In the Clearing (Tracy Crosswhite #3)(73)

The deputies who brought Hastey Devoe in told Jenny that he had refused a Breathalyzer test in the field, didn’t respond to their questions, and asked to make a phone call. Being brought in for suspicion of driving under the influence may have seemed like nothing but a minor inconvenience to Devoe, since he probably figured that his brother, Lionel, chief of police, would iron everything out.

Tracy knew she would need to knock Hastey Devoe out of his comfort zone if she hoped to get him to talk. She would have preferred to question him after she knew what Melton and Rosa had determined, but that wasn’t going to happen. She sensed they didn’t have much time before Lionel found out about the arrest, and she knew they wouldn’t likely get another opportunity to get Hastey alone anytime soon.

She was encouraged to see Devoe’s smirk evaporate when she entered the room with Jenny. Lionel may have warned him that a detective from Seattle was in town asking questions about Kimi. But beyond that, Devoe had to know that when the sheriff showed up to interview you personally, it was a bigger deal than just another DUI arrest.

“This is getting to be an old habit, Hastey,” Jenny said, sliding back a chair and sitting. Tracy took the other open chair in the room. No table separated them from Devoe, nothing to provide him a comfort zone. He smelled like a fraternity house the morning after a party.

Tracy recalled that in the photographs of Devoe as a younger man, the extra weight had given him an innocent, boyish appearance. Tracy suspected he had been the kid everyone laughed with when he took off his shirt and did cannonballs into the rivers and lakes, or belly danced as he chugged a beer. He’d likely been the class clown, one of the John Belushis, Chris Farleys, and John Candys of the world. But things didn’t end well for those men—drugs eventually killed Belushi and Farley; Candy had struggled with his weight and died of a heart attack. Those men had also been trained actors, and it was possible that they created their public personas to cover their insecurities and their demons.

From the look of Devoe, things weren’t going to end well for him either. Excess alcohol and overconsumption had turned his baby fat into sagging folds that overwhelmed the chair he sat in, and his boyish features had become pale and fleshy. His dress was slovenly, his khakis and blue polo shirt wrinkled and unkempt, with half-moon perspiration stains beneath each armpit and ringing his collar. His thinning gray hair was also disheveled and damp with perspiration.

Devoe’s gaze flicked to Jenny. “I’d like to make a phone call.”

“Just as soon as we’ve had a chance to talk and get you booked,” Jenny said.

“I’m not saying anything.” Devoe shifted his gaze to an empty corner of the room.

“Then you can listen.” Tracy inched her chair closer, forcing him to look at her.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am, Mr. Devoe. I’m the detective from Seattle your brother told you about.”

“What do you want?” Devoe folded his arms across his chest.

“I want to talk to you about Kimi Kanasket.”

Devoe’s forehead wrinkled. “Who?” he said. It was not convincing.

Tracy slid closer, leaving less than a foot between their knees. “I want you to tell me about the night Kimi Kanasket disappeared.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Devoe had the damaged, gravelly voice of a man who abused his alcohol and his cigarettes.

“Sure you do. You went to school with her your senior year, and this weekend is all about that year. Beyond that, you were there that night. You were in the clearing. You, Eric Reynolds, Archibald Coe, and Darren Gallentine were inseparable. You were the Four Ironmen. Tell me what happened.”

Devoe wouldn’t look at her, but his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he shifted and fidgeted in his chair. Though the room was air-conditioned, beads of perspiration began to trickle down the side of his face, following the contours of his sideburns. The feral odor in the room intensified.

“I don’t . . .” Hastey cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What size shoe do you wear, Hastey?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Thirteen, right?”

“Wrong,” he said. “Twelve.”

“You favored Converse in high school, like your buddy Eric.”

“I don’t—”

Tracy leaned forward. “Yes, you do, Hastey, and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to prove that you were in the Bronco when Eric ran Kimi over, and I’m going to prove that you and your brother Lionel, and maybe even your father, fixed the Bronco’s windshield and front fender. So don’t tell me you weren’t there or you don’t know anything about it.”

“I want to talk to my brother.”

“Your brother? I was betting that you’d ask to call Eric Reynolds,” Tracy said. “He’s been covering for you for forty years, hasn’t he? Of course he’s had little choice. The two of you share a common secret, don’t you? That’s why he put you on the company payroll, and that’s why he keeps you there. He even helped fund Lionel’s campaign to become chief of police for the same reason—to keep you quiet.”

Hastey looked like a man with heartburn after eating a spicy meal. The perspiration was dripping off of him.