Dark, chillingly empty streets of San Jose rolled by the window of Detective Furlow’s car as we rode to the police station. The salad with chicken I’d ordered sat in a Styrofoam to-go box in my lap. I played with the plastic fork.
“Eat.” Mom tapped the side of the container.
I forced a bite into my mouth.
We’d left Brittany in the hotel room. I hoped she was sleeping.
Ross sat in the passenger seat up front, unusually quiet.
Detective Furlow had been the one to suggest we watch him question Cat after I told him what I remembered. Things might go faster, he’d said, if we were there to prod him with information that came to mind during the interview.
Under any other circumstances, none of us would have chosen to stay up. We all needed sleep too badly, and tomorrow was a travel and concert day. Mom especially needed rest. Singing lead for Rayne was a lot of work — her voice had to be in tip-top shape, and the dancing required energy. Lack of sleep wreaked havoc on a voice. But the show had to go on — and go on it would. Mom would just have to rest as much as possible the following day.
Since Detective Furlow was with us — and he carried a gun — Mom hadn’t pulled one of the bodyguards from bed. “Let them sleep,” she’d said. “They’ll need to be alert tomorrow, when the rest of us are dead on our feet.”
I knew what she meant. All the same, I shivered at her use of the word dead.
“Here we are.” The detective turned into a lit parking lot and stopped the car.
He led us into the station, passing the front desk and a few officers coming and going. “It’s quiet here for a Saturday night,” he remarked.
I followed mindlessly. If we went up or down stairs, turned right or left down halls — I have no memory. No way could I have retraced our steps on my own.
We ended up in front of a glass window in a small room. Along our side of the glass ran a rectangular table with three chairs. On the other side Cat sat in a second room of about the same size. That room looked grim and bare — except for its own battered square table and a couple of chairs. No pictures on the walls, nothing to make the place look comfortable or safe. I couldn’t imagine being questioned in there by a policeman. It looked intimidating and frightening.
Although we couldn’t see it, we were told a camera was mounted in the upper corner of the wall nearest us, pointed at the square table. At that table Cat slumped back in his chair, looking not one bit intimidated. More like annoyed enough to strangle somebody.
He was dressed in jeans and a blue, long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs rolled up. His white-blond hair looked ratty, and he had bags under his eyes. Cat was probably in his forties, but right now he looked more like sixty. He bounced a forefinger against the table, his other hand plastered to his hip.
His head turned, green eyes focusing on the window. Cat sneered right at me.
My head jerked back.
“It’s okay.” Detective Furlow pointed to the glass. “Remember, this is a one-way mirror. Looks like he can see you, but he can’t.”
My shoulders drew in. This man had hounded me today — at least once. And he may have done more than that. I didn’t like standing mere feet from him, separated only by a window.
The detective gave us an encouraging smile. “Once I get in there, if at any time you think of something important I should ask, tap on the door to the other room and then stand back in here. I’ll come out, and we’ll talk. All right?”
“Yes, thanks.” Mom pulled in a deep breath and shook back her hair. Ross and I nodded.
“Okay.” Detective Furlow pointed to the chairs. “Sit down if you like. We may be in there awhile.”
He disappeared out our open door. A few seconds later we saw him enter the other room.
Mom, Ross, and I sank into the chairs.
Mom squeezed my leg. “Let’s hope this gets us somewhere,” she whispered. “And if Cat knows anything about the murder — I hope Detective Furlow gets him to spill his guts.”
Me too.
I thought of Tom. Then remembered the black, bloody hole that had once been his eye.
Me too.