McCluskey had been making an internal call. He put the receiver down. “Well,” he said, “looks straightforward enough. Driving under the influence, DUI we call it.”
“He told me he was stone-cold sober.”
McCluskey offered a wry smile rather than a remark, and inclined his head a little. Reeve knew what he meant: drunks will say anything. During the phone call, Reeve had been studying McCluskey’s desk. It was neater than he’d expected; all the desks were. There were scraps of paper with telephone numbers on them. He’d looked at those numbers.
One of them was for the funeral parlor. Another was the Mexican at the rental company. Both could be easily explained, Reeve thought.
“You phoned the funeral parlor,” he said, watching the detective very closely.
“What?”
Reeve nodded towards the telephone number. “The funeral parlor.”
McCluskey nodded. “Sure, wanted to double-check when the funeral was. Thought I’d try to come along. Look, getting back to this Cantona fellow, seems to me he palled around with your brother for a few drinks and maybe a meal or two. Seems to me, Gordon, that he’s trying to shake you down the same way.”
Reeve pretended to be following the basketball game. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, while McCluskey slipped another sheet of paper over the telephone numbers, covering the ones at the bottom of the original sheet. That didn’t matter-Reeve had almost memorized them-but the action itself bothered him. He looked back at McCluskey, and the detective smiled at him again. Some would have said it was a sympathetic smile. Oth-ers might have called it mocking.
One of the basketball players made a wild throw. The rebound landed in Reeve’s lap. He stared at the paper ball.
“Does the word Agrippa mean anything to you?” he asked.
McCluskey shook his head. “Should it?”
“It was written on a scrap of paper in my brother’s pocket.”
“I missed that,” McCluskey said, shifting more papers. “You really would make a good detective, Gordon.” He was trying to smile.
Reeve just nodded.
“What was he doing anyway?” McCluskey asked.
“Who?”
“Cantona, Mr. DUI. He telephoned you after his arrest; I thought maybe he had something to tell you.”
“Maybe he just wanted me to put up the bail.”
McCluskey stared at him. Reeve had become Cantona’s accuser, leaving him the defender.
“You think that was all?”
“What else?”
“Well, Gordon, I thought maybe he thought he was working for you.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“No, but I was just on the telephone doing you a favor by talking to cops who have.” McCluskey cocked his head again. “You sound a little strange.”
“Do I?” Reeve made no attempt to soften his voice. It was more suspicious if you suddenly changed the way you were speaking to comply with the way you thought the listener wanted you to sound. “Maybe that’s because I’m cremating my brother tomorrow morning. Can I see Mr. Cantona?”
McCluskey rounded his lips into a thoughtful O.
“A final favor,” Reeve added. “I’m off tomorrow straight after the cremation.”
McCluskey took a little more time, apparently considering it. “Sure,” he said at last. “I’ll see if I can fix it.”
They brought Eddie Cantona out of the cells and up to one of the interview rooms. Reeve was already waiting. He’d paced the room, seeming anxious but really checking for possible bugs, spy holes, two-way mirrors. But there were just plain walls and a door. A table and two chairs in the middle of the floor. He sat on one chair, took a pen out of his pocket, and dropped it. Retrieving it from the floor, he checked beneath both chairs and the table. Maybe McCluskey hadn’t had enough time to organize a surveillance. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe Reeve was reading too much into everything.
Maybe Eddie Cantona was just a drunk.
They brought him into the room and left him there. He walked straight over and sat down opposite Reeve.
“We’ll be right out here, sir,” one of the policemen said.
Reeve watched the uniformed officers leave the room and close the door behind them.
“Got a cigarette?” Cantona said. “No, you don’t smoke, do you?” He patted his pockets with trembling hands. “Haven’t got one on me.” He held his hands out in front of him. They jittered like they had electricity going through them. “Look at that,” he said. “Think that’s the D.T.”s? No, I’ll tell you what that is, that is what’s called being afraid.“
“Tell me what happened.”
Cantona stared wild-eyed, then tried to calm himself. He got up and walked around the room, flailing his arms as he talked. “They must’ve started following me at some point. They weren’t at the rental place-I’d swear to that on a Padres season ticket. But I was too busy watching Mr. Mex. First I knew, there was the blue light behind me and they pulled me over. I’ve never been pulled over; I told you that. I’ve been too careful and maybe too lucky.” He came back to the table and exhaled into Reeve’s face. It wasn’t very pleasant, but proved Cantona’s point.
“Not a drop I’d had,” he said. “Not a damned drop. They did the usual drunk tests, then said they were arresting me. Up till that point, I thought it was just bad luck. But when they put me in the back of the car, I knew it was serious. They were stopping me tailing the Mexican.” He stared deep into Reeve’s unblinking eyes. “They want me out of the way, Gordon, and cops have a way of getting what they want.”
“Has McCluskey talked to you?”
“That asshole I talked to about Jim’s murder?” Cantona shook his head. “Why?”
“I think he’s got something to do with it, whatever it is. Where was the Mexican headed?”
“What am I, clairvoyant?”
“I mean, which direction was he headed?”
“Straight downtown, it looked like.”
“Did he seem like the downtown-San Diego type to you?”
Cantona managed a grin. “Not exactly. I don’t know, maybe he was on business. Maybe…” He paused. “Maybe we’re overreacting.”
“Eddie, did Jim ever mention someone or something called Agrippa?”
“Agrippa?” Cantona screwed his eyes shut, trying his hardest. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Does it mean something?”
“I don’t know.”
Reeve stood up and gripped Cantona’s hands. “Eddie, I know you’re scared, and you’ve got cause to be, and it won’t bother me in the least if you lie through your teeth to get yourself out of here. Tell them anything you think they want to hear. Tell them the moon’s made of cheese and there are pink elephants under your bed. Tell them you just want a fresh start and to forget about the past few weeks. You’ve helped me a lot, and I thank you, but now you’ve got to think of number one. Jim’s dead; you’re still here. He’d want you to avoid joining him.”
Cantona was grinning again. “Are we engaged, Gordon?”
Reeve saw that he was still holding Cantona’s hands. He let them go, smiling. “I’m serious, Eddie. I think the best thing I can do for you right now is walk away and keep away.”
“You still flying home tomorrow?”
Reeve nodded. “I think so.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Best you don’t know, Eddie.”
Cantona grudgingly agreed.
“There’s one last thing I’d like from you.”
“What’s that?”
“An address…” Reeve brought the map out of his pocket and spread it on the table. “And some directions.”