Free Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split by Kathy Hogan Trocheck Page B

never met this Detective Rivers. But I do know Jimmy Boykin, the captain. He’s not a bad guy. And one of my former classmates is an assistant in the district attorney’s office. Jean Reilly. I’ll call her first thing in the morning.”
    The door to the homicide office swung open again and Rivers brought Pearl Wisnewski out. She was crying again, her lips pressed tight, tears streaming down her face. She shook her head when she saw Truman, unable to speak. He introduced Howie to Pearl and then to Rivers.
    “I’d like to see my client now,” Howie told Rivers.
    Rivers nodded. “I’ll take Mrs. Wisnewski out to the lobby. She says you have a friend there, waiting for you, someone who’ll sit with her.”
    “Let me go in with you,” Truman told Howie when they were gone. “Mel’s only met you once or twice. Maybe he’ll remember me.”
    Mel was sitting in front of a desk, his hands clasped in his lap, his hat on the floor beside him. His hair was white and mussed, and Truman noticed for the first time how bald his friend had gone in the past year. Mel’s lips trembled when he saw Truman.
    Truman knelt down beside Mel, shook his hand. “This is Howie Seabold Jr., Mel. Remember? We played golf with Howie and big Howie last winter, down in Bradenton.”
    But Mel was trembling, wringing his hands. “Pa, they made me stay after school, Pa. I got in a fight with Jacky Murphy. He started it, Pa. He called me a dirty Polack. I had to hit him, Pa. I’ll do my chores when I get home, Pa. Okay?”
    Truman grasped Mel’s hand. It was cold and dry, covered with a network of tiny spots.
    “It’s me, Mel. It’s me, sport. Your buddy Truman. Remember me? Truman?”
    A single tear trickled down Mel’s cheek. “I’ll shovel the walk when I get home, Pa. I promise.”
    Truman sighed, stood up, and turned to Howie Seabold. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he said. “This is a guy who could recite the box scores for every Pittsburgh Pirates game going back to 1939.”
    “It happens,” Howie said.
    Outside, in the hallway, Pearl and Jackleen were sitting, waiting. Jackleen gave Truman a questioning look. He shook his head. Not good. Pearl stood when the two men came out. “Did he tell you anything?”
    “He thought I was his pa,” Truman said helplessly. “He thought he was in trouble for fighting in school.”
    Pearl patted her purse. “I have his pills. They help sometimes.”
    Rivers took her back inside then.
    “That’s a hell of a black eye on Mrs. Wisnewski,” Howie said, keeping his tone conversational. “Do you know anything about it?”
    “She told us she walked into a door,” Truman said.
    “Could Mel have done it?”
    “No way,” Jackleen put in.
    “Maybe,” Truman admitted. “Not the old Mel, though. You know they’ve been married almost sixty years?”
    “Any kids?”
    Truman shook his head. “A son, Danny. He was the only child. He was in the navy. Got killed in Vietnam. They never got over it.”
    Detective Rivers came out of the office, and he and Howie strolled down to the end of the hall together, chatting quietly.
    “They really gonna arrest him?” Jackleen asked.
    “It doesn’t look good,” Truman had to admit. “That girl’s throat was slashed. And Mel had a knife when they found him.”
    “What else?” she asked.
    Truman frowned. “The cops dug up some old charge against Mel. From back in the fifties. He was arrested for beating up some scabs outside the steel mill where he worked. It was a long time ago, but it still makes Mel look like some kind of a thug or something.”
    “He didn’t do it,” Jackleen said stubbornly. “Not Mr. Mel.”
    Howie and Rivers returned then, nodded at Truman and Jackleen, and went back in the office.
    A moment later, Pearl and Howie emerged, Pearl’s face white and worn-looking. And she was crying again.
    “Oh, Truman,” she said, grasping his arm. “They’re going to make him stay here. In a jail cell, Truman. Mel doesn’t