And what was that smell?
Every curtain was drawn, and that felt wrong on such a sunny day, the kind of wrong that made Becky think of outside and people and fast fucking cars. Instead, she went to the living room, which was darkest. Something shapeless was on the floor. In the gloom, it could be a pile of laundry, but Becky knew better. She thought she saw a leg, that maybe those were fingers.
Don’t do it, she thought.
But her fingers found the switch on the wall.
When the light exploded, she wanted to run—God, did she want to run! But those were fingers. And that was a leg. So Becky screamed. She screamed so loud and long that Dana tumbled from the car, and burst into the house, following the sound of those screams. She came at a dead run—a fine damn friend—and that’s how she tripped on the body, and fell facedown on top of it. Ride that pony, Becky thought, but it was a mad thought, and a wild one, a where-the-hell-is-my-boyfriend thought.
39
Cops came like buzzards to a kill, the marked cars and dark sedans, the men in somber suits. Becky sat on the porch with an arm around Dana, who could not stop scrubbing at all the places she’d been stained by the dead man’s blood.
“I need a shower. God, please. A bath. A washcloth.”
Two cops approached, and one said, “We really do need to talk.”
“Give her another minute,” Becky replied.
“How about we question you separately. How about that.” They weren’t questions, and he wasn’t pleasant.
Becky said, “It’s Martinez, right?”
“Detective Martinez.”
“I’m not leaving her, Detective, so give us another minute.”
The cops actually did step back, and Becky used the time to get her head straight. Everything was crooked: the dead man on Chance’s floor, Gibby’s abandoned car. When the cops came back, she said, “You know we had nothing to do with this, right?”
The other cop said, “Of course, sweetheart. We do have questions, though.” He gestured at the bustle around them. “We can go as slowly as you like.”
“We just want to go home.”
“We’ll be quick.” With an understanding nod, he lowered himself to sit on the step below them. “Do you know the man inside?”
“No.”
“You’ve never seen him before?”
“Never.”
“What about you?” He looked at Dana. It took her a moment, but she shook her head. “You girls are in the same class as Gibby and Chance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why aren’t you in school?”
“Gibby wasn’t in class.” Becky smoothed away a single tear. “I was worried.”
“Kids do skip school. Is there any particular reason today was worrisome?”
There was no right way to answer that question. How much could Becky say? How much would Gibby want her to share? “I was worried.” She kept it vague. “He’s a good student. He doesn’t skip school without good reason.”
“So this is unusual behavior for him?”
“Or he had some good reason.”
“Did he have one?” Martinez asked. “A good reason?”
“I don’t know.”
The nice cop waited a moment, and then tried a different angle. “Is there anything else unusual in your friend’s life? Has Gibby been acting strangely? Has he spoken to you about anything odd that may have happened?”
“Just that his brother’s in prison. You know.”
Martinez said, “Ask her about the car.”
“Ignore my partner,” the nice cop said. “He tends to interrupt. How about you walk us through it in your own words. Tell us what happened. There’s no wrong way to do it. I promise.”
Becky did as he asked. She told them what time they got there, and what happened after she went inside. He wanted details, but the narrative wandered. She had to backtrack; start over. “I know I shouldn’t have gone in someone else’s house without permission, and it’s horrible that Dana fell on the body—crime scene and all, evidence, I mean—but I was screaming, and she was trying to help, and I was just … It was just so…” She smoothed away another tear.
“Take your time, young lady. You’re doing fine.”
“Oh, for God’s sake…”
“Hush, Martinez.”
“Ask about the car.”
The nice cop sighed, but nodded. “The Mustang belongs to your friend, right? We know it does. I’m sorry. That sounds like I’m trying to trick you somehow.” He shook his head as if frustrated by his own questions. “Was the car here when you arrived?” Becky nodded. “And your friend? Did you see him at all?”
“No.”
“What about Chance?”
Becky shook her head, increasingly suspicious of Martinez. He was too intent, the way he leaned forward and stared. “Why do you care about the car?” she asked.
“It’s a routine question.”
“It’s just his car,” Becky said. “He bought it last summer.”
“That’s fine. You’re doing great. Did you see anyone when you arrived? On the street? Anywhere nearby?”
“I wasn’t paying attention.”
“If someone had left the house through the back door, do you think you would have seen them? As you arrived, or as you entered the house, did you hear anything? A door closing? Footsteps?”
“No.”
“Any sense of movement inside the house?”
“You think he was still in the house? Whoever did this?”
“No, sweetheart. I doubt that very much.”
But Becky thought he might be lying.
Martinez said, “Ask her about the keys.”
The nice cop held up a hand, but did not respond to Martinez. “Look at me, sweetheart. Okay?” He lifted his eyebrows, an invitation for her to stop staring at Martinez, and focus. “A few more questions. Did you happen to notice if the keys were in your friend’s car?”
Becky shook her head.
“How about in the house? Did you see the keys inside?”
“What do Gibby’s keys have to do with someone killing that man?”
“It’s just a question, sweetheart.”
“Will you please stop calling me that?”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I have daughters. It’s a habit.”
Becky looked at Martinez. “And you, you’re scaring my friend.”
Martinez showed his palms, and moved back a step, an almost-apology. The nice cop smiled encouragingly. “The keys,” he said again.
“The keys were beside the body.” Dana looked up for the first time. “That’s why they’re asking. They think Gibby and Chance are involved.”
“Hang on now, no one here thinks that.” The nice cop tried to keep things calm.
“He does.” Dana pointed at Martinez.
“Just questions,” the nice cop said.
But he didn’t seem so nice anymore.
* * *
For Bill French, the day was an exercise in bureaucratic futility. He’d gone to the station early, and Captain Martin had been there, waiting.