Free Unscrewed by Lois Greiman Page B

release?”
    He stiffened, and he hadn’t exactly been Mr. Softy before. “He’s a charming bastard, isn’t he? Well dressed, manicured, articulate?”
    Funny, but that was almost exactly what I’d been thinking. “It must be in the genes.”
    “You like him.” It was nothing short of an accusation, tantamount to high treason. Possibly punishable by death. What did I really know about this guy?
    “Maybe if you’d define ‘asshole’ for me—”
    “She’s dead. That definition enough?” His voice was clipped. I kept mine charmingly melodious. Taming the wild beast and all that.
    “You didn’t see anyone at his house when you got there?”
    He shook his head, brows scrunched over brooding eyes. “Door was unlocked. Security disarmed. I went in.” He was reliving it in his mind. “Called her name. No answer.” He drew a slow breath, seeing her. “Fuck.”
    “She was already dead?”
    There was a moment of horrible silence, then, “I don’t know. I’m a damned cop and I don’t know. Funny, huh?” He didn’t look amused. “She was lying there. I could see her from the hallway, looking at me. Eyes so big they could swallow a man whole. I thought maybe she was still breathing. Maybe there was a chance. Ran toward her.” He closed his eyes, exhaled carefully, shook his head. “That’s the last I remember. After that, nothing.”
    “What? What do you mean, ‘nothing’?”
    “Nothing. One minute I was moving toward her, the next I was surrounded by cops yelling at me to stay down. Hell, I didn’t even know I
was
down.”
    “Nothing in between?”
    “I think I hit Trank in the eye. Might have busted Pensacola’s nose.”
    I gave him a look, but he didn’t continue. “Any particular reason?”
    He shook his head, scowling, lost. “I just…I don’t remember coming to. I just remember…”
    “What?”
    “Her eyes. Dead. I think I went a little crazy.”
    “Before or after?”
    “What?”
    I swallowed the question, reached back into the bag, blindly searching for normalcy. It wasn’t in there. Just a bottle of something or other. “And you don’t remember anything else, before you went unconscious?”
    “No.”
    “There must have been something. A noise, a shadow…”
    He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know.”
    “Did someone hit you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Then—”
    “I don’t know! God damn it!”
    The room echoed into silence.
    He crunched his hands into fists and paced. “I should have used my head. Should have called for backup. Should have…” He breathed deeply and let his shoulders droop.
    I fought the effects of his vulnerability. I didn’t want to see him this way. Didn’t want to empathize with him. Didn’t want to like him. “You couldn’t have foreseen the circumstances,” I said. “No one can blame you for—”
    “Don’t say it, McMullen.” He turned slowly toward me. “Don’t say no one can blame me, ’cuz I’m pretty damned sure you might be wrong.”
    The guilt was there, throbbing in his eyes like a raw wound.
    I shook my head, searching for words. “People react differently when they’re emotionally involved.”
    “I don’t get emotionally involved.”
    Feelings ripped across his face like an electrical storm.
    “Good to know,” I said, still holding the forgotten bottle. “Does he have an alibi?”
    He tried to force himself to relax, failed, laughed. “He’s Miguel Geraldo Rivera, McMullen. An alibi comes with the name.”
    “I don’t know what that means.”
    “It means he’ll come out of this smelling like a flower garden. Hell, he’ll probably make a fortune on it.”
    “But you think he did it.” I watched him, waited, breath held. He didn’t answer.
    “And you’re sure he’s innocent,” he murmured.
    “I didn’t say that.”
    “Because he wears silk ties and pays a hundred bucks for a haircut.”
    “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
    “Looks good in Armani.”
    I turned toward the cabinets,