kitchen and gestured toward the sink. I thought he might need it.
He didnât, in the end. He bent over it with his mouth open and gulped air, but that was all. When he straightened up, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth, though it looked dry enough to me.
âYouâre all right,â I told him.
The wrong thing to say, because it reminded him that Iâd been there all along. Heâd been careless. Who knows what I couldâve done while he had his back to me? I couldâve clocked him over the head and swiped his gun and gone for a joyride in his car. He decided to get tough retroactively.
âPut your hands on your head.â
âOh, come on.â
âDo it.â
He unsnapped his holster and touched the grip of his gun, and I put my hands on my head. When he told me to turn around, I did that too. I was facing the wall beside the archway. I could hear cars pulling into the drive, more cops coming. I felt his hand on the back of my collar, heard him say I had the right to remain silent. He shoved me forward roughly and if I hadnât turned my head I think he would have broken my nose. As it was, the side of my face hit the wall and the impact opened up the cut on my temple.
â¢Â   â¢Â   â¢
I n the room with the white-tile walls, my fingers kept returning to the cut. It had its own topography: a long, thin ridge. Moretti had given me a Band-Aid to cover it, but it wasnât big enough. I could feel the ends of the cut on either side.
Moretti saw me fussing at it. He closed his notebook and said, âAll right. Weâll take a break. Ten minutes. Then weâll start again at the beginning.â
âNo,â I said.
âNo?â
âIâm leaving.â
The idea amused him. âYouâre not leaving.â
âIâve told you everything I know.â
âI still have questions.â
It was almost three in the morning and I had questions too. Not the kind that could be answered in that room. I was tired and I needed to know where I stood. The only way to find out was to press the issue.
âThis has gone on long enough,â I said. âYou can let me go or you can charge me with something. And I donât think youâre going to charge me.â
âWhy not?â said Moretti.
âBecause by now youâve had a chance to figure out what time Jana died.â I was guessing, but it seemed likely. It was probably the subject of one of his conversations in the hallway. âAnd if it happened while I was sitting in The Falcon waiting for her, thatâs something you can verify. You might have done it already.â
I was hoping that might be true, but Morettiâs reactionâthe terse shake of his headâmade it clear I wasnât going to be so lucky.
âThe medical examinerâs best guess is that Jana Fletcher died sometime between six and seven,â he said, âwhich means it happened while you were out driving and thinking. According to your story.â
âItâs not a story.â
âIt is until I confirm it.â
I shrugged. âYouâre still not going to charge me. Itâs too soon. You want to be sure. You donât want to be proven wrong laterâwhen you find out it was someone else. That would be embarrassingââ
âI can live with the embarrassment.â
âIt would be bad for you, and for the entire police department. Youâre forgetting who I am. My familyâs name is on buildings in this city. If you get this wrong, I can make trouble for you.â
Moretti frowned. âAre you threatening me?â
âNo. Iâm done talking to you. If you plan to keep me here, Iâll need to call a lawyer.â
I sat back and crossed my arms, and he glared at me from under his heavy brow. Up above us, the fluorescent lights hissedâa fitting sound track for our contest of wills. We might have gone on like that for a