CHAPTER 120
ERIC CAINE SAT next to me in an interrogation room at the police station downtown. He looked calm, like he’d had a good lunch, a nap, and had checked the balance on his retirement account and found that it was good.
My stomach felt like it was full of snakes.
They hadn’t said why they wanted to see me, but I was pretty sure Mitch Tandy hadn’t summoned us to North Los Angeles Street so he could tell me that I was a great guy.
I forced myself to think of fluffy clouds and rainbows, not that Tandy had sworn to put me in a federal prison for life for killing Colleen.
Tandy got comfortable in one of the two metal chairs across from us. Then Ziegler came in with a bulky manila envelope. He made a big production of pulling out a chair, putting the envelope down on the table, and taking his seat, snapping a rubber band on his wrist.
Like he was onstage.
Like he wanted all the attention.
What was up?
Other than the rubber band tic, neither cop gave any sign of emotion.
Tandy said, “I suppose you know what this is about.”
“Why don’t you tell us?” Caine said. “My client has a busy schedule. I’m sure you do too.”
“Does the name Clay Harris mean anything to you?” Tandy asked me.
He knew full well that I had known Harris.
Three days had passed since I’d stared down at Harris’s dead body. I hadn’t heard anything about the shooting since then. And I hadn’t heard from my brother.
Caine was speaking for me.
“We both know Clay Harris. He worked for Private for, what, three years, Jack? He was terminated in ’09 for extortion.”
“He’s dead,” Tandy said. “He was shot in his house out in the boondocks three days ago. An anonymous tipster called it in.”
“I’m sorry to hear that Harris is dead,” Caine said. “What does that have to do with Jack?”
The snakes writhed in my belly. Had I left a fingerprint at Harris’s house? Had my car, with its crumpled rear panel, been seen by a passerby? Had Tommy gone to the police and said that I was the shooter? I’d considered these possibilities many times, but I was sure that I hadn’t touched anything in Harris’s house. I hadn’t left any trace, I was pretty damn sure.
Ziegler opened the envelope, rummaged around, took out a sheet of paper. I’d learned to read upside down when I was three. Ziegler had a report from the LAPD’s forensic lab.
Ziegler said, “Someone took a bite out of Clay Harris’s hand. The ME matched the bite mark to Colleen Molloy’s dental chart. Looks like she bit Harris. Probably the last thing she did before he shot her.”
I already knew what the LAPD lab knew. Sci had matched that bite mark to Colleen’s charts too.
I waited for Ziegler to speak again. I guessed he was hoping I’d blurt something out, give him something on me that he didn’t have already. The silence seemed to go on forever.
Caine said, “This isn’t 48 Hours, Detective, and we don’t have forty-eight hours. You matched the bite on Harris’s hand to Colleen Molloy’s teeth. You want to know if we’re interested? We are.”