TRACES OF DEATH by John Foxjohn
The ringing phone meant another dead body—one detective sergeant David Mason didn’t want to see. He couldn’t rid himself of the nauseating odors of voided bowels, blood, and death.
With reluctance, he reached over the naked woman lying next to him to answer it. “Mason.”
“Good morning, sunshine. It’s time to rise and go to work.”
David groaned. Damn Lieutenant Spinks loved to wake him. “What time is it?”
“Its 6:15 and we’ve a homicide. We need you to get to 2223 Larimore.”
David blinked several times. He didn’t know this area. “Where is that?”
“2223 is the Lassiter’s Bed and Breakfast off Wilshire in North Houston.”
David rubbed sleep out with his free hand. He’d investigated homicides in almost every conceivable place known to man, but never at a bed and breakfast. Did they forget to serve the eggs or something? “OK. Can’t anyone in this town kill anyone at a decent hour?”
“Nope. They do it just to ruin your beauty sleep, but they don’t know that you need all you can get.”
After a quick shower and dressing, he scribbled a note to his bed partner who hadn’t stirred and headed for his vehicle.
Traffic, even at this time of morning, moved like a turtle race. When David’s Fiat passed an accident blocking two lanes, he sped north and found the area without any problems.
When he exited his vehicle, several squad cars crowded in front of the old place, their lights flashing like signal beacons. A uniformed officer strung yellow crime scene tape. He ran up as David ducked under the barrier.
“I don’t know if you can read, airhead, but the tape says ‘crime scene, stay out.’”
David raised an eyebrow. “Airhead?”
“That’s right, airhead. Anyone with any sense can see this
is a crime scene.” He flashed his badge. “That’s homicide detective sergeant air
head to you, asshole.”
“Hey, I didn’t know you were a cop.”
“Perhaps you should find out first before you start calling someone an airhead.”
“I’m sorry. Didn’t…”
David gave him a disgusted wave and marched off. He didn’t have the time or inclination to fool with a dumb rookie. The old house, which served as a business, had blue paint chipping, a sagging front porch, and an open screen door minus the screen. He didn’t figure they got too much business here—too run down.
His partner, Henry Carrington, waited at the front with patrol sergeant Gilbert Williams. Henry, tall and lanky in contrast to David’s short, blocky, frame, slouched with his hands stuffed in his pockets. David adjusted his suit coat. “What we got?”
Williams pulled a spiral notebook from his pocket. “Dead, older white female, shot in the chest. Her name’s Carolyn Weston and she owns the place.”
David frowned as Henry removed a hand from his pocket and gnawed on a fingernail that had seen its better days.
David dropped his head. “Who called it in?”
Williams flipped his notebook closed. “Called in a couple of times. Several of the boarders.” He paused for a moment. “I guess you could call them boarders. What else do you call people who stay at these places?”
David shrugged. He had no idea, and from the look of the place didn’t expect any people would stay here. He didn’t want to look at this dead old woman. He washed his face with his hands and then turned to Henry. “Let’s go look.”
Williams led the way inside and the cleanliness and neatness of the interior surprised David. Inexpensive, but well cared for furniture and carpet indicated that someone took care of the place. Odors assaulted them before they reached the kitchen and David removed a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his mouth. He had saturated it with garlic to help fight off dead odors.
She lay on the tiled kitchen floor, on her back. David groaned and his skin crawled. Hairs stood on his neck and ghosts floated around the room. Her lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling, chest matted with blood. David sometimes dreamed about victims’ eyes. He always gazed into them, looking for a sparkle, but he never found one.
David jammed his hands in his suit coat pockets as his mind followed his gaze around the kitchen. Coffee brewing and he wished he could smell the aroma of it, but voided bowels and blood overrode the flavor. Oven on, eggs and bread on the counter, and no dishes out. Preparing to cook breakfast.
His stomach grumbled at the thought of food and the dead body.
Henry zipped up his windbreaker and leaned down to elbow David. “What you think?”
David didn’t respond for several long moments as his gaze took the crime scene in. He’d investigated over two hundred homicides and he’d developed what veteran cops called “the feel.” He could tell when something didn’t match what he saw. This crime scene didn’t, but why?
He turned to Williams. “How many people are staying here and where are they parked? I only saw cop cars out front.”
“Four couples. They parked in the back. I’ve ran all the plates. Five vehicles. They all match the guests and the body.”
David nodded. Couples don’t come to a bed and breakfast and kill people and stay around to talk to cops.
Noise and talking at the front interrupted David’s inspection of the scene. He recognized the voice of Joe Hughes, head of the crime scene unit. Joe knew his job and didn’t need direction. He’d get the place processed.
Henry removed his spiral and pen and scratched his head. “Where are the people who stayed here last night?”
“In their rooms. We told them to stay there until you’re ready for them. Anything else you need patrol to do?”
David ran his hand over his chin and wished he’d shaved. “Can’t think of anything, Gil.”
David and Henry eased out of the kitchen, making sure not to touch anything. When they got to the front room, Henry filled Joe in and told him where the body lay and what they needed.
While Henry talked to Joe, David wandered through the first floor of the house, business, or whatever people called this kind of place. Four rooms occupied the first floor, besides the kitchen—a bedroom, living room, bathroom, and den or office, and all of them had a neat, clean appearance. Someone had made the bed, and nothing looked out of place.
In the office, an old fashioned, scarred, roll-top desk took up most of one wall. The desk had wet ink spilled on it. The top drawer on the right side remained open a crack. Using his handkerchief, David pulled it all the way open. Papers occupied it, but on top of them sat a small paper bank envelope. It also had ink on it, covering the name of the bank.
When David joined the others, he had Joe process the office first, especially the desk and drawer. He told Henry to follow him upstairs to talk to the guests.
The first room, occupied by Dale and Charlotte Henke, a middle aged, scared out of their mind couple from Arizona, said they were asleep, heard the gunshot, and the husband peeked out the door, but didn’t go into the hallway. They called the police.
When David and Henry rose to go to the next room, the husband cleared his throat. “We planned to head home this morning. How long are you going to make us stay in town?”
David scratched his head and exchanged a glance with Henry, who made a face. It took all David’s willpower not to laugh. “Why would we make you stay in town?”
“Don’t ya’ll cops—uh—police tell people not to leave town?”
David rolled his eyes. Damn TV and books. He let out an exasperated breath. “As far as I can tell, you aren’t a suspect at this moment, you didn’t see or hear anything. We have your address and if we need you we will get you.”
Mrs. Henke didn’t appear to like that last part, but the two detectives left.
The other three interviews went the same as the first, with the exception of the third one. The husband, Lenny Crass, had gone downstairs, saw the body, ran back upstairs, and called the police. Like the others, they saw nothing and heard nothing prior to the shot.
In the upstairs hallway, David and Henry dodged as the Henkes shot out of their room, dragging their suitcase. The others soon followed.
Henry imitated John Wayne. “Listen to me, Pilgrim. They got the hell out of Dodge quick.”
David nodded and trudged downstairs. “Yeah, they did. I think eight tourists are cured of vacationing in Houston.”
Joe met them at the bottom. “David, your hunch paid off. The bank envelope had a five stuck inside with a transaction slip. Slip says one hundred and seventy-five withdrawn yesterday. The envelope has an ink print on it. Not official, but I did a quick check and it isn’t the victim’s print.”
David tapped his lips. “Let’s get that processed first. All the people upstairs have driver’s licenses. Send the print to their home states for comparisons. Don’t think they’ll match, but we need to cross our I’s and dot the t’s.”
Joe nodded, “What—”
Loud voices from outside interrupted them. David jerked his head for Henry to find out what the problem was. He returned a minute later followed by a walking collage of tattoos. The male billboard had short brown hair, about five nine and a hundred and fifty. David’s gaze lingered on the earring in the left ear.
“I demand to know who the son-of-a-bitch in charge here is.”
David tugged on his left ear for a long moment while the noisy place went quiet as a church. He stepped closer to the male, flipping his badge case open. “My name is Detective Sergeant David Mason of Houston’s homicide division. It just so happens that I am the person in charge here, and since I’ve never in my life laid eyes on you, you can’t know my mother that well. Now, who are you?”
“What are homicide detectives doing here?”
David wagged his finger at tattoo man. “Nope. Not how it works. You see, I ask the questions here. I asked one and I didn’t get an answer. I am now officially requiring you to identify yourself.”
“Or what?”
David turned away and waved to a patrolman. “Take his ass to jail.”
Two patrolmen marched forward and grabbed him. “Wait. Wait. Detective, I’ll tell you.”
David turned back to face him. “Yes.”
“Michael Weston. My mother owns this place.”
David motioned for them to let him go, and wiggled his finger at the man to follow him. He ambled into the office with the son and Henry following. Inside the office, he stopped and stepped aside so the others could enter. Tattoo man walked in, and with hands on hips stared at David.
David ran a hand across his stubble and never took his eyes off the son. “Where were you this morning?”
“I was helping a friend start his car. Why?”
David took a deep breath. He hated giving this kind of news—never comfortable doing it, and no matter what he thought of the son, the tattoos, and the way he looked, a shithead, but still a person with feelings. Someone had murdered his mother. He’d learned from experience, delivering it straight to the point worked best. “Have some news for you. We’re here because someone murdered your mother.”
The son let out a loud shriek and closed his eyes, beating his fists on his thighs. Henry raised an eyebrow and David puckered his lips. A tingling sensation formed deep in David’s stomach.
Minutes passed before the son, with tears in his eyes, demanded to know what they were doing to find the man who killed his mother.
Before David could answer, Joe traipsed in with a form for David to sign to release the body to the ME. He glanced over it, took his pen out, signed it, and handed it back. When Joe left, David took a deep breath. “At the moment, we’re processing the scene and getting statements.”
Catching a cold, David sniffled and wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand as the son stared at him, hands on hips. David removed his spiral notebook. “Mr. Weston, what is the friend’s name you helped this morning and where does he live?”
“You are going to check on me?”
David nodded. “We have to check on everyone.” Especially drug-headed sons.
When he gave the friend’s name and address, David wrote it down and put the spiral back into his pocket. “Mr. Weston,” David indicated Henry. “This is Detective Henry Carrington. He’s going to arrange transportation for you to the station for an official statement. I hope this doesn’t inconvenience you, but it’s necessary.”
Heat crept up Weston’s neck and he remained staring, hands on his hips. “I can’t drive there myself? You suspect me of killing my own mother.”
David frowned and scratched the back of his neck. “Sir. I have a dead woman here and I do not know who did it. At this moment, I suspect the entire city of Houston because that is how big our suspect list is. We have nothing else to go on. We do need the statement and right away. This is our department policy.”
His speech appeared to appease Weston and David asked Henry to make sure one of the patrolmen transported their witness to the office. David used the word witness on purpose with the hopes that it would calm Weston down some.
When Henry escorted the son out, David trudged into the living room and glanced around as technicians scraped furniture on the hardwood floor. Some dusted for fingerprints, and others took pictures. One group measured distances from the front door to the other rooms, the hallway’s length, and room sizes. Another group listed the house contents. With all the surfaces covered in fingerprint powder, David sneezed. This would be a mess to clean up and from appearances, the victim didn’t like a messy place. The way she’d taken care of the old house reminded him of his mother. That could be his mother that died in the kitchen.
David wandered into the kitchen where more people worked to process the room. With the body gone, only dried blood and odors remained. His gaze sifted around the room, taking in the little things. Heaviness settled in his chest. Outsiders believed that cops became hardened to dead bodies, but if that was true, David hadn’t arrived at that point yet, and he hoped he never did.
He always tried to form a mental picture of what happened at a homicide, but the picture he got now didn’t match this scene. His mind drifted back to the office and that open drawer, spilled ink, and bank envelope. Without knowing the reason, he believed this had something to do with this woman’s murder, and that bothered him. If she caught someone in her office stealing her money, her body should be in the office and not the kitchen. If his gut didn’t lead him wrong, and it usually didn’t, something was wrong with this crime scene.
When Joe walked into the room, David motioned him over. “I need a favor, Joe. I know there’s a lot to do here, and you have more work than this, but I need that fingerprint on the bank envelope processed right away.”
Joe tugged on his ear and cocked his head. “Do I see the famous Mason instinct taking charge?”
“Not really.”
“Who do you want to compare the print with?”
David took his spiral out of his pocket and gave Joe the son’s name and date of birth.
After Joe wrote it down, he glanced up. “Think he’ll have a record?”
David smiled. “Bet you a steak dinner he does.”
“Hell, no. I’m not betting any more with you. How do you know?”
“He’s a druggie.”
Henry had strolled in as David said this. He slumped and gnawed on a fingernail. “Now, how in the hell do you know that just from looking at him?”
David puckered his lips. “The ear ring.”
Joe scratched his chin and frowned. “Why does having an ear ring make you think he’s a druggie?”
“I guess you two don’t know where wearing the ear rings started. It began on the Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona border. Drug dealers wear an earring in their right ear to signal buyers they have drugs for sale. Buyers wear them in the left ear to signal they want to buy.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “No shit. How do you know this stuff?”
“I study.” David turned to Joe. “Can we compare those prints fast?”
When Joe left, David asked Henry if he would go by, get Weston’s friend, and bring him to the station for a little talk.
Outside, a new 1983 Dodge pick-up sat in the driveway. When David started his car, he used his walkie-talkie to call dispatch and asked them to run a 10-28 and 29 on the license plate, and put the DMV information on his desk.
Laughing, the dispatcher asked him if he had room on his desk. David didn’t bother to respond. If they weren’t laughing and joking about his height, they let him have it with his suits or neatness. He happened to believe that the public perceived cops by the way they dressed and acted. If they looked and behaved professional, people treated them as a professional. He also didn’t believe he had a compulsive habit of orderliness as Henry claimed. He just liked things in a certain place.
David sped toward the office. He wanted to get there before Weston got impatient, and although he had his mind on the homicide and what he needed to do, he couldn’t help take in the beauty of early summer. With rich green grass and crepe myrtles of all colors in bloom lining the medians, the area had postcard appeal. When he hit the freeway, a modern, urban appearance took control of the scenery with all the traffic, accidents, odors of rubber and exhaust.
At his desk, he found the DMV information waiting, but whoever brought it up had rearranged his desk, knowing he’d notice and it would drive him crazy. After he straightened and put things back where they belonged, he read the information on the truck. Weston had financed his truck at Wilmington Bank and Trust. David called them hoping to get the financial information without a warrant. Some banks would and others wouldn’t. Wilmington gave it to him gladly. When he thanked them, he tapped on his desk with the pen, looking at the information.
After talking to several others on the phone, David took an affidavit blank from his desk and typed the information in, and then called Judge Fanner. He explained what he had, the judge told him to run it over, and he’d issue the warrant.
He signed the document, found two junior grade detectives to run it by to get the warrant. He told them where he wanted them to search, what to look for, and to call him as soon as they finished.
Ten minutes later, Henry strolled in and told David he had Lawrence McMillan, Weston’s friend, in room three.
David stood and smiled. “Let the games begin.”
As Lawrence McMillan sat at attention in the interrogation room, his gaze took turns between staring at the one-way mirror and darting around the room. He stood and paced for a minute, then sat and tapped his hands on the table.
Henry chuckled. “Boy, look at him sweat.”
When they walked into the room, David parked in a chair across the table. Henry stood behind McMillan.
“Would someone tell me why I’m here?”
David nodded to Henry who read him his rights and asked if he understood them.
“Yeah.”
With a flourish, David removed his badge and ID and set the case on the table so McMillan could look at them. “Sir, I’m Detective Sergeant David Mason of the Houston homicide division. Do you want an attorney present while we question you?”
“No. I ain’t done shit wrong.”
David leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, watching the man sitting before him. “In that case, why don’t you tell us about Michael Weston coming over to your house this morning?”
McMillan glanced up at the ceiling a moment then stared David in the eye.
David tapped on the chair arm, thinking about the old interrogation ditty. Looking up, making up.
He told them that Weston arrived about five-thirty. “I called him to help me start my car.”
David wrote what he said in his spiral. “What was wrong with your car?”
“The battery was dead.”
David set his pen down. What kind of car do you have?”
“74 GTO.”
David nodded, writing that information down. “Automatic?”
“Yep.”
“Did you jump it off?”
McMillan leaned forward. “Hell, no. We didn’t have any cables. We push started it. What is this about?”
David leaned back in his seat, tapping the pen on the arm of the chair as silence took control of the room. Henry changed positions, causing McMillan to jerk his head around as if he had forgotten about the other detective’s presence.
When David thought he had let it hang long enough, he stopped tapping. “McMillan, where do you work?”
“Monsanto.”
“Hmm, that’s a good job. Think they’ll hire you back when you get out of prison?”
He jumped out of his seat, placed his hands on the table, and leaned toward David. “You’re full of shit. I’m not going to prison. Haven’t done anything to go. You’ve got nothing on me.”
David smiled. He’d had people attempt to intimidate him before. It also wasn’t the first time someone didn’t think he had anything. But he had this jerk. He pointed to the chair. “Sit your butt down. I have you for obstruction of justice. That I can prove. What I don’t know yet is will I get you for capital murder? If I do, then you won’t need to worry about that job. Huntsville has a special chair waiting for you.”
David’s last words collapsed McMillan’s sails. He slumped back in his chair. “I haven’t killed anyone. I don’t know what this obstruction stuff is you’re talking about.”
Henry looked at David as if he didn’t know what he talked about either. “First, McMillan, you lied to us. When—”
“I didn’t.”
David rested his elbows on the table and put his chin on steepled fingers. “You lied all right. You’re obviously not a mechanic. Automatics can’t be push started.”
Henry got an, “ahhh” expression, and McMillan’s mouth fell open. “It can’t?”
David smiled and shook his head. “Want to start over with this story?”
Ten minutes later, David and Henry ambled out of the room. McMillan told them Weston called him at 7:00 that morning and said, if the cops come by, tell them that I helped start his car at five-thirty. Weston didn’t tell him why. Henry jammed his hands in his pockets. “Dammit. I missed that with the car. Wondered where you intended to go with it.”
On the way to the office, they met Joe. “David, I called your office, but you weren’t in. I checked everything like you asked, and you hit everything on the head. Weston has two arrests for drugs and that’s his right index finger in the ink on the bank envelope.”
Henry imitated Elmer Fudd—or someone. “That’s why they call him Dick Tracy.”
David rolled his eyes. This wasn’t over by a long shot. They had no way of convicting, yet.
Joe handed David the fingerprint comparison. “What made you suspect the son of killing his own mother?”
“Three reasons. First, family or friends commit ninety-nine percent of all homicides. Second, I believed the bank envelope and the ink was key, but the body was in the wrong place if she caught a stranger stealing her money. The only way she would’ve gone to the kitchen and not called the cops was if the thief was related to her. Third, I called his bank and some other places. He’s four months past due on his truck payments and they are looking to repo it. His landlord kicked him out a couple of months ago because he didn’t pay his rent. He needed money.”
David turned to Henry. “Let’s gets some coffee before we talk to Weston. We need a confession on this one.”
They strolled to the break room four doors down from the interrogation rooms, greeting people and stopping every once in awhile to chat. The break room contained a large coffee pot, which dispensed a steady stream. Soda and candy machines lined one side, and a phone hung on another wall. Several café style tables and chairs took up the center. Both officers picked out a crème-filled donut from a box a day-old bakery sent the detectives every day.
They stood by the one-way mirror watching Weston and munching on the donuts. “Henry, you want to handle this one?”
Henry crossed his eyes, threw his hands wide. “Listen to me,” he slurred in his best drunk imitation, then sobered up. “You’re the expert on this stuff. We need this confession. You take him. What’re we waiting for?”
“You know what the hardest part of an interrogation is, Henry?”
“Trying to answer the questions without being caught in a lie?”
“Nope. The hardest part’s waiting for it to begin. Their minds play tricks on them. He’s sitting there wondering just how much we know. How he’ll explain things.”
Henry cocked his head with a doubtful expression. “You think so?”
“Yep, just like a polygraph.”
“David, where do you come up with this crap? How’s an interrogation like a polygraph?”
“The polygraph operator always tells the one being tested the questions beforehand. The suspect will answer the questions, yes or no. He’ll start out with simple questions that’ll be easy to answer, and the operator knows the answers will be correct. He’ll ask questions like, is your name such and such, are you twenty-five years old, do you live at such and such a place, this sort of thing. The person tested waits, knowing the major questions are coming. The closer the operator gets to the incriminating questions, the more tense the person gets. His heart rate goes up, his pulse quickens, his skin tightens, and that’s exactly what the polygraph records to see if he’s lying.”
“OK, if you know so much about a polygraph, why isn’t it admissible in court?”
“It’s not admissible because its accuracy depends on the interpretation of the operator.”
“So, someone can beat a polygraph?”
“Nope. Can’t beat the polygraph. But someone might be able to fool the operator. That’s why it can’t be used as evidence.”
Henry put his hands on hips. “How do you know so much about polygraphs?” Before David could answer, Henry held his hand up. “Let me guess, you study.”
After picking up a recorder, the two detectives entered the room. They situated themselves across from Weston, and David positioned the recorder on the table and inserted a tape. Henry sat with his arms crossed, staring at the suspect.
They played this routine often. Not the good cop, bad cop routine, but a variation. David took the lead and Henry started out antagonizing the suspect, getting him agitated before David began. David had told Henry that angry or irritated suspects let their guard down, unlike the ones who sat calm and calculating.
Weston perspired, despite the air-conditioned room, and sweat beads popped out on his forehead.
Weston slammed his hand on the table. “What’re you staring at?”
“A sorry lowlife who murdered his own mother.”
“You can’t prove that.!”
Quiet settled over the room. With the air conditioner’s hum, David, shuffling papers, created the only noise in the room. Because the room had a microphone, officers on the outside heard what went on, but external noises didn’t penetrate the soundproof room.
David turned the recorder on, and Henry read Weston his rights.
Weston smirked. “Even if I did kill my mother, you two idiots fucked up. You didn’t read me my rights. I’ll walk either way.”
David sat back in his seat and smiled. “Your attorney will tell you this, but to save him some time, you’ve watched too much TV. We’re only required to read you your rights when we question you. We did that a moment ago. Don’t go thinking you’re getting off.”
Weston slapped his hand on the table. Vibrations from the impact thundered in the quiet room. “I don’t need no lawyer ’cause I ain’t done nothin’ wrong. I’m grieving over my mother’s death, and a killer’s out on the street loose and you’re in here hasslin’ me.”
David pursed his lips. “Weston, you’re going to need a lawyer. I’ve charged you with capital murder. If convicted, you’ll get the death penalty.”
“I don’t want no lawyer. You ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
“Your choice, but you lost your alibi. He decided to tell the truth.”
“That’s a lie.”
David and Henry chuckled at the same time. David hadn’t charged Weston, yet, but the killer didn’t know that.
“When’s the last time you went over to your mother’s house?”
Weston tapped his finger on his cheek. “I went over there a couple of weeks ago. Haven’t been by since and you can’t prove I did.”
David laughed and shook his head. For the life of him, he would never understand why killers thought they were so smart. He couldn’t remember the number of times he’d heard that exact line from a suspect.
He pursed his lips. “Hate to tell you this Bubba, but I can prove it.”
Before Weston could say anything, the phone on the table rang. The suspect’s head jerked toward the ringing like it was a snake hissing.
Henry picked up the phone. “Yeah.” He smiled at David and held up a thumb.
“Okay. Great, did you get it to the lab for ballistics?”
When Henry hung up the phone, he wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to David.
David glanced at it and smiled. “Where were we?” He snapped his fingers and Weston startled. “Oh yeah, I remember. You said I couldn’t prove you had been at your mother’s. Did you get the ink off your fingers?”
Weston jerked his hand up to look, realized what he’d done, and jerked it back down, glaring at David.
David set the paper Joe had given him on the table and pointed at it. “That is your right index fingerprint we found on the bank envelope.”
David sat back in his seat and rubbed his palms together. “I had intended to offer you a deal to confess and we drop the death penalty.” David held up the piece of paper that Henry gave him. “What you didn’t know, while you were here, we had detectives with a legal search warrant searching everything you own.”
Weston’s face turned catfish-belly white.
David shook his head. “You couldn’t find a better place to hide the gun than under the cushions of your sofa?”
When he and Henry rose to leave, Weston yelled, “What about a deal?”
David stopped at the door and turned. For a moment, he felt sorry for the man, but then he remembered the dead body, her eyes, and the ghosts floating in the room wanting to talk to him. His pity disappeared. “Son, you stole one hundred and seventy dollars, and you needed more than that—realized with her dead, you would inherit all she owned, get your creditors off your back. You murdered your own mother.” David pointed at the son. “You need to be talking to someone much, much higher than me about a deal.”