Free A Dead Issue by John Evans Page B

“When I rehearsed this little speech, I was going to offer to pay your tuition at one of the colleges close by.” His face broke into a gentle smile. “But I thought that would be pushing it.”
    â€œIt would have,” I said and then stopped.
    He looked uncomfortable and he shifted a little in his seat. It was almost a squirm. I pursed my lips and looked down. In a calculated move, I shook my head sadly.
    â€œA salary,” I said in a tone that was almost a reprimand. “And college tuition?”
    He gave his head an embarrassed tilt—an admission of transparency.
    I stared at him for a full five seconds, knowing that whatever came out of my mouth next was going to change my life forever.
    â€œI’ll take it.”
    I walked home from the Barcelona wrapped in the warmth of a compromise. I still had a measure of independence and my father’s blessing as well. It gave me hope. Things would work out. Even Jonah’s death would sink into oblivion—eventually.
    But all that faded when I saw the man on the sidewalk in front of my apartment.

CHAPTER 17
    He was surveying my car, walking around it, bending down inspecting the fenders, bumpers, and tires as if he were about to make an offer to buy it. He was huge, stuffed into a blue suit not quite large enough to contain his bulk. The sleeves of his jacket were pulled back to reveal his white shirt, and the cloth of his jacket stretched across his back like a sail ready to split. A nose hung from his ruddy face like a small punching bag below a set of eyes that were at the same time sad and intense. His brown hair was evenly cut at a half inch and stuck straight out with the uniformity of the nap on a tennis ball.
    As I neared, he turned toward me and didn’t seem at all surprised by my presence. Evidently, he had seen me coming and timed the end of his inspection to coincide with my arrival. I had expected a visit from the police, and seeing him in advance gave me the chance to compose myself and get control of my pulse, which went into high gear as I wondered what clues he had discovered on my car.
    â€œMark Cameron?” he asked in a voice that was neither friendly nor threatening.
    I stopped walking and faced him.
    â€œDetective Frank Devereaux. Fannett Meadow Police.”
    I stuck out my hand, and he looked at it until I withdrew my offer to shake—a not too subtle message that this was an official visit.
    â€œYou’ve seen the papers?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “No, but I heard Jonah died last night. I kind of thought someone might want to talk to me.” My voice was even, confident, without a trace of fear or deception.
    Devereaux gave me a look that bordered on suspicion. “And why would we want to talk to you?”
    â€œWell, why are you here?” I asked in a disastrous attempt at humor. Devereaux’s eyes narrowed and I knew instantly that I had started out on the wrong foot.
    â€œSorry,” I apologized and waited for his eyes to soften. When they didn’t, I continued. “I thought you’d want to talk to me because I worked for him yesterday. We might have been the last to see him.”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œMe and Dusty. We do odd jobs for him. Help him out around the farm. We ran into the guys who found him—Billy and Ray. They’re friends of Jonah—drinking buddies. That’s how we found out he died.”
    Devereaux nodded as if to say he knew them. “Where’d you run into them?”
    â€œAt Miller’s,” I explained. “We went there after work.” I was about to launch into the story of how we were there when they came in, but Devereaux held up a beefy hand.
    â€œLook,” he said, “This isn’t the place to be doing this. Let’s go to the station where we can talk. Do this right.”
    Police headquarters, away from the comfort of my territory and into the total discomfort of his—a strategy