‘Care to join me, Detective?’ It was a ridiculous question, but Greg felt a real American would have made the offer, so he made the effort.
‘No thanks.’ But Detective Sergeant Rachel Lev was taking in her surroundings with something more than professional curiosity, Greg thought.
As well she might. The Nanchong Palace in South Oakland was not pretty. The tables were utilitarian Formica, the overhead lighting was harsh and fluorescent, and the floor was covered in nothing but scuffed and faded linoleum. But the food was delicious – and as close to authentic Sichuan cuisine as it was possible to get outside of China. Almost all of the tables were occupied, and the occupants were almost entirely Asian. Apart from an adventurous group of painfully Caucasian Pitt students, Greg and the detective were the only people in the room whose genes hailed from a different part of the world. The Pitt students were attempting to work their way through a massive hot pot. They were all using – or trying to use – chopsticks.
Greg spared the students a good-humored glance. Three of them were sweating already, and they had barely begun to eat.
‘Do you come here often?’ the detective asked, with a note of wry amusement.
‘Yes,’ Greg admitted. ‘Ms Tsai, our Chinese language teacher, brought me here once. I like the spices. Probably the African in me.’ He pointed at the students, dipping thinly sliced beef into the bubbling hot pot, and then laughing and gasping as they swallowed down the results. ‘That’s what I’d really like to be having, but unless you have six stomachs there’s no way to manage it alone. And certainly not in one man’s lunch hour.’
That raised a ghost of a smile from the policewoman, who sat down opposite him. Flimsy metal chair legs scraped noisily on the linoleum.
‘You have something for me?’ she prompted.
Greg pushed over Bryan Delcade’s parking ticket. He was about to explain what it was and why it mattered when he saw Lev’s expression change from one of mild interest to intense curiosity.
‘Where’d you get this?’
‘The man littered my classroom with it during a discussion about one of his children.’
‘And does he know you have this?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe? I’m sure he’ll have an explanation but, given the circumstances, I thought you should have it.’
The police officer shot him a quick smile.
‘Thank you, Mr Abimbola, you’ve been very helpful.’
Greg grabbed what he hoped was his chance.
‘Do you mind if I ask you a question, Sergeant?’
Lev’s smile turned cautious.
‘You can always ask, sir.’
‘Are you still looking at Andrea Velasquez? Because if you are, you’re really barking up the wrong tree.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I think if you do a little digging, you’ll find that Andrea left the building shortly before Lindsay Delcade got there.’
‘And how would you know that?’ Lev had the sort of open, direct gaze that made people with secrets uncomfortable. Greg ignored the sensation.
‘Do you know how Lindsay got to the school?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
There was a long, long silence. Greg took a bite of his meal, watching the detective watch him. Small, subtle signs of an internal struggle played quietly across her face. She had freckles, he noticed, surprised he hadn’t picked up on that before. Maybe she’d covered them with make-up.
‘We believe she took a rideshare,’ Lev admitted, at last. There was the smallest hint of a sigh.
‘Then you should know the rideshare arrived at Calderhill eight minutes after Andrea left the building. It’s pretty obvious Andrea can’t be your killer … Unless you’re suggesting Andrea Velasquez, our junior custodian, and Lindsay Delcade, the Type-A parent, were bosom buddies who met on the street, somehow evaded the cameras, and sneaked into the school together.’
‘So you’re saying that Lindsay Delcade didn’t get to the school until …’ Lev’s eyes rolled upward as she consulted some internal timeline, ‘until, what? Eight twenty-seven?’
‘Precisely.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘It’s when she was dropped off, isn’t it?’
Rachel Lev placed her chin atop two clasped hands and leaned forward, planting her elbows on the table in front of her. The soft smile playing on her face made her look almost coquettish.
‘See, here’s the thing, Mr Abimbola. We have no idea what rideshare company Lindsay Delcade used, or when – or even if – she was dropped off at the school. We can’t get into her phone because her husband doesn’t have the password, and the subpoena for the phone company hasn’t been processed yet. So, unless you were there watching, how come you know so much about something we don’t?’
Shit.
Greg bent over his bowl, careful to hide his face until he had his expression under some sort of control.
‘Then I suggest you process the subpoena,’ he said, evenly. ‘You’ll see I’m right.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
Lev leaned back in her chair.
‘Do you want me to arrest you for obstruction of justice, Mr Abimbola?’
‘No.’
‘So answer the question. I’m not in the mood for BS.’
Greg made himself look pained.
‘Nothing I’ve told you is BS, Sergeant. It’s the straight-up truth. And here’s some more. You can pull me in if you like. By all means, add to your collection of black people behind bars.’ The detective winced at that, and Greg felt mildly guilty. But it was the only brush back play he could think of. ‘Know this, though: if you do pull me in, I’m not going to tell you anything I wouldn’t have quite happily told you out here.’
‘Which doesn’t include how you know so much about Lindsay Delcade’s rideshare?’
‘Correct.’
Lev grunted with annoyance, an aural counterpoint to the grim cast of her eyes. She leaned forward again, dropping her voice as she did so.
‘I don’t think that fancy school of yours would be very forgiving if one of its teachers was arrested. It’d be a career ender for you.’
‘You’re assuming I care about my career, Sergeant. It’s a lot less interesting than yours, let me tell you.’
Despite herself, the police officer smiled. She doused it out quickly, though. Greg took another stab at his meal, buying himself time to think.
‘Look,’ he said, coaxingly. ‘Just follow through on your subpoena thing. You’ll see I’m right. Andrea Velasquez is not your woman.’
‘It’s not that easy,’ Rachel said. She seemed to crumple a little. The confident police detective faded into the background. Greg found himself staring into the soft eyes of a vulnerable young woman. Someone who needed his help, one human being to another. Someone hoping against hope that Greg Abimbola was not a completely irredeemable shit.
‘We have a theory of the case,’ she said obliquely. ‘The subpoena will get done, but the nature of this theory means it’s not a high priority. And the theory won’t change unless you give me something to work with.’
‘The parking ticket isn’t enough?’
‘It’s a start. Maybe enough to open the door a little. But only a little.’ A quiet little smile. ‘It’s a real heavy door.’
Greg, thinking of the burly Lieutenant Cassidy, found himself chuckling. For some reason, the sudden burst of humor opened his mind to another possibility. There was, after all, at least one alternative route to the same destination. A route that didn’t involve a slow-moving subpoena, or Greg Abimbola revealing a hard-to-explain familiarity with Russian hackers.
‘What if I were to tell you that the rideshare driver identified himself as “Jamal”?’ he said, quietly, examining the contents of his bowl with exaggerated care. ‘That he works for a particular rideshare company – and that he drives a 2021 Ford Escape. In respect of which, I just happen to know the license number?’
Rachel Lev pulled out her notebook.
‘Now that, Mr Abimbola, might kick open a door or two.’ A small smile played across the sergeant’s lips as she started to write.
One of the Pitt students screamed with laughter. A piece of ferociously hot fish wriggled off her chopsticks and onto the linoleum.