SIXTY

“You’re writing a book? That’s how you explain it?

You’re writing a book?”

Chief Belinda Walters stood facing John Manning in his parlor. He’d asked her to sit down, but she’d demurred. She’d gotten right to the point, asking him why he kept a dossier on Emil Deetz and the murder of Screech Solek. And why he’d been interviewing some of Deetz’s old gang. Manning had replied by saying he was writing a book.

“I don’t know why you should seem so surprised,” Manning added. “After all, I’m a writer. That’s what I do.”

“You write about vampires,” the chief said.

“I’m making a departure.”

“A departure?”

“Yes. Every writer likes to stretch his wings, so to speak. I’m writing a crime thriller. I’ve had enough of supernatural monsters. There are enough human ones.” He grinned. “One of your investigators read my latest work on my computer when your SWAT team descended on my house. Surely he can back me up on that.”

Walters nodded. Indeed, the report detailing the search of Manning’s house did include a brief summary of what was on his computer. The most recent Word file was the story of a drug dealer. But so far at least there had been no throat slitting or Mexican adventures that would make it seem all that relevant.

“So in all your interviews with Deetz’s cronies . . . did you find out where he’d stashed the cash?”

“What cash are you talking about, Chief?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Manning.”

“I’m not bullshitting you. Here’s the deal. I heard about the case while I was in the process of buying this property. Of course, it was only natural that I would, since the woman who’d witnessed the murder had lived next door. The case seemed to me to have the right combination of adventure, melodrama, tragedy, and suspense that I needed for my novel. So I went to the library and did a little research.” He smiled, those deep dark eyes of his twinkling. “No crime in that, is there?”

Walters tried to read the man’s eyes. He was a cagey one. The little smiles, the half-winks . . . he was trying to be charming. No doubt he’d won over many women this way. But Walters was too old, too shrewd to fall for that.

“No crime in that,” the chief agreed. “So you only learned of Solek’s murder once you bought this place? You had no idea who Solek or Deetz were before that time?”

“None.” Manning’s face was a blank slate.

Behind her, Detective Knotts stood glaring at the author. Walters knew she had to keep herself positioned between the two men. If Manning said something to rattle Knotts, the detective might very well throw a punch. Knotts was rather emotional this morning. They all were, given what they’d found a little more than an hour ago.

“Well then, explain this to me, Mr. Manning,” Walters said. “What were you doing in Mexico on the day Deetz was shot to death?”

“I haven’t been to Mexico in fifteen years.” Once again, Manning’s face betrayed no emotion.

“That’s not what the FBI tells us,” Walters said.

At last Manning’s eyes widened—not more than a fraction of a millimeter, but it was all Walters needed. She’d seen it. That had been the reaction Wolfie had wanted to see. Manning was cool and collected, but when Walters mentioned the FBI, he had reacted, ever so slightly, and just for an instant. It was enough to tell Walters the guy was hiding something. She knew then that he had been, in fact, in Mexico that day—and he most likely knew a hell of a lot more than he was telling them about Emil Deetz.

“I have great respect for our Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Manning said, smoothly covering up his reaction, “but in this case, they are wrong. Would you like to check my passport?”

“We would,” the chief said, “and we will. Though I’m sure that will tell us nothing.”

Manning shrugged. “Border control is very strict.”

“Not really,” Walters said.

“Tell me, Chief, why isn’t Detective Wolfowitz the one to be leading my interrogation? I’ve gotten rather used to seeing his smiling face at my door.”

Walters leveled her eyes at the author. “Detective Wolfowitz was found murdered in his home this morning,” she said without emotion.

This time the reaction in Manning’s eyes was more apparent, and he didn’t attempt to hide it. Was the man really surprised, or was he just a very good actor?

“I’m—I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said.

“His throat was cut,” Knotts volunteered, his voice hard and accusatory.

“Then it’s the same—or possibly the same—killer,” Manning said. “The same who killed the German girl and the schoolteacher.”

“Perhaps,” Walters said. “Perhaps Detective Wolfowitz was getting too close to something.” She paused. “Where were you last night, Mr. Manning, around six or seven o’clock?”

“I was here, writing,” he said.

“Anyone who can corroborate that?” The chief gave him a little smile. “Jessie Clarkson, perhaps?”

“Actually, she could. I was at her house last night for a brief period, but it was probably right around six-thirty.”

“We’re going to be checking with her next,” Walters said. “All right, Mr. Manning, that’s all for now. Thank you for your time.”

She started toward the door. Knotts followed, sending daggers over his shoulder in Manning’s direction.

“Chief Walters,” Manning said.

Walters stopped, looking back at him. Manning’s voice sounded a little bit uneasy.

“I wonder if... well, when you see Ms. Clarkson, are you planning on telling her about the files I have on the Solek murder?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Well, it’s just that . . . if you didn’t have to tell her right away, I’d rather do it myself.”

“Why is that?”

Now Manning seemed distinctly uncomfortable. “It’s just that . . . well, we’ve become friends.”

Walters held his gaze, trying to read what was going on in his mind. She wasn’t successful. “We’ll see,” she said, “if it comes up.”

She and Knotts headed out the door. The rain was still coming down hard and the sky was nearly black.