Not One of Us(14)

Images from over three decades ago flashed through my mind—Jackson and Tommy milling together with others at a party and the two of them sitting in the school cafeteria with a dozen others. But I couldn’t recall seeing them alone together. They always seemed to have a more “friend of a friend” type relationship. The two couldn’t have been more opposite—the clean-cut jock and the guy who acted too cool for school and slightly dangerous. Jackson had a reputation as a heavy drug user. As far as I could tell, the only thing the guys had in common was their callous treatment of me. Not that either knew or cared.

But if they weren’t close, why did Tommy seem so bent out of shape about seeing Ray and Jori together? Did Tommy have a thing for Jori Trahern? She was a lot younger than him, but that didn’t necessarily rule out the possibility.

“What caused the fight?” I asked abruptly.

“Man had no business being at the Pavilion.” Tommy’s chest puffed out, and his tone rang with righteous indignation. “It weren’t right that he was just sittin’ there chattin’ it up with one of Jackson’s kin. Ray needed to be put in his place.”

Was this merely a male territorial move? Tommy showing off to his friends by bullying Ray?

“Hey, I do know you.” Tommy raised a hand and pointed his finger at me. His lips pressed together and breathed out a puff of sound. Buh.

I braced myself. Here it comes. The old moniker. But Tommy stopped himself midword. I was surprised he possessed this modicum of self-control.

“Yeah, I recognize you now,” he continued, a smirk settling over his mouth. “You look lots different. Better.” His eyes did a slow scan up and down my body. I kept my poker face on, revealing nothing.

Oliver’s sidelong glance burned into me, and I felt him assessing this development in the interview. Before I could respond to Tommy’s insult-wrapped-in-a-compliment, Oliver took over the questioning, pressing for more details on the altercation. Tommy insisted there wasn’t much of a physical fight, but I suspected he was downplaying the situation. We’d check with Broussard’s staff who were on duty last night and take statements from witnesses and the other three men involved.

“Did you threaten to kill Mr. Strickland?” Oliver asked at last.

Tommy shook his head in disgust. “It was just words said in the heat of the moment. Don’t tell me that hardened convict claims he’s scared for his life now.” Tommy crossed his arms over his potbelly, and his mouth turned down in a scowl. “So are you arresting me, or what?” he demanded.

Oliver tucked his notepad in his vest pocket. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Oliver leveled him with a stern gaze. “On whether or not you were the one who murdered Raymond Strickland last night.”

Tommy paled, as though Oliver’s words had landed like a punch to his gut. “Murder? Ray’s dead?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

The woman who’d opened the door to us appeared immediately by Tommy’s side. She’d evidently been listening in on us. She sidled up to Tommy, and he wrapped an arm around her waist. “What’s this about?” she asked. Her voice was loud with a false bravado.

“It’s okay, Sandy,” Tommy reassured her. “Just a misunderstanding.”

Her chin lifted. “My husband was with me all last night.”

“What time did you return home from the bar?” I asked Tommy.

He rubbed his face and turned to Sandy. “I’m not sure. About eleven?”

“Yeah, maybe even a little earlier.” She answered with her gaze fixed on me, dislike and mistrust brimming in her faded blue eyes.

“You willing to come to the station for a GSR test?” Oliver asked.

Tommy blinked. “A what?”

“Gunshot residue test.”

I retained my poker face. Oliver was trying to assess Tommy’s frame of mind. The GSR test would be useless at this point. It was only relevant four to six hours after a shooting, and that was only if the suspect hadn’t washed his hands and had also been inactive. While I’d talked to Strickland’s neighbors, Oliver had spoken briefly with the coroner and pressed him for a quick assessment. According to the coroner, Raymond Strickland had probably been dead over eight hours by the time his body was discovered.

“Yeah, I’ll—”

“No way,” Sandy interrupted. “He ain’t doin’ nothing without a lawyer present.”

“If your husband is innocent . . .” I let my voice trail off.

“I told you, he was with me last night. I just don’t trust y’all not to try and pin him with the crime.”

Oliver ignored her outburst. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Sims.”

It sounded more like a threat than a casual comment.

A cowed Tommy nodded. “Yes, Officers.” The door began to close as Oliver and I stepped off the porch.

“Who was that woman?” I heard Sandy ask before it shut behind us.

“Nobody.”

A nobody. That’s what he thought of me. I pressed my lips together. After all these years, his opinion didn’t matter. I regarded Tommy Sims as a low-life scumbag, so all things considered, I thought less of him than he did of me.

Oliver didn’t address me until we were safely ensconced in the cruiser. “Mind telling me what all that was about? How well do you know Sims?”