Free Truth and Lies by Norah McClintock Page B

then, I hadn’t expected much. When I ran out of resumes, I headed home.
    The first thing I saw when I came through the door and glanced into the living room, halfway to dropping my backpack on the floor before remembering that Riel would chew me out until I picked it up again and put it where it belonged, was a pair of boots. Boots belonging to someone who was sitting in an armchair angled away from the door. Boots on feet at the ends of legs wearing a business suit. Not Riel’s boots. Riel had company.
    â€œMike, is that you?” he called from the living room.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œCome in here a minute.”
    I stepped into the doorway. Riel was sitting on the couch. Opposite him, in a high leather armchair, was a man I had met back before I moved in with Riel. He was a cop. A homicide detective Riel called Jonesy.
    â€œMike, you remember Detective Jones?”
    Yeah, I remembered him.
    â€œHe wants to talk to you.” Riel’s eyes were fixed hard on me. What was that about?
    Detective Jones swung up out of his chair. He was taller than Riel, bulkier, a large and ominous presence. But he was smiling.
    â€œCome on in, Mike,” he said. “Have a seat.”
    Why was he being so friendly when Riel was looking so—what? Worried? Was that what it was? I sat down on the couch next to Riel.
    â€œJohn tells me you’re doing better in school,” Detective Jones said.
    I glanced at Riel. “Yeah, I guess,” I said.
    â€œThat’s good,” he said. “I hear you got a new history teacher too.”
    Uh-huh. Was I really supposed to believe that Riel had called me in to give Detective Jones a rundown on my life at school? What next? Was he going to ask for my opinion on Mr. Danos, my new history teacher? Mr. Danos was due to retire next year. Not a minute too soon, if you ask me. The guy wasn’t anywhere near asenthusiastic about history as Riel was. I used to think that Riel was
too
enthusiastic for a subject that wasn’t just as dry as dust, it
was
dust. I didn’t realize, until I was transferred into Mr. Danos’s class, that too little enthusiasm is definitely worse than too much.
    â€œDetective Jones is investigating Robbie Ducharme’s death,” Riel said.
    A-ha. I looked at the detective with new interest. Detective Jones was on the job. Okay. But what was he doing here? Comparing notes with an old colleague?
    â€œHe wants to ask you some questions, Mike.”
    â€œMe?”
    Then, before I knew it, Detective Jones was telling me, since I was a juvenile, that he had to caution me. Did I understand what that meant? He said it was standard procedure. He told me that I had the right to have Riel present, as my guardian, while I answered his questions, and that I had the right to counsel too, if I wanted it. He asked me, Did I understand that, did I know what right to counsel was? He didn’t accept a nod of my head either. He made me explain it to him.
    Just to be perfectly clear, I asked, “Am I in trouble?” A stupid question, I knew. Stupid because even a first-grader could figure out that when a homicide detective is cautioning you, that should be your first clue that all is not well in your own little corner of the universe.
    â€œThat depends,” Detective Jones said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “You want to tell me where you were last Tuesday night, Mike?”
    What? Why was he asking that? What was going on?
    â€œI was here,” I said, glancing at Riel.
    â€œAll night?”
    That’s what I had told Riel when he’d asked me the day after Robbie Ducharme had been kicked to death. I wanted to look at him, but I didn’t. Instead I looked right at Detective Jones and said, “All night.”
    â€œYou sure, Mike?” Detective Jones had pale blue eyes. They were focused 100 percent on me. They didn’t waver even for a second.
    Was he asking me about Robbie Ducharme? Was that what