Little Deaths(21)

“Sir.”

“And the case ain’t no excuse anyhow. The public, the chief, they see a guy in a wrinkled shirt or a guy who can’t be bothered to shave, they lose faith. Wife or mom not taking care of him right? That’s a sloppy household, right there. Cop can’t even keep order at home, how will he keep the case together, how will he solve this? That’s what people think. All the time”—he tapped his temple—“you gotta think the way other people do.”

The waitress reappeared with two plates of spaghetti and meatballs. It smelled good. Devlin tucked his napkin into his collar, and Quinn followed suit.

Pete watched, fascinated, as Devlin shoveled in forkfuls of food, as he chewed openmouthed, the mass of brown and red churning and glistening on his tongue before he swallowed. They ate in silence. Then Devlin dabbed his mouth with a napkin, reached for a toothpick, and worked at his teeth.

He leaned back and the waitress returned and took their plates. She dropped a fork as she did so, and Pete saw a flush spread over her neck as she bent to pick it up, heard her murmured apology. Devlin just looked at her, frowning, until she scurried away, head down.

Then he turned his attention back to Quinn and she was forgotten, like she’d never existed.

“Okay, I gotta go. Got a meeting at two-thirty with the chief. He wants a quick result on this. So I want you to go over the statements again. The husband’s. The wife’s. There’s something there . . . something not right.”

He got to his feet and headed for the door, leaving Quinn with the check.

Pete studied Quinn as he signaled to the girl to bring him some coffee. He didn’t look like the type to welcome an afternoon of paperwork. He slouched in his seat, head bent, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. His lip stuck out, giving him the look of a sullen teenager.

Quinn seemed to become aware of Pete’s eyes on him, and looked up to meet them. Before he could speak, Pete nodded at him.

“Your boss sounds like mine. Pain in the ass, am I right?” Grinned at him.

Quinn narrowed his eyes. “Huh?”

“I couldn’t help overhearing. What’s his problem, anyway?”

Quinn shrugged. “You want something?”

Pete slid into the seat opposite him.

“Pete Wonicke. I’m with the Herald. I’d like to talk to you about the Malone case.”

Quinn was shaking his head before he’d even finished speaking.

“Oh, no. I ain’t talking to the press. No way.”

His coffee arrived, and Pete ordered one too. When the girl had left, he asked: “Coffee any good here?”

Quinn shrugged. “It’s hot and strong, that’s about all you can say.”

Then he frowned. “Look, I can’t talk to you about the case. My sergeant would tear me a new one.”

Pete nodded. “I understand. That’s okay.”

The girl brought Pete’s coffee and he poured in a good amount of sugar, added creamer, stirred. He sipped for a moment and then he said casually, “He seems like a tough guy to work for.”

Quinn shot him a suspicious look and Pete raised his hands, leaned back. “Nothing about the case, okay? Just making conversation. How long you been working for him?”

There was a pause, and then: “Three years. A little over. Since I made detective.”

Pete nodded. “He reminds me of a guy I used to work for. One time, he gave me a report to proof. Five thousand words, at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon. Told me it had to be done by Monday morning. And I had a camping trip planned that weekend with my buddy.”

He sipped his coffee. Shook his head. Waited.

And Quinn said, “So what did you do?”

“Went on the trip. Got back Sunday night with the worst goddamn hangover of my life. Went straight to bed and the next morning, I told him the report was perfect and he was a genius.”

That got him a grin and a nod. Pete put down his mug.

“Listen, Detective, I need to ask you a favor.”

“I told you, I can’t talk about the case.”

“I know, I know. What I need is just a few facts. Information I could get from anyone. Most of it I already know—you can just confirm what I have.”

“Well, I don’t know . . .”

“You won’t be mentioned by name.”

“Facts? Like what?”

“Like how long the kids have been missing. And the father’s job—where does he work?”

“He’s a mechanic over at the airport.”

“Fixing engines, that kind of thing?”

“I guess.”

“Okay—listen, you mind if I take a few notes? Just to remind me. My memory ain’t so good sometimes.”

Quinn shrugged.

“So does he work shifts? The father?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he at work when the kids went missing?”

“No, but he don’t live with them. He and the mother are separated.”

“Tough on him. Not being with his family.”

“Guess so.”

Pete shook his head. Exhaled loudly. Then—trying to appear casual—“Say, you want another cup of coffee? Slice of pie? Bet you’ve been working damn hard recently.”

“We’ve been doing door-to-door interviews for two days straight. We got ’bout three hundred cops searching for that boy. Helicopters, too.”