Free Dead Even by Emma Brookes Page A

they were skating on dangerously thin ice.
    Butch looked at the house and back at his partner. “Not exactly the type of house you would associate with the crime we’re investigating, is it?”
    Mike had to admit he was right. The house looked like money. The large yard was landscaped and neat, with big cottonwood trees surrounding the home. The sidewalks and porch had been swept to remove the light layer of snow that had accumulated during the night. The area in front of the double garage had been swept clean also, making it hard to tell if a car had left. Mike raised his hand to ring the doorbell again, but brought it back down as the door opened.
    â€œYes? Can I help you?”
    â€œMr. Simpson? Howard Simpson?” Mike asked.
    â€œYes, I’m Howard Simpson. What can I do for you?”
    He was an average-looking man, slightly under six feet with dark brown hair combed forward, trying, unsuccessfully, to cover a receding hairline. He was wearing tight-fitting jeans, and a V-necked yellow sweater over a brown dress shirt. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone, and around his neck he wore two gold chains. The overall impression Mike received was of a middle-aged man trying to look twenty again.
    Mike took his badge from the pocket of his coat and opened it toward Mr. Simpson. “Sir, I was wondering if we could have a few words with you—ask you a few questions?” He remembered Markham’s warning and added, “That is if you have the time. We have a little problem, and we think maybe you could help us out.”
    Howard Simpson swung the door open wide. “Well, certainly. Come on in out of the cold. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll get us all a cup and then you can tell me what this is all about. How does that sound?”
    â€œJust fine, sir,” Butch smiled at the man. “We never turn down coffee. Certainly not on a day like this.”
    Both men had taken note of the voice. Deep and raspy. They followed Simpson into the brick home. It was as nice inside as the outside indicated. They were ushered into a large living room, then left alone as Howard Simpson went to the kitchen for coffee. The room was furnished in a contemporary style, with large lamps atop all the tables, and recessed lighting across the beamed ceiling. Mike finally figured out what was bothering him. All of the light was coming from artificial means. The large windows that ran along the west side of the room were heavily draped, as were the windows in the dining area just off the living room. He could see sheers were also used and wondered why the main drapes weren’t pulled to allow in more light.
    Howard Simpson returned with three steaming mugs. “There you go, gentlemen. Nothing like a good cup of coffee to get the old blood circulating on a cold, January morning. Now then, what did you need to see me about?”
    â€œMr. Simpson,” Mike began, “would you happen to remember if you were in Lawrence, Kansas about ten years ago? Wednesday, the fifteenth of January, 1986, to be exact?”
    â€œMy goodness, such a long time ago. Why in the world do you need to know that?”
    Mike cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, but someone has accused you of a crime—at least they think it might be you. I know it’s been a long time, but we have to follow up on these things, no matter how farfetched they may seem. If there is any way you could prove you weren’t there, it would help us out a lot.”
    Howard Simpson nodded his head. “Well, I certainly don’t like the idea of being accused of something. What is it they say I did?”
    â€œI’m sorry, Mr. Simpson, but I’m not at liberty to say. At least not yet.”
    The two officers waited for the explosion they were certain was to come. But instead Howard Simpson merely nodded his head again. “I see. In that case I guess I better find out where I was ten years