Free Flat Spin by David Freed Page A

chip in my head and is controlling my thoughts; Martians are living in my attic; the devil made me do it. But the “I Was a Paid Assassin for the Government” spiel, that was a new one.
    Windhauser’s laughter tapered to a cold smile. He fixed me with an iron stare meant to intimidate. “Some little hottie down at the beach you’re trying to hit on, she might fall for that crock of shit. But you’re not talking to her now, are you?”
    “Could be little hotties down at the beach aren’t necessarily my cup of tea if you get my drift, Detective, and I think you do.” I winked at him provocatively.
    Windhauser’s smile departed altogether.
    “If you think I’m gay,” he said, “you’re mistaken.”
    “Nothing wrong with being gay,” I said. “Plenty of people are gay. They come out of the closet all the time. Even homicide cops.”
    Windhauser gripped the arms of his chair, his blood pressure twenty points higher than it was a minute before. He looked over at his partner and said, “Who the fuck does this asshole think he is?”
    Czarnek unwrapped a piece of Nicorette White Ice Mint gum, watching me.
    “We just want the truth, Mr. Logan,” he said.
    “I told you the truth.”
    Windhauser said, “I can’t fucking believe we drove all the way up here to talk to this lying lump of shit.”
    “Be honest, Detective,” I said, “you drove all the way up here for the tacos.”
    Windhauser glowered. A V-shaped vein rose in the middle of his forehead and throbbed noticeably.
    “We talked to Mr. Echevarria’s wife,” Czarnek said. “She told us he worked for the federal government. But we can’t find any record of that.”
    “You won’t. Our operations were classified.”
    Windhauser got to his feet suddenly, like he wanted to lay hands on me. His plastic chair clattered onto its side. Other diners paused and looked over to see what the commotion was about. The restaurant fell silent.
    “C’mon, partner, let’s get out of here,” Windhauser said, grabbing his jacket off the floor. “This guy’s fucking nuts.”
    Czarnek stayed put, eyeing me. “Mrs. Echevarria told us she used to be your wife.”
    “She was. I never knew what true happiness was until we got married. Then it was too late.”
    “Why’d you break up, you don’t mind me asking?”
    “She dumped me.”
    “Why?” Windhauser demanded
    “Because she fell in love with Echevarria.”
    Czarnek stopped chewing his gum. The detectives traded another look. Windhauser righted his chair and lowered himself into it.
    “How exactly would you describe your relationship with your ex-wife?” Windhauser said.
    “Strained.”
    “What about with Mr. Echevarria?” Czarnek said. “What kind of relationship did you have with him?”
    “We had no relationship. Not after what he did to me.”
    “So, what you’re saying is, the two of you stopped being friends after your wife left you for him. Is that what you’re saying?”
    I didn’t say anything. I could see where this was going. Czarnek reached into the breast pocket of his sport coat and got out a reporter’s notebook. He flipped through the narrow pages to find where he’d jotted down the date of Echevarria’s murder— October 24th. He asked me if I remembered what I was doing that night.
    “It was a Monday,” Czarnek added.
    “I would’ve been watching football.”
    “By yourself?”
    “With my landlady.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “She makes me dinner every Monday night during football season. We always watch the game together.”
    “You two ever get it on?” Windhauser said. “Maybe at halftime?”
    Another tactic from the Big Book of Standard Police Interrogation Techniques: Bad Cop periodically lets fly an outrageous accusation intended to infuriate the suspect who comes unglued and, in his unbridled anger, blurts the truth of his crime.
    “My landlady is in her eighties,” I said. “She only goes for old guys, Detective Windhauser. Like you.”
    Windhauser