“What the fuck is wrong with you?”I asked.
“He shouldn’t have said that,” Red said.And then, “Did he tell you anything useful?”
It took a moment to connect theheback to Tip.
I shook my head.“Did he tell you the story about the guy coming up to him?The one who was all but carrying a sign that said ‘I’m an Ozark Volunteer’?”
“He told us.”
“What the fuck was that?”I shook my head.“I mean, the fucking neck tattoo?”
Red Alvin’s voice was surprisingly cautious as he said, “There are a lot of guys who might match that description.And it wouldn’t surprise me if some of those men decided to mess with a gay boy wandering around, alone, in the wrong part of the county.”
“He was outside some asshole’s two-million-dollar lake house,” I said, “with a hundred other people, most of them college kids, and plenty of them willing to swing on a knob.It’s not like he showed up at Maniacs or wandered onto some fucking Ozark Volunteers compound.”
“You know how these guys are.They know about those kinds of parties.They know what kind of people go there.They get drunk enough and stupid enough, and they decided to swing by, raise some hell.An opportunity presents itself.”
“Fuck that,” I said.“That story was bullshit.You know it was bullshit.There’s no fucking way he saw a neck tattoo, not out there in the dark.It’s like a well-digger’s ass out there.Fuck, he wouldn’t have been able to see the fucking bottle the guy was carrying.”
Red Alvin shrugged.“That’s his story.”
“Yeah, that’s his fucking story.”
So, the question was: why was he lying?
“Listen,” Red said, “if you think of anything else…”
“Sure.”But I couldn’t help asking, “What do you think happened?”
Red shrugged again.“Come on, Gray.You’ve seen this shit before.Kids get fucked up.Kids fuck each other up.Everyone’s too drunk to remember.”He turned to head after Brother Gary and tossed back over his shoulder, “This kind of thing never gets closed.”
He wasn’t wrong about that.A lot of cases went just the way he described, and they never got closed.Hell, they barely even got investigated.Because what were a couple of detectives supposed to do after they’d talked to everyone they could track down from the party, and no one remembered anything?
I stepped out into the hall, the sound of Red Alvin’s steps fading, and sudden movement to my left made me glance over.I only caught a glimpse of the person who had darted out of sight, but it was enough for me to recognize the slouchy little outfit he’d put together for the hospital.Had Jordan followed me on purpose?Or had he stumbled upon our conversation by accident?And either way, why had he been eavesdropping?
I thought about going after him, but what would I say?Why were you walking through the hallway of a public hospital?For all I knew, Tip had gotten tired of his fussing and thrown him out again, and then Jordan had been embarrassed to be seen by me.
What I should do, I thought, is go home.Get some more sleep.Do whatever I was supposed to do for Darnell.But I already knew that wasn’t what I was going to do.I headed for the exit.Next stop: Tip’s apartment.
6
A quick check for a driver’s license issued to Thomas Wheeler took me to an apartment complex near Wroxall College.It was an older building—you could tell because, unlike the newer construction, this wasn’t a massive, multi-floor structure of luxury condos and mixed-use retail space.It was a single-story U-shape with vinyl siding and a narrow, covered walkway that the residents had turned into a kind of extended porch.Most of the apartments had a couple of chairs out front, often with a welcome mat, and several had potted plants that were thriving in the Midwestern heat and humidity.
Tip’s unit was at the end of one of the legs of the U.It had two webbed lawn chairs in front and the bottom of a milk jug that, to judge by the roach abandoned there, was being used as an ashtray, just not for cigarettes.
One of the basic rules of any investigation was to learn as much as you could about the victim.It was important not only for figuring out who might have wanted to hurt them and why, but also for establishing routines, patterns, anything that might have provided their assailant with opportunity.Of course, for any of that to be true, the crime couldn’t be something totally random, like getting bashed in the dark outside a stranger’s party.
But the other thing about checking out a victim’s space was that it was a great way to figure out what they might be lying about.And why.Besides, I was curious about this roommate who’d invited Tip to the party and couldn’t be bothered to stop by the hospital.
I rapped on the door.The sun was still climbing in the sky, and the heat was rising with it.Most years, I looked forward to Memorial Day.Pools opened.Summer officially began (cue Emery wanting to argue about the calendar).Guys were out in shorts and tanks.
No one came to the door.Sweat was building on my neck, and the air was still and heavy and smelled like the ashes in the cut-up milk jug.I knocked again, harder this time.
The deadbolt shot back, and the door opened.A guy stood there, rubbing his eyes, picture of a college kid suffering an epic hangover.He was around my height, brown hair in a boyishly shaggy (and sleep-mussed) side part, and his downturned mouth and weak chin made him cute rather than handsome.He wore a bro cut tee, yellow with a smiley face across the front, and cut-off sweats.With a trace of resentment, he said, “What?”
“Gray Dulac.”I showed him my badge.“Detective with the Wahredua PD.Are you Rory?”
He didn’t actually sayoh shit, but you learn to pick up onthose things—the way his bloodshot eyes got huge, the instinctive glance over his shoulder to check if he’d left anything incriminating lying out.It looked and felt the way any dumbass college kid might act if the police showed up on his doorstep.Especially after a night out.
