Free Convergence Point by Liana Brooks Page B

it was something about the look in her eyes—­the one that threatened excessive amounts of imminent pain.
    â€œUm, no. I mean, it’s legal. The games and stuff I get to review because I’m paid to talk about them on air. The more ­people who listen to my station, the more ads we sell, the more freebies I get. That’s it. Swear on my dad’s grave.”
    â€œGood. Then the bureau doesn’t need to recommend you be arrested for tax fraud.” She flicked her tablet open. “But maybe it will need to look into obstruction of justice. Let’s talk about your roommate, shall we?”
    Bradet rubbed sweaty hands on his khaki shorts. “Oh, right. Um, Henry’s a nice guy. Real quiet, pays his share of the bills on time, doesn’t leave dishes in the sink. That’s crucial to being a good roommate. He was the real deal, you know?”
    â€œWhen did you last see Henry?”
    He shook his head and squinted. “Sunday afternoon I guess? There was a beach volleyball game and barbecue I went to. Judged the bikini contest . . . and let me tell you we all won that day, if you know what I mean.” She remained impassive. “Uh, guess not. Then I went to work. I clock in around midnight, go over my script, record any ads or whatnot, check the news. My show comes on at six and I’m off air at eight. I usually leave by nine, and Henry left for work early.”
    â€œDo you always work nights?”
    â€œYeah, I started with a midnight show. Liked to play some cool Indie stuff, music the college kids could relate to. I got popular enough, and they bumped me up to the morning show for weekends. I work Saturday, Sunday, Monday at the morning slot, then Tuesday and Thursday I do the midnight show. Go in to work and go on air first, do everything else after. Friday nights it’s all about the clubs, you feel me?”
    â€œNot really.” Spending her free time surrounded by sweaty, inebriated college students never appealed to her, not even when she was younger. “When you saw Henry on Sunday, did he seem upset at all? Worried? Distracted?”
    â€œNah. He did his thing like usual. Probably did breakfast before I woke up, I saw him when I had lunch, and I saw him making some noodles when I left for the beach. I asked if he wanted to come, but I knew he’d say no. Parties aren’t his wiggle, you know?”
    â€œWiggle?” Sam tried not to say anything unprofessional, settling for, “I’m going to pretend that didn’t come with a dance move. How long have you known Henry?”
    â€œThree months or so? He got here just before the holidays. Knew an old buddy of mine who told him to look me up. I needed a roommate who could pay rent, he needed a place to crash, it seemed ideal.”
    â€œDid he have any friends? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Family? Anyone ever come over?” The questions were textbook, but they made her squirm. Someday an agent would ask her neighbors the same thing, and what would they say?
    â€œHenry? Nah, man, no.” Bradet shook his head. “Henry never deviated from his schedule. He went to work, he came home, he went to his room, he came out for dinner at eight on the dot every day. Every day. Grocery shopping was Thursdays. I think he did laundry on the weekends. A man’s shorts are none of my business, you know?”
    â€œSo, he didn’t have any friends?”
    â€œMaybe online?” Bradet guessed. “Once he was in his room, he’d turn on the computer, and that was it. No more communication from the Henry.”
    â€œCan I see his room?”
    â€œCan you pick locks?” Bradet asked. He stood up and led Sam down the left hall. “Henry’s bathroom, and his fortress of solitude.” He batted at the combination padlock handing on Henry’s door. “He was a very private man. But he paid his rent on time.”
    â€œYour roommate padlocked his bedroom