Free A Slow Walk to Hell by Patrick A. Davis Page B

on me in anticipation. I knew what he was waiting to hear.
    “I want the truth, Sam,” I said quietly. “Did you have any contact with Talbot other than what you told me or any knowledge of what’s behind his death?”
    “No, Marty. I swear to God.”
    “Sam, if you’re lying, you realize I can’t—”
    “Have I ever lied to you?”
    He had me. As far as I knew, I was the one person he’d always told the truth to, except for possibly his ex-wife.
    I was torn. As I cop I was supposed to maintain my objectivity. But all I could think about was what would happen to Sam if the truth came out.
    “All right. I’ll do what I can to cover for you.”
    He sagged back with obvious relief. “Thanks, Marty.”
    As I left the room, he was again staring at the photograph of his son and ex-wife.

9
    A s I crossed the living room toward the door, the eyes of Sam’s guests followed me, indicating they’d at least caught the volume of his tirade, if not the words. For any other host, this would lead to an awkward scene. In Sam’s case, he’d smoothly dispel their concerns with a beaming smile and a plausible explanation. Before they could assimilate what he’d said, he’d hit them with a series of one-liners that would have them in stitches. By the time the guests departed, the argument they’d overheard would be long forgotten.
    In the end, this was why Sam excelled socially. He had an innate charm that allowed him to manipulate people without them being aware of it. Or if they did catch on to what he was doing, they didn’t give a damn. They enjoyed the ride too much.
    A mutual acquaintance once called Sam the best bullshit artist he’d ever seen, and I agreed. That’s why, as I waited for the elevator, I had to ask myself if he’d been bullshitting me.
    I replayed his reaction to Talbot’s death, trying to understand what had troubled me. I recalled his horror and revulsion…
    And then I remembered his eyes.
    Just now, they’d been filled with desperation as he practically begged me to cover for him. Yet earlier, when he’d listened to the grisly details of Talbot’s murder, they’d been curiously flat and unresponsive.
    Had Sam been putting on an act? Could he already have known Talbot was dead?
    Impossible.
    Sam was a dedicated professional soldier and a good man. Sure he had a temper which could lead him to harm someone in a fit of rage. But we’re talking about a methodical, sadistic killing. No way could Sam be capable of something as horrific as that.
    Still…
    I recalled the specific phrases he used moments earlier.
    I wouldn’t jeopardize Ryan’s future or my family’s name. Dammit, you know I wouldn’t.
    He thought those words would enhance his innocence, but they had the opposite effect. They gave him a motive.
    I shook my head. I had to know if he’d only left his office for an hour.
    The elevator dinged and the doors opened. By then I was already thumbing in the number for Major Tenpas.
     
    The elevator descended toward the lobby.
    In my ear, the ringing stopped and a woman with a tired voice answered. When I asked for Major Tenpas, she shouted. “Lowell! For you.”
    I heard a TV playing loudly. A Bugs Bunny cartoon. A girl shrieked, “Mommy, Davy hit me. Mommy!”
    A boy said, “I didn’t. She’s lying. I didn’t.”
    “In the face,” the girl wailed. “He hit me in the face.”
    “Davy,” the woman said, sounding more exasperated than angry, “how many times have I told you not to hit your sister? Lowell, do something about your son.”
    “Upstairs to your room, young man,” a man growled. “Now.”
    “But, Dad—”
    “You heard me.”
    Into the phone, the man said wearily, “Major Tenpas.”
    After I identified myself, I immediately noted his suspicious tone. For anyone in the military, receiving a call from the OSI was like hearing from the IRS. Whatever the news was, it could only be bad.
    “Sounds like you’ve got a war going on, Major,” I said.
    He forced a