Free Spell Blind by David B. Coe Page A

idea for me to spend too much time with Miss Castle. I’m sure Howard Wriker would have agreed.
    “I think I’ll pass. Thanks, though.”
    A thin smile flitted across her face. “Wriker warned you away from me, didn’t he?”
    “I wouldn’t put it that way.”
    “How would you put it?”
    I felt like she was holding a microphone in front of my face.
    “Look, Miss Castle—”
    “What did you do to your leg?” she asked, staring at my bloodied knee.
    “I fell down, running . . .” I clammed up, reminding myself again that I was talking to a reporter.
    “Running?” she repeated.
    “Yeah. Running. It’s not important. But I was going to say, Miss Castle, that—”
    “Billie.”
    “I think I’ll stick with Miss Castle. I don’t care much for politics or politicians, and I’m not interested in being famous. I’m trying to pay some bills and help out a friend.”
    “Are you a friend of Senator Deegan?”
    I turned away from her, pulled out my key, and unlocked the door to my office.
    “I’m writing a story, Mister Fearsson. A series of them, probably. And my readers are going to want to know why a private eye is involved with an ongoing murder investigation. They’ll want to know why that private eye was forced to resign from the homicide division of the Phoenix Police Department nineteen months ago in the middle of the Blind Angel Killer case. Now I can leave it to others to answer those questions—Kona Shaw, Howard Wriker, Cole Hibbard . . .”
    I couldn’t help it. At the mention of Hibbard’s name I bristled and shot a glare her way. She stared back at me with this innocent expression on her face.
    “Or,” she went on, “you can answer my questions yourself and make certain that I get your story right.”
    Just as I’d thought: smart as hell. Pretty, too. I probably should have ducked into my office, bolted the door behind me, and hidden in the shadows until she gave up and left. Instead, I sighed, locked the door once more, and turned to face her.
    “An early dinner, eh?”
    She nodded.
    “You buying?
    She grinned. “Sure.”
    There was a pizza place on the ground level of the complex, below my office. I took her there, and we ordered a small pie: mushrooms, green peppers, and sausage. I don’t know if she was being agreeable so that I’d answer her questions, but we settled on the toppings in no time at all.
    We both ordered Cokes as well, and carried them to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant.
    “All right,” I said. “What is it you want to know?”
    She pulled a digital recorder out of her purse and set it on the table between us. Switching it on, she said, “Interview with Justis Fearsson, Private Detective.” She glanced at her watch. “Five-twenty p.m., Monday, May fourteenth. What kind of name is Justis, anyway?” she asked me.
    I shrugged. “Old English, I think. Probably my dad’s idea. He wouldn’t have settled for something normal. What about Billie?”
    She smiled, though there was something forced about it. “My dad. He wanted a boy.” She sat up straighter. “What were you doing at the Deegans’ today?”
    So much for the casual chit-chat.
    “I was picking up a friend who was there to speak with the senator and his family.”
    “Kona Shaw, right? Your partner when you were on the force?”
    She’d done her homework. I suppose I should have been impressed. Instead, I found myself growing annoyed. Who was this woman to investigate my life?
    “Yeah,” I said. “That’s right. We had business downtown, and she didn’t have her car with her. So she asked me to meet her there.”
    “What business did you have downtown? Was this police business?”
    I shook my head. “I’m not—”
    “Was this in connection with the Blind Angel killings? Did it have anything to do with the murder of Claudia Deegan?”
    “I’m not going to answer that.”
    Her smile was smug. “By not answering, you tell me that it was.”
    I said nothing.
    “You worked on