The condescension drips off his voice like maple syrup off a stack of pancakes. Intentionally, of course. Striking back at me.
“I already told you I don’t care what you were doing at the base,” I try. “So if you want me to stop digging into this, all you have to do is tell me the truth. Unless.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you killed my brother,” I say.
Reeves doesn’t take the bait. Instead he makes a scene out of checking his watch. He looks over at the old folks starting to meander back toward the piano. “My break is over.”
He stands.
“Before you go,” I say.
I take out my phone. The video is already up. It’s cued to the first time the helicopter appears. I click the play button and hold it up for him. Even the fake tan is leaving his face now.
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to be,” he says, but his voice just isn’t making it.
“Sure you do. It’s a Sikorsky Black Hawk stealth helicopter flying over what you claim is a Department of Agriculture office complex. If you watch a few more moments, that helicopter will land. And after that, you’ll be able to see a man in a prisoner-issue orange jumpsuit get out of that copter.”
That’s a touch of an exaggeration—you really just see an orange dot—but a touch is all you need.
“You can’t verify—”
“Sure I can. There is a date stamp. The buildings and landscape are unique enough. I have the volume turned down, but the whole thing is narrated.” Another exaggeration. “The teenagers who made the tape spell out exactly where they are and what they are witnessing.”
His glare is back.
“One more thing,” I say.
“What?”
“You can hear three teenage boys on the tape. All three have died under mysterious circumstances.”
One of the old men shouts out, “Hey, Andy, can I request ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?”
“I hate Madonna,” another says.
“That’s ‘Like a Prayer,’ you moron. ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ is Bon Jovi.”
“Who you calling a moron?”
Andy Reeves ignores them. He turns to me. The facade is gone now. The whisper is harsher. “Is that the only copy of the tape?”
“Yes,” I say, giving him flat eyes. “I was dumb enough to come here without making copies.”
He speaks through gritted teeth. “If that tape is what you claim—and I stress the word ‘if’—revealing it would be a federal offense punishable by a prison sentence.”
“Andy?”
“What?”
“Do I look scared?”
“It would be treason to reveal that.”
I point to my calm face, indicating again that I do not in any way, shape, or form appear frightened by this threat.
“If you dare show it to anyone—”
“Let me stop you there, Andy. I don’t want you to worry your pretty head about it. If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’ll definitely show it. I’ll post it all over Twitter and Facebook with your name on it.” I pretend to have a pen and paper and prepare to mime writing. “Is Reeves spelled with two e’s or ea?”
“I had nothing to do with your brother.”
“How about my girlfriend, then? Her name is Maura Wells. You want to tell me you had nothing to do with her either?”
“My God.” Andy Reeves slowly shakes his head. “You have no clue, do you?”
I don’t like the way he says it, with sudden confidence. I don’t know how to reply, so I go with a simple “So tell me.”
Another patron shouts, “Play ‘Don’t Stop Believin’,’ Andy. We love that one.”
“Sinatra!”
“Journey!”
Murmurs of agreement. One guy starts singing, “‘Just a small town girl.’” The others answer, “‘Livin’ in a lonely world.’”
“One second, fellas.” Reeves waves and smiles, just a good ol’ guy enjoying the attention. “Save your energy.”
Andy Reeves turns back to me, lowers his mouth until it’s close to my ear, and whispers, “If you release that tape, Detective Dumas, I’ll kill you and everyone you love. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” I nod. Then I reach out, grab him by the balls, and squeeze.
His scream shatters the night air.
A few of the old folks jump up, startled. When I let go, Reeves flops to the floor like a fish hitting a dock.
The younger guys, the orderlies, react. They rush toward me. I back up, take out my shield.
“Stay where you are,” I warn. “Police business.”
The old folks don’t like this. Neither do three of the orderlies. They come closer, circling me. I take out my phone and snap a quick pic. The old-timers yell at me.
“What do you think you’re doing? . . . If I was ten years younger . . . You can’t just do that . . . ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’!”
One drops to his knee to tend to the wounded Reeves as the orderlies move closer.
I need to close this down now.
I show the approaching orderlies the gun in my hip holster. I don’t pull it out, but the sight is enough to slow them down.
An old man shakes his fist at me. “We’re going to report you!”
“Do what you must,” I say.
“You better get out of here now.”
I agree. Five seconds later, I’m out the door.
Chapter Twenty-one
I’m not worried about my behavior being called in to law enforcement. Andy Reeves will recover, and when he does, he won’t want anyone reporting the incident.
I am more worried, however, about Reeves’s threat. Four people—you, Diana, Rex, and Hank—have been murdered. Yes, I’m going to use that term now. Forget the claims of accident and suicide. You were murdered, Leo. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that go.
I call Ellie. She doesn’t answer, which pisses me off. I look on my phone and check the photo I took of Reeves. He’s on the floor, his face scrunched up in pain, but it’s clear enough. I attach it to a text and send it to Ellie. The text reads: See if Maura’s mom recognizes him.
I start to drive home, but I realize that I haven’t eaten anything. I veer to the right and make my way to the Armstrong Diner. It’s open twenty-four hours. Through the window I see that Bunny is on duty. As I get out of the car, my phone rings. It’s Ellie.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
That’s our way of realizing we went too far, I guess.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“The Armstrong.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
The phone goes dead. I get out and start toward the diner. Two girls, probably late teens, maybe early twenties, stand outside, smoking and jabbering away. One is blond, one brunette, both resembling “Internet models” or wannabe reality stars. That’s the look, I guess. I walk past them as they take deep drags. Then I stop and turn back toward them. I stare at them until they feel my eyes. They keep talking for a second or two, glancing toward me. I don’t move. Eventually their voices fade away.
The blonde makes a face at me. “What’s your problem?”
“I should just go inside,” I say. “I should just mind my own business. But I want to say one thing first.”
They both look at me the way you do at a crazy person.
“Please don’t smoke,” I say.
The brunette puts her hands on her hips. “Do we know you?”
“No,” I say.
“You a cop or something?”
“I am, but that has nothing to do with it. My father died of lung cancer because he smoked. So I can just walk right past you—or I can try to save your life. Chances are, you won’t listen to me, but maybe if I do this enough, maybe just one time, someone will stop and think and maybe even quit. So I’m asking you—I’m sort of begging you—please don’t smoke.”
That’s it.
I head inside. Stavros is behind the cash register. He gives me a high five and nods toward a table in the corner. I’m a single guy who doesn’t like to cook, so I’m here a lot for dinner. Like the menus at most New Jersey diners, the Armstrong’s menu is Bible-length. Bunny just gives me the specials menu. She points to the salmon with couscous and gives me a wink.