Fox crossed themselves.
“Kemewasat the party,” Louis said—oblivious to the fact that he was one gingerbread house away from Indira roasting him in an oven. “But he was only there for an hour or so. He was gone by nine.”
The hurt on Millie’s face was too much to look at; I averted my gaze.
“But he WAS there—” Millie began.
“A couple of my friends and I,” Louis said over her (no mean feat), “we saw him leave. I can give you some names if that would help.”
I waited for the sheriff’s cross-examination of Millie, but all she said was “Thank you, Louis. I’d like you to make a statement too, and I’ll need you to provide Deputy Mai with those names.”
When I was brave enough to risk another look, the pain on Millie’s face looked even deeper. Louis was still patting her hand.
It felt like that awful, frozen moment would go on forever, but then Fox said, “Leaving aside Millie’s terrible attempt at an alibi, you can’t tell me you think Keme had something to do with that man’s death. Keme wouldn’t hurt a soul.” Fox seemed to consider this, head cocked to the side, and then added, “Except Dash.”
“I understand that this is a difficult, stressful time,” the sheriff said, “and emotions are running high. Right now, the best thing you can do for Keme is be ready to show him your love and support when you’re able to see him. I understand if you feel like you need to wait here, but I encourage you to go home and get some rest. I’ll contact you when Keme can have visitors.”
Another of those frozen gulfs opened up.
“But you can’t be serious,” Fox said. “This is ridiculous. We’re talking about Keme.”
“Bobby, go ahead and take those statements,” the sheriff said. “Dash, if you’d come with me.”
She didn’t seem to be asking, so I followed her out of the lobby.
As the sheriff led me down a hallway, she said, “I understand you’re already conducting your own investigation.”
“I don’t know about an investigation,” I said, “but I did talk to Keme’s mom and—I don’t know, her boyfriend.” I filled her in on the conversation, including their vagueness about why Keme had gotten upset and the reason for his argument with JT, and then I told her about the other man, the one from Orange County, who had argued with JT.
“California?” the sheriff asked.
“I have no idea. Foster didn’t seem like the chewiest, um, cookie in the drawer.”
(I was sixty percent certain that was an expression.)
“Why would someone drive all the way up here from California to argue with JT?” the sheriff said, but it wasn’t really a question, so I just offered a shrug.
We passed the squad room, where Salk and Dahlberg were having a conversation in low—and what appeared to be unhappy—voices. Neither of them looked up when I passed. We continued down the hall. There were more of those public safety posters. (One of them was about Sasquatch, but I was pretty sure it was a joke.) And someone had hung the kind of “public spaces” art that you could get at TJ Maxx. (Skyscrapers in black and white! A triptych with a distressed wooden frame!) I’d been back here before, of course—even as a suspect myself. But the last year, and my relationship with Bobby, had wiped away a lot of those bad associations. Now it felt like I was seeing everything anew, and it all felt wrong. Like the building had been turned upside down. Or this was one of those dreams where you were lost in a maze.
“You understand,” the sheriff said, “that your personal connection to the case means that I can’t contract you to help with the investigation.”
“I know,” I said. And maybe it was the disorienting unreality of the moment that made me brave enough to add, “But I’m still going to try to help Keme.”
“I know,” the sheriff said.
She opened a door, and we stepped into a dark room. The only bright spot was a smoky piece of glass that looked in on the next room, where Keme sat at a table. Even though I knew he couldn’t see us, it felt like he was staring right at me, his jaw set with familiar belligerence. A bruise was darkening at the corner of his mouth, and the skin had split above his temple. He also had one heck of a shiner.
“I’ll have to send someone to take statements from them again,” the sheriff said. “From his mom, I mean, and her partner. When Salk tried to talk to them, the boyfriend wouldn’t give him the time of day. He told Salk he didn’t know where the mom was. Didn’t know how to reach her.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “He told September she was asleep when the deputies came around to ask about Keme.” I hesitated. “She took a pill while I was there. I don’t know what it was, but it felt…weird.”
Weird actually didn’t begin to describe it, but I wasn’t ready to get into the details.
The sheriff only nodded. Then she said, “We canvassed the park, as I’m sure you guessed, and the statements we took back up what you told us. No one was seen entering the house after Deputy Tripple and Channelle left.”
“So, that’s the last time anyone saw him alive,” I said. “Do you have a time of death?”
“The district medical examiner puts it somewhere between eight and ten last night. We’re thinking it had to be around ten, since JT made a couple of phone calls around nine-thirty.”
