“If this is about your wild theories, I have nothing to say to you.”
The detective frowned and then said, “How’s the nomination going?” It was an awkward change of subject. Or was it an implied threat? Sean’s nomination to replace Justice Carr was front-page news. The media was lapping up the poetic justice of it all: a member of the Supreme Court missing and accused of murdering a young woman, the victim’s father nominated to replace him. You couldn’t make this shit up.
“The nomination is going fine,” Sean said. “I’m actually late for a meeting, so if you don’t mind…”
Whiteside stepped away from the SUV. Sean opened the rear door and threw his briefcase inside. He walked around to the driver side and swung open the door.
“You’re not helping him, you know,” the detective said.
Sean stopped before getting into the SUV. “Helping who?”
“Your son,” the detective said. “It’s going to haunt him for the rest of his life if you just pretend it didn’t happen. He’s going to go through life thinking he’s a killer.”
Better that than the alternative. “Let me worry about my son, okay?”
“I believe it was self-defense. Or he was defending you. He’s a young man and no one has an interest in locking him up.”
“You seem to have an interest in making allegations that could hurt my son more than anything he’s ever done. I’ve told you, if you have questions, talk to my lawyer.” Sean stared him down. “If you want to make a name for yourself, you’re going to have to find another case.”
“Oh, I already know that, Mr. Serrat.”
At this Sean paused.
The detective added, “It seems the State’s Attorney has decided to close the Billy Brice case. Funny, right as he’s about to seek support in his campaign for governor, he and my boss decide for the first time that closure rates don’t matter. They weren’t too subtle about what would happen to my job, either.”
“Just as well, detective, you were wasting your time.”
Whiteside shook his head: You know better.
“So you came here just to tell me that?”
“No, I came here to see if you’d do what’s right for your son. Come clean, get him some help, tell the truth. Stomping on someone’s throat is not something that’s easy to forget.”
The last part hovered in the humid air. Sean examined Whiteside, caught off guard by the comment. “His throat? I thought it was a blow to the head? The news said…”
Now the detective’s eyes narrowed and he looked at Sean as if he suddenly had doubts himself. “Someone clocked Billy Brice, but that’s not what killed him. We withheld the full cause of death from the media. It helps weed out the nut jobs. Brice died of a crushed larynx.”
The detective’s words cut loose a ten-thousand-pound weight anchored to Sean’s neck since that night on the football field. Ryan hadn’t killed Billy Brice. Someone must have stomped Brice while he was out cold on the field. Who? Probably the only other person there that night. The person who’d tromped through the trees to find the steel rod containing Ryan’s prints. The person who’d taken the photos of Ryan. Sebastian Finkle. But why? Just to get some dirt on the Serrats? Or maybe Brice had seen Finkle following Sean, and the man didn’t want any witnesses. Sean thought back to the day he’d hidden in Finkle’s closet. No violence this time, the senator had said to his lover. Whatever the reason, all that mattered was that Ryan had not delivered the fatal blow.
The detective kept talking, but Sean didn’t hear any of it. He just slipped into the SUV and pulled from the curb. In the rearview mirror he saw the detective, hands on his hips, watching him drive away.
CHAPTER 81
Sean coasted down Rock Creek Parkway to the final murder board the administration had scheduled to help him prepare for his Supreme Court confirmation hearing next week. The air-conditioner blew cold in his face, but he still felt warm and flushed. He was driving on autopilot, a muddle of thoughts still vaulting about in his brain.