Free Kill Fee by Owen Laukkanen Page B

Windermere told him. “Lives in Logan Square. We don’t think he’s dangerous, but we can’t be certain.”
    “So long as he’s home,” said Davis. “That’s all I’m asking.”
    They drove away from the airport and into Chicagoland. Davis took the Kennedy Expressway into the city, got off in Logan Square, and drove past a couple gas stations and strip malls before turning down a short residential street. He parked the Yukon across from a narrow, two-story brick house, and glanced over at Windermere. “Address?”
    Windermere looked out at the house. “That’s the place.”
    “No tactical this time,” said Davis. “You cool with that?”
    “Should be fine. But guns drawn. Mathers, go around back.”
    “Roger.”
    Windermere studied the house some more. It was a nice little place. Well taken care of. A white railing ringed the porch. It looked bright, freshly painted. “Okay,” she said, reaching for her sidearm. “Let’s go find Alex Kent.”

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    A lex Kent was home, anyway. That was a positive. It was about the only positive of the day.
    As with Allen Salazar before him, one look at Kent was all it took to convince Windermere she’d been fooled. Kent was a tall man, in his late forties, dignified. And he was black.
    He stood in his doorway, eyes dinner-plate wide, staring at Windermere and Davis and their guns. He held up his hands and lay flat on the ground, and let Davis handcuff him and take him out to the Yukon.
    “This is a mistake,” he said. Then he said it again. “What is it that you think I’ve done?”
    Davis eyed him in the rearview. “When was the last time you were arrested?”
    Kent shook his head. “I beg your pardon?”
    “You heard me. What did they book you for last?”
    “I’m a history teacher,” Kent told him. “I’ve never been arrested in my life.”
    Davis smirked in the front seat. “We’ll see.”

    THEY DROVE KENT to the FBI office on Roosevelt Road, just west of downtown. Found an interview room and left him alone for an hour. Then Windermere unlocked the door and went in. “You hungry?” she asked him.
    Kent looked up at her, eyes fierce. It only lasted a moment. His head dropped and he looked away. He nodded, wordless.
    “My partner’s making a sandwich run. Roast beef okay?”
    Kent nodded again. Windermere studied his face. He stared at a point over her left shoulder, his eyes wide, his shoulders hunched. Scared. Windermere sighed. Somewhere inside, she felt for the man. “You were in Duluth on Monday,” she said. “Why?”
    Kent opened his mouth. Hesitated. “My sister,” he said finally. “She was sick. Pneumonia. I went to help care for her kids.”
    Windermere made a note. “How long were you there?”
    “Three days. I left Friday afternoon. What is this about?”
    “You rented a car?”
    Kent nodded. “My sister—she doesn’t drive. Her ex-husband took the car.”
    “Who’d you rent from?” said Windermere. “What kind of car?”
    “It was a minivan,” he said. “A Dodge. For the kids. The Grand Caravan. I rented from Liberty.”
    “From Liberty.”
    Kent dared to make eye contact. He shied away quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What is it you think I’ve done?”
    Windermere shook her head. “Your name’s tied to a murder,” she said. “I’m going to take a wild guess you don’t know a damn thing about it.”
    Kent shook his head. “My God,” he said. “No. Lord, have mercy.”
    “You didn’t rent a blue Kia Rio on Monday, either.”
    “What? I rented a minivan. Red.”
    “And you’ve never heard of Triple A Industries.”
    Again Kent shook his head. He sagged like a beat dog. “Never in my life,” he said. “I’m a history teacher. I went to Duluth to help my sister. You can call and ask her. I didn’t kill anybody, I swear it.”
    Windermere watched him. Searched his eyes. Then she sat back and stared up at the ceiling. “Okay,” she said, sighing. “Let me check on that sandwich.”

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