Free The Defenseless by Carolyn Arnold Page B

justice.”
    Both of his hands went up. “Now, there’ll be no need for that.”
    No audible response was needed. Jack jutted his chin forward. His gaze was intense enough to cut glass.
    The man pointed toward an elevator bank. “He’s in the penthouse.”
    *****
     
    “Detectives.” Kent Fields’s blond hair was near platinum, and his skin tone was so white it bordered on albino. His blue eyes were sharp lasers.
    “We’re Special Agents with the FBI.” Jack’s hand went to his jacket and I didn’t sense it was in response to a cigarette craving. I wondered if he contemplated pulling his gun on the man for reducing our rank. Instead, he pulled out a photograph and extended it to Fields.
    We were still in the front entry of the penthouse—a bright and open space. From this vantage point, the kitchen and eating area were to the right, and a living room was straight ahead to the far end. To the left was a half bath.
    Fields looked at the photograph. “Why don’t we go take a seat?” He gestured ahead of us. “But first, please take off your footwear. My maple floors wouldn’t take so kindly to the moisture.”
    We adhered to his request and went into the sitting room. I sank into the most comfortable couch I had ever encountered. I ran my hands along the fabric—soft, like crushed velvet. Jack sat beside me. Fields had taken a detour to the kitchen.
    “Can I get either of you something to drink?”
    “No, we’re fine,” Jack called out to him.
    I detected irritation in his tone. Fields was taking too long to sit still and seemed to be avoiding the conversation we needed to have with him. Finally, he sashayed into the seating area, holding onto a martini glass, pinching the stem between his fingers. His other hand held the photograph.
    He dropped into a chair and crossed his legs away from us. One long draw from his glass before he set it on a side table. “All right, what can I do for you?”
    Jack ’s neck held a steady, tapping pulse that had a cord bulging. He was too aggravated to speak.
    I pointed to the picture. “Do you recognize him?”
    “Absolutely, but I’m not sure what he has to do with me.”
    “He was found murdered behind a bakery in town a few days ago.”
    “Well, c’est la vie , right? I mean, we live, we die.”
    “You don’t seem too upset over the loss of life,” Jack observed.
    Fields centered his line of vision on Jack. “I didn’t really know the man. We weren’t close. Should I be grieving?” Fields lifted his martini glass for a brief sip .
    “How do you know him? You said you recognize him.”
    “I used to report on local news. See how far I’ve come.” He spread his arms to take in the space, and to guide our eyes to the walls full of commendations and awards. “Three Pulitzers.”
    “How lovely for you, but that’s not why we’re here.”
    Fields ’s eyes flickered with egotistical insult and he picked at the material of his pants. After a few seconds, he said, “I remember this man, the one who died, was charged with poisoning his dog. It was said to be rat poison.”
    “You have a very clear memory about something from twenty-six years ago,” I said.
    “Don’t think anything of it. My mind works like that.” He pointed to his glass. “This isn’t the real deal. A true master of his craft wouldn’t dilute his brain matter with the vice of alcohol.” He flashed a sly grin. “Here you thought I was drinking mid-day. Stereotypical writer, you probably thought. Well, I’m most certainly not that. I am unique. One of a kind.”
    I swallowed the urge to edit his inclination toward redundancy.
    Jack stood and paced the floor. “Yes, we know. You are award winning. Less of the resume and more on topic.”
    Fields ’s brows furrowed downward and his mouth gaped open. His eyes read, why I never .
    “We spoke with your brother,” I began.
    “I don’t have a blood sibling. You must mean my stepbrother. Please, he collects trash.”
    “You write