Noah poured himself a glass of vodka and stood under a hot shower while the first satisfying buzz from the drink kicked in. He shaved and dressed and dug through a drawer for the memory stick he used to transport script drafts from his laptop at home to the cop show’s production secretary. He erased everything on it, then used it to back up the story he had started to write and put it into his pocket. He phoned Hopwood and asked if they could meet at Buena Bean for a coffee and said that he had some information that might influence the case against the student in the McEwen killing.
They met an hour later and both ordered cappuccinos. When Hopwood joked that his department doesn’t reimburse them for this kind of expense, Noah picked up the tab and they sat down. After a few pleasantries about the weather and the crumbling economy, Noah took the memory stick from his pocket and put it on the table.
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll tell you what I know about the case if you ensure that I will be able to keep this, and that when I’m finished we walk out of here together like two normal people who have just stopped for a coffee.”
Hopwood was an old pro and knew how to go along when he had nothing to lose. He sipped his coffee. “I don’t have a problem with any of that.”
“I killed McEwen. Your student had nothing to do with it.”
Hopwood showed no surprise and again sipped his coffee.
Noah wondered if Hopwood was consciously playing it cool or if this was the real guy.
Noah decided that whatever act Hopwood was playing it was part of his job. His act wouldn’t get him more money or more respect; it was just a tool of the trade and he chose the cool tool rather than the hammer, and Noah liked him for it.
“Why I killed him, or why I confessed?”
“Both. Either. It’s up to you.”
“I killed him because he was an arrogant, selfish, phony prick.”
“That was the only reason?”
“Yes.”
Hopwood grinned and sipped his coffee. “That explanation just might give you a shot at an insanity plea.”
“Unfortunately, it’s one of the sanest things I’ve ever said.”
“And the reason for your confession?”
“I discovered that the act wasn’t complete without the confession. I think we should go. Did you drive?”
“Yeah.”
Noah put the memory stick into his pocket and they got up and left. Hopwood kept his word. There were no handcuffs or any other police procedures. As they stepped outside, Noah bumped into a writer he had worked with on the TV cop show.
“Noah, how are you doing?”
“Good, good, and you?”
“I quit the show at the end of last season because I had a half-hour pilot picked up, a kids’ show but I think it’s pretty good. They can be a fucking cash cow if they connect. What are you up to?”
“Oh, sorry. This is Detective Hopwood from the Homicide Squad, 52 Division. This is Howard Frank. We worked together.” The writer and Hopwood exchanged a short greeting as Noah continued in a relaxed and sociable manner. “You remember the professor who was killed with a machete.”
“Yeah, crazy.”
“I did it. I just confessed, and I guess we’re off to the police station.” He turned to Hopwood. “Am I right?”
“Yes.”
Noah turned back to the writer. “I think it would be disingenuous of me to say, ‘Let’s get together for a coffee some time.’”
Noah and Hopwood left the writer standing there, clearly not sure whether or not he had been had, as they crossed the street to Hopwood’s car.
“You liked that,” Hopwood said.
“Of course. How many times in life does an opportunity like that come up?”
They approached the drab detective sedan.
“Where are you guys going to find cars this ugly when Detroit stops making these?”
“Front or back?”
“Front.”
They got in. As they drove away in silence, Noah thought that no one would ever again ask him what he was up to.