Free Vermilion by Nathan Aldyne Page B

was there to take it to the sink. “Have you scraped the ginger?” Lawrence asked.
    Neville nodded once, said nothing, did not look up from the sink.
    â€œNow, Lieutenant,” said Lawrence, “I know you have a job, and a murder to solve, and a state representative to exonerate, but I have a dinner party for six, and I haven’t even salted my ducks. So, if you don’t mind, could we get on with it?” He took the cutting board from Neville, and set it back on the counter. Neville then handed him two long stalks of pale green vegetables, that looked to be a cross between celery and lettuce, and which Searcy was sure he had never eaten or even seen before. Deftly, with the cleaver, Lawrence began to chop them to shreds.
    â€œThat night,” said Searcy, after another swallow of the coffee, “did you hear anything at all outside? You know, loud voices, a car, anything?”
    â€œYou know, the Boston police have a reputation for efficiency, but maybe that’s only in months that don’t have an r in them. Why didn’t your superior let you see my statement before you drove out here?”
    â€œMy superior didn’t send me here. I came on my own.”
    â€œHow aggressive of you. All right, though.”
    Lawrence set aside the cleaver and wiped his hands on a part of the apron not stained with blood. He picked up his coffee and crossed past Searcy into the dining room. On either side of the fireplace stood a carved high-backed armchair. Lawrence settled himself into one and motioned for Searcy to take the other. He did. The firelight played off their faces as they looked at one another across the bright hot hearth.
    â€œNow, Lieutenant Searcy, I’m going to do for you what I don’t do for anybody: I’m going to repeat myself, tell you what I told your friends in the force this morning. But that will be it.” He smiled blandly.
    â€œI understand,” said Searcy.
    â€œNothing,” said Lawrence, “I heard nothing that night. No car prowling through the predawn hours, no voices raised in anger, no sickening thud, no car doors slamming. I slept well that night, and dreamt of Coney Island. When I went out that morning, there was only one set of tire tracks in the snow. It came up to the hemlocks, and then repeated itself going back down toward Route 60.”
    â€œYou must have thought that was strange if you noticed it…”
    â€œI notice everything,” said Lawrence. “I assumed that someone belonging to the Scarpettis had parked there for a while. Scarpetti often has ill-dressed men visit him in the middle of the night.”
    â€œWhat about the car door opening and closing?” Searcy said.
    â€œSomeone trying to dispose of a dead teenager is not going to slam all four doors going about it. At night anyway, this is a quiet neighborhood. I would have heard it if it had been at all loud.”
    â€œAre your storm windows up?”
    â€œNot in the bedroom. I believe in fresh air. I would have heard,” he said again.
    â€œYou were in all evening?”
    Lawrence nodded. “Neville and I went out for a walk about midnight, but the snow wasn’t sticking then. Why are you bothering with these details anyway, since the boy wasn’t killed out here?”
    Searcy raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œNo blood. Or very little. He had been lying out there for several hours, because the footprints of the killer had been covered up entirely, if there were any to begin with, so he must have been dumped not long after it began to snow. If he were still bleeding then, there would have been more blood. I imagine he got killed in the car, blunt instrument—as they say—and then the murderer drove around until he found just the right set of hemlocks to push him under.”
    â€œIt’s sort of dangerous though, isn’t it, driving around with a dead man in the car?”
    Lawrence