebook and a cheap pen. He flipped open to the first page. I repeated the names, Deckart and Willets, Gavin the prison guard. He wrote them down dutifully, in the unschooled handwriting of a ten-year-old child. I said, “You got it now?”

“Yeah. I got it.”

“Good. You’ve been forewarned.”

Smithson met my gaze unsteadily. “Forewarned for what?”

“For whatever’s going to happen.”

The detective motioned to the guard, who opened the door. I waited with Smithson in the processing room while the duty officer hunted around in the back. After a minute or two she came out with a sealed cardboard box. She sliced through the tape with a utility knife. My jacket and the laptop bag were there, untouched, along with my wallet and change. I had wondered if the detective would be curious about the laptop, but he showed no interest.

The exterior siding of the building was faded red in the daylight. I squinted. Smithson tugged at my elbow, pointed over to the side of the driveway. A Ford F-150 pickup truck was parked, two tires off the road. Leaning against the hood was Lavinia Stone Chandler, Chief of Police, Chilkat Tribal Authority. Otherwise known as Ellie.

Ellie waved.

I turned to the detective. He was looking at her, then at me. “See you around, champ.”

Smithson walked to the unmarked Explorer parked in a reserved diagonal slot. I walked over to Ellie. She had a thumb hooked into the belt hoop of her jeans. She looked well rested.

She said, “Just a guy, huh?”

Nineteen

The Ford rumbled hungrily. Alaska rolled by. Ellie glanced at me across the front bench. The glance turned into a searching examination which made me self-conscious. The t-shirt was torn and bloody. I had the jacket balled up on my lap. My hands rested on it, knuckles bruised, dried blood in the nails. The jeans were salt-encrusted with significant blood stains. It is no easy task to smell yourself, but even so, I could smell myself, and it smelled bad.

We made eye contact. I shrugged.

She said, “Let’s go to my place, get you cleaned up. Then we can go to the New York cafe, if you like bagels.”

They had not bothered feeding me at the Port Morris Correctional Facility. Not even a tray of prison food, with a boxed drink and a plastic spork. Yesterday’s lunchtime burger seemed