The man lived with his sister, or at least in a converted garage behind his sister’s house somewhere in Mission, and his nephew’d just gotten a turtle, naming it Donatello despite the fact it was a girl, but his name was easy enough to remember, mostly because the first time Quinn saw the security guard, the resemblance to the Warner Brothers’ sheepdog was uncanny. Jowly and pale with a belly built on cafeteria burritos and Hostess cupcakes, Sam had been a fixture since Quinn entered graduate school, a steady barrel-chested figure in cadet blue and gray cotton who often stopped by when Quinn was working late to check on him.
He didn’t want to wait at the parking garage, so he’d found a nearby bench and sat down to wait for the cops to arrive. And arrive they had. From the sheer glut of squad cars, unmarked sedans, and a pair of ambulances, it looked like a cop-mad three-year-old had emptied her entire toy box onto the lawn to reenact Jake and Elwood Blues playing in a ballroom. Kane’s thick-bodied SUV perched on a curb near the parking structure’s entrance, and his Irish-washed voice could definitely be heard over the low murmuring din behind the cement wall blocking Quinn’s view of the Audi and LeAnne’s remains.
The structure’s shadowy entrance disgorged a gangly limbed man, his brown suit a bit too short for his long arms and legs, a pair of navy blue socks playing peekaboo over his dark sienna loafers with every step he took. A gold badge hung from the man’s maroon belt, a choice he’d obviously made to match the tie he wore with his beige shirt. The color combination tickled an annoying spot in Quinn’s brain, and he forced himself to look up from the mismatched suit, socks, and shoes before he went mad from the irritation.
Taking a good look at the man’s scowling, pockmarked face, Quinn decided the shoes were a much better thing to stare at than the nuclear-hot glare he was getting from the detective. When the shoes appeared nearly beneath his nose, Quinn clutched his cocoa a little bit tighter and looked up at the man standing in front of him.
“Doctor Morgan?”
The detective made a slight show of flashing his credentials, and Quinn nodded absently, having seen more than enough badges in his lifetime.
“I’m Detective Ziortza. I want to talk to you about what happened here.”
“I gave my statement to… that other detective… um, Kelley. And to the responding officers.” His fingers were still cold, and Quinn debated plunging them straight into the cocoa to warm them up.
“I want to clarify a few things.”
Ziortza removed a small notebook from his jacket’s inner pocket, then clicked open a pen. Running over the pertinent details, Ziortza made little scratches on the paper as Quinn reaffirmed the answers he’d already given three or four times before.
“Now, care to tell me why you called Detective Morgan prior to dialing 911?”
“He’s my brother?” Quinn frowned, matching Ziortza’s darkening expression.
“How long did you wait between calling your brother and dialing for emergency services?”
“Not that long. I think as soon as I hung up. I don’t know. I can check the logs.” Quinn fumbled for his phone, then realized he’d given it to Kane. “Um, my brother has my phone. I think he was going to check on something—probably times. I don’t know. He said something about… timing.”
“Great.” Ziortza sounded less than happy about Quinn’s answer. “Make any calls besides your brother and 911?”
“Yes, um…. Rafe Andrade. I called him to….” Quinn couldn’t remember why he’d called Rafe other than needing him to be there beside him. At the time, it’d seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do, and in the cold of Ziortza’s shadow, asking for Rafe to stop what he was doing to hold Quinn’s hand seemed a bit silly—still necessary but silly. “He’s a… friend.”
“A friend,” Ziortza repeated flatly.
There was something edgy in his voice, a familiar cant beaten in around the edges, and Quinn chased down the accent, turning it over in his head.
“This friend—”
“Ziortza. You’re Basque. Second generation here?” Quinn cocked his head, studying the detective’s flat-planed face and hooked nose. “You’ve still got the edges of it in your words. Just a little bit. Do you speak it?”
The detective reared his head up, his shoulders thrown back, then replied, “We’re not here about me, Morgan. I’m here because I need to verify your alibi for the time of LeAnne Walker’s murder—”
“You think I killed her?” Quinn didn’t realize he’d stood until he found himself eye to eye with the tall detective. “You think I did that? Why? Who the hell would—”
“Detective Morgan’s pointed out a recent string of unfortunate events happening around you, and I’ve got to wonder if he’s clouded his judgment because you’re his brother,” Ziortza replied hotly. “Lots of chaos seems to be following you, Morgan, and no one’s bringing up your less than stable mental state—”
“Fuck you.” Quinn stepped up into Ziortza’s face, snarling as he spoke. “I will not be stigmatized because some fucking mouth breather of a cop’s got some issues. There’s nothing wrong with me. I might be wired a little bit different, but I’m not wrong, Detective, so you can take that badge you’re wearing and shove it up your ass—”