Ned Oblanski stared out the window, his lip quivering with rage. “What do you take us for, a bunch of rubes? Of course we checked out everyone Butch had sent to the joint over the years. And Gaylord and Johnny too, in case there was a connection. You come to my office and accuse us of incompetence.”
Arn moved out of spittle range. “I didn’t accuse you of anything. There’s just nothing in Butch’s files that noted it was done.”
“Well, it was. Now if that’s all you came in here for—”
“You pissed at me for something besides this?”
Oblanski sat with his arms crossed, and Arn remained silent. He often learned more from someone by keeping quiet and waiting for them to vent. Like Oblanski was about to do now. “You hear Johnny in that TV special?”
“I was busy getting sliced up.”
“So, I read the report. Too bad.” Arn thought a slight smile tugged at the corners of Oblanski’s mouth. “I’m pissed because Johnny went out of his way to praise Gaylord on the Five Point cases on television last night. Butch was so close to catching the son-of-a-bitch … ” Oblanski zinged a paper clip off a chair across the room. “That piss ant Gaylord was as useful as a condom machine in a convent. Butch did the heavy lifting on those cases.”
“Sounds like you admired Butch?”
“He was a brilliant investigator.”
“But he treated you like crap,” Arn said. “You even threatened to beat the snot out of him.”
“Who told you that?” Oblanski asked, then snapped his fingers. “Chief White.”
“No comment. But you admit you hated Butch.”
“He was an arrogant jerk, and I was the junior investigator then, so I caught everything that rolled downhill. I would have kicked the dog shit out of him, except … there was something about him that made me stop.”
That something, Arn knew, was Butch’s temperament, his aura he projected as the alpha male. If Butch felt cornered, he’d come out swinging and snarling, and God help the man on the receiving end. Even someone as big as Ned Oblanski.
“Now if there’s nothing else, I gotta do some police work.”
“There is.” Arn opened his briefcase and took out his notes. “You’re still convinced Frank Dull Knife is the most likely suspect.”
“He had the most to gain by Butch’s death.”
“You don’t feel that way because you were both screwing Butch’s wife?”
Oblanski stopped midway to stuffing Red Man tobacco in his cheek and his head dropped slightly. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.” Arn set his papers on the chair, expecting Oblanski to lose his temper as he had a minute ago. “You were the phantom guy Hannah was dancing with that night. The one who gave her a ride home after the bars closed.”
Oblanski spit the tobacco out in the garbage and rocked back on unsteady legs. “It was my night off. The Rusty Nail had a live band, and I danced whenever I got the chance.” He grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself and eased himself down. “There was this hot chick rubbing a greaseball’s leg, but the greaseball wasn’t paying her any attention.”
“Frank was the greaseball?”
Oblanski nodded. “Hannah was a bit old for me at the time, but she looked … itchy. So I took her to the dance floor, and she came on to me.”
“Did you know she was Butch’s wife?”
Oblanski shook his head. “I never saw her before that night. I thought she was just another hottie needing to get short-dicked.”
“But you knew Frank?”
“I knew he had that chickenshit mechanic shop by the refinery, is all,” Oblanski said. “Frank got pissed and grabbed me on the dance floor. Wanted to fight me. I’d have gladly obliged if the bouncers hadn’t given him the bum’s rush.” Oblanski stared at the floor, never looking directly at Arn. “I never took Hannah to bed. After we left the Nail, we found a place to park. We were pretty heavy into the necking when she asked what I did for a living. When I told her I was a cop, she burst out laughing and told me who she was. It took me about twenty seconds to zip my pants and fire up the car. I drove directly to her place. When I came around the block, I saw the lights of the coroner’s wagon and the squad cars. I kicked her out at the end of the block and drove home.” He stood and faced Arn. “She didn’t tell anyone about that night. Except Frank, I guess.”
Arn closed his notebook. “Frank thinks you had a good reason to kill Butch: Hannah.”
“Because I picked up a chick at the bar who happened to be another detective’s wife? Who the hell are you, accusing me—”
“And the way you resented Butch, the way he treated you like crap, would be motive in any investigator’s book,” Arn said, bracing himself should Oblanski lose his temper once again.
Oblanski pulled the blinds aside and stared out the window. “Are you going to tell Chief White what you just told me?” he said at last.
“Let me sit on it for a while. There may be a conflict of interest if you’re in charge of reopening Butch’s murder, but it’s not for me to determine.”
“Thanks for that,” Oblanski said over his shoulder.
Arn shouldered his man bag and started for the door when the phone rang. Oblanski answered it and closed his eyes tightly, his face scrunching as he held up his hand for Arn to stop. “Of course,” Oblanski said. “I’ll come right away.”
He hung up and grabbed his sheep skin coat. “Want to take a ride?”
“Where to?”
“The hospital. Johnny’s been shot.”