We Begin at the End(39)

The state went in heavy again, settled on second-degree murder. Vincent settled on twenty years tacked on.

He picked up the phone and called Cuddy, got him after five minutes.

“I’m looking through the Vincent King file.”

Cuddy sniffed like he was fighting a cold. “I thought Boyd was done with that.”

“He is.”

“Right.”

“The report I got, Vincent King and Baxter Logan. There’s not much detail in the autopsy.”

“That’s all we’ve got, I’m afraid. Logan died when he hit the stone floor. Twenty-four years ago, Walk. Reports weren’t as detailed.”

“How is Vincent doing?”

He heard the big man lean back in his chair, the leather stretching. “He doesn’t speak. Not even to me.”

“Did he see himself on the news?” The locals were ramping up the pressure on the D.A. to finally bring the charges.

“He doesn’t have a TV.”

Walk frowned. “But I thought—”

“Oh he could have one. I’ve offered, many times.”

“So what does he do in there?”

Silence, a long time. “Cuddy?”

“He’s got a picture of the girl. Sissy Radley. He’s got it on the wall, and that’s the only thing in that cell.”

Walk closed his eyes as Cuddy told him to stay in touch.

He checked the report. The autopsy was carried about by David Yuto, M.D. It gave an address and phone number. He called it, got an answering machine and left a message. Twenty-four years, he doubted the man was still there. And if he was, Walk wondered what the hell he’d ask him. He was trying to be a cop, to work a case as best he could. Despite Boyd’s warning, he’d push on. He just didn’t know which direction to head in.

Louanne Miller came in, sat down opposite, not talking, just watching the window, like always.

Walk flipped a page and stared at Star, her hair fanned behind, arm bent at an angle like she was reaching out for someone to help her.

“You need to tidy this office.” Louanne looked at the stacked papers, the mess all over.

“I want to talk to Darke myself.”

“Because you’ll do better than the state cops? You’re tough like that?”

“I’ve known Darke since—”

“Nothing, Walk. That’s what that means. Nothing. Look at Vincent King, and I see you looking his way, like you expect him to still be the kid that left here thirty years back. He’s gone, though, whatever you knew about him, it left him the day he stepped into Fairmont.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Serious, Walk. I know you didn’t change. But everyone else did.”

Out the window Walk saw the colors too bright, blues and white, polished glass and bleached flags.

“So what else is there?” she said.

“Burglary. The place was trashed.”

“But nothing missing. More like a fight that got out of hand.”

“Milton’s lying.”

“No good reason for that.”

“Let’s go burglary. Could be Star disturbed them,” he said, again reaching, so far he almost stumbled over his words.

“All of this, what you’re saying, you have to discount the fact that we found a man, sitting in the house, her blood on his shirt, his prints all over everything, possible motive.”

“No way,” he fired back quick.

“And yet here we are. On a hunch.”

“Vincent won’t say a word. He won’t say why, he won’t say how he got in, what time it happened. Shit, he called it in himself. From their phone.”

“He was vicious. Star … how many ribs did he break? You’ve got the photos in front of you.”

He looked at them again, the marks angry across her chest, blue to purple, streaks upon broken bones. There was feeling involved, a kind of hatred so hot Walk could feel it searing.

“And the swelling by her eye.”

“He’s there, however he got in, no sign of a break-in. She invites him in, something happens. He beats her. Shoots her dead. Runs, hides the weapon, returns and sits down in the kitchen, calls it in. And waits for us. The kid, Robin, he’s locked in his bedroom, mercifully, but there’s a chance he heard something.”

Walk stood and opened the window to the call of another perfect morning. An hour or two at his desk, that’s all he could ever take.

“I need to talk to Darke,” he said again. “There’s history with Star. He’s violent.”

“Alibi is tight.”

“That’s why I’ve called her in.”

“Boyd said to leave it alone. Don’t fuck with a state case.”

Walk took a deep breath, everything swimming, nothing clear at all, other than the fact he knew Vincent. No matter what Louanne said. He knew Vincent King. Fuck the thirty years, he knew his friend.

“You need to shave, Walk.”

“So do you.”

She laughed at that. And then Leah called through, and told him Dee Lane was waiting.

He found her at the desk, then led her through to the compact office in the back. A small table, four chairs and a wide vase bursting with Vendela roses. View out over Main, more grandmother’s guesthouse than interrogation room.