Free The Interrogation by Thomas H. Cook Page A

year and a half. He was released about five years ago.”
    Pierce continued to stare through the window. “And since then?”
    “Clean, as far as I know.”
    Pierce stepped over to the door and rapped hard.
    A few seconds later a short, stocky man pushed through a beaded curtain at the rear of the store. He was dressed in flannel trousers and a stained blue sweatshirt with frayed sleeves and a collar that looked as if it had been stretched by angry hands.
    “That him?” Pierce asked.
    Cohen nodded. “Yeah, that’s Harry.”
    Dunlap opened the door, rubbing his eyes against the morning light.
    “I ain’t open till ten,” he whined.
    Pierce presented his identification. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
    Cohen smiled. “Remember me, Harry?”
    Dunlap’s small green eyes cut over to Cohen. “What’s this all about?”
    “A few questions,” Cohen said easily.
    “Questions? About what?”
    “About a murder,” Pierce said crisply.
    Fear leaped into Dunlap’s eyes. “A murder? Oh, Jesus, I ain’t—”
    “A little girl was killed, Harry,” Cohen interrupted. “So, you don’t mind if we come in?”
    “I don’t know nothing about no murder.” Dunlap wiped a line of sweat from his upper lip. “A little girl. Jesus.”
    Pierce took out a picture that had been taken of Smalls the night before. “Have you ever seen this guy?”
    Dunlap glanced at the photograph. “No.” He looked at Cohen as if they were old associates, someone who might cut him a break. “Should I?”
    “He says he sold you some toys,” Cohen said.
    “Toys?” Dunlap said. He tried to laugh, but it turned into a snigger. “Look around here. This look like a toy store?”
    “Well, maybe he just offered to sell you some stuff,” Cohen said. “Are you sure you’ve never seen him, Harry?”
    Dunlap returned his attention to the photograph. “No, I ain’t never seen him. Dirty-looking bastard like that, I’d remember, don’t you think?”
    “Could he have come into the shop when someone else was here?” Pierce plucked a postcard from a box, peered at it absently.
    Dunlap handed the photograph back to Cohen.“Nobody runs the shop but me.” He tried for a joke. “What do I look like, General Motors?”
    “What about when you go out buying things?” Cohen asked. “Nobody watches the place for you?”
    “People bring stuff here,” Dunlap answered. “I don’t go out looking for it. What’d you say the guy’s name was again?”
    “Smalls.” Pierce returned the old postcard to the crowded box. “Albert Jay Smalls.”
    Dunlap’s hand rose to the black stubble on his jaw. “I wish I could help you. A little girl. Jesus. But I ain’t never heard of the guy. I mean, the name, it ain’t familiar.”
    “Well, the thing is, the guy’s heard your name, Harry.”
    Dunlap’s eyes widened. Terror covered them like a film. “Me? He’s heard of me?”
    Cohen nodded. “Your actual name, Harry. He came up with your actual name.”
    Pierce drew away and moved among the shelves of junk, eyeing the old bottles, the rusty car tags, a debris that suggested nothing but a shop whose entire stock was composed of things other people wished only to be rid of.
    “He didn’t mention anybody else,” Cohen said, giving Dunlap a little taste of his icy stare. “Just you, Harry.”
    Dunlap glanced toward Pierce, then back at Cohen. “Is this a shakedown? ’Cause I ain’t done nothing to deserve no shakedown.”
    “Shakedown?” Pierce asked.
    Dunlap kept his eyes on Cohen. “You know what I mean.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t, Harry,” Cohen told him.
    “A way of looking my place over without no warrant,” Dunlap said cautiously.
    Pierce picked up a handful of brightly colored marbles from a tin bucket. “What would we be looking for, Harry?”
    “I don’t know,” Dunlap said. “Anything.”
    “Stolen property, is that what you’re referring to, Harry?” Cohen asked with a slight smile.
    “You got me once,”