Locust Lane(29)

There were news trucks outside the station, a scrum of media by the main entrance. They tried to question him but he simply nodded amiably. The officer behind the bulletproof glass invited him to take a seat. The inner door opened after just a couple of minutes. A middle-aged Black woman in a dark blue pants suit emerged.

“Mr. Noone?”

He rose, once again aware of his throbbing leg.

“Detective Gates,” she said, offering a hand as he approached. “I understand you have some information for us about last night’s incident?”

“I think I may have seen someone on Locust.”

She tilted her head. He had her attention.

“When was that?”

“Late. Like three in the morning.”

Another correct answer.

“Okay, come with me.”

She led him across a bullpen pervaded by a sense of hushed urgency. There was another detective in the conference room. Patrick froze when he saw him. It was the asshole who’d arrested Gabi. He was no longer in uniform, wearing instead a too-tight sport coat and a poorly knotted tie. But he had the same bullying presence, all knuckles and neck and scowl. His eyes flashed recognition as well, though he couldn’t quite place Patrick.

“This is Detective Procopio,” Gates said.

“We know each other, right?” Procopio said.

“You arrested my daughter.”

“That’s right,” he said, as if they’d once been in the same golf foursome. “How’s she doing?”

“She died a couple of weeks after that.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Procopio said after a beat.

Gates’s gaze traveled between the two men, trying to determine if there was a problem here.

“Go ahead and take a seat,” she said finally. “And just so you know, we record everything in here.”

Her voice was gentle and polite. It oozed concern. She might have been one of the procession of counselors he’d sat before during his daughter’s descent.

“So why don’t you tell me what you saw last night,” Gates said.

Patrick spoke the lines he’d rehearsed on the way over. They’d seemed plausible on Centre, but here, with two sets of skeptical eyes fixed on him, they sounded less reliable. A lot less. Gates’s expression remained polite, but Procopio’s face slowly twisted into disbelief.

“Do you think you could provide a better description of this individual?” Gates asked when he’d finished.

“That’s all I have.”

“But you’re sure there was somebody there,” Procopio said, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I am.”

“And yet you didn’t feel the need to call it in?”

It was not an unfair question. Still, something in the man’s tone brought it all back. Gabi, gray-skinned and shivering, hunched over in defeat. The cop, refusing to listen to Patrick’s entreaties.

Patrick looked at Gates.

“Could he be recused from this?” he asked.

“Recused?” Gates asked in surprise.

“I don’t feel comfortable with him here. He treated my daughter unfairly.”

“Unfairly,” Procopio said.

“Yes,” Patrick shot back, holding his gaze.

Gates studied the two men, one and then the other.

“Detective Procopio, I wonder if you could leave us alone,” she said.

For a brief moment, anger flashed in Procopio’s eyes. But then he flipped his pad closed and walked from the room without another word.

“Thank you,” Patrick said.

“Now, let’s see,” she said, ignoring his gratitude. “You said the dog you struck was a black Lab.”

“Lab-like.”

“How big would you say it was?”

“You know, medium large. Like this.”

He held his flattened hand two feet above the floor.

“And you’re sure of the time? Just after three?”

“I remember checking.”

“I’m curious—how can you be so sure there was someone there if you didn’t actually see them?”

“Yeah, okay. I know it sounds strange.”

“Not necessarily. I’m just trying to paint a picture.”

“I just knew there was someone there. That’s all.”

“Would you be willing to accept the possibility that it was all in your imagination?”

Rationally, the answer was yes. Of course it could have been in his imagination. So much was these days.

“No,” he said.

She stared at him a moment.

“Had you been drinking at all last evening?”

“Not to excess.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“I was under the limit.”

“Do you take drugs, Mr. Noone? Prescription or recreational?”

“No. Well, blood pressure stuff. Diuretics. But nothing that would make me see things.”

“Understood. Now, let’s go back to what you were doing out and about at such a late hour.”

Her tone remained gentle, but there was something new in it. Something sharp and cold.

“What do you mean?”

“It just seems odd, a man like you driving around aimlessly at that time of night.”