He checked Mike—he was watching the kid too. Ben knew Mike was biding his time, hoping Tyrone would talk.
“C’mon,” Mike growled, grabbing Earl by the shoulder. “We’ve got things to do.”
“Look”—Tyrone squeezed his eyes shut—”you’ve got the wrong man.”
Another snort from Prescott. “Like hell.”
“It’s true. He didn’t do it.”
Mike took a step toward Tyrone. “And how do you know that?”
“I just know, okay?”
“How?” Mike got so close to Tyrone they could swap carbon dioxide. “Is this a confession?”
“No—I—” He hung his head.
“You know, Morelli,” Prescott said, “I think maybe we should bring this one in, too.”
“No!” Tyrone exclaimed. “That’s exactly what—” He stopped, then threw himself dejectedly into a chair.
“Look, kid,” Mike said, “just tell us what you know. In the long run, it’ll be for the best.”
Tyrone let out a long sigh. His face reflected the conflicts and contradictions he was weighing. Finally, he spoke: “It wasn’t Earl. It was the clown in the fake ’fro.”
Ben stepped forward, keenly interested. Of course, he had considered the rug man a suspect. But what did this kid know?
“The rug guy?” Mike asked. “Bushy hair? Beard? So tall?”
“No,” Tyrone said, his face in his hands. “That’s where you’ve got it all wrong. You go lookin’ for some chump with an Afro, you’re gonna fail.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he was wearing a wig. And since no one else has worn a ’fro for the last twenty years or so, you’re gonna come up empty-handed.”
“Did you see the killer?”
“I think so. I mean, I didn’t know he was a killer at the time. I didn’t know there was a killer at the time.”
“But you saw someone in a wig.”
“Right. Watched him take off the wig. Watched him taking off the fake beard, too.”
Mike made a note. “Where?”
“In the men’s room.” Tyrone laughed awkwardly. “Hell, I thought he was some kind of drag queen or cross-dresser. But then he saw me lookin’ at him, and he got all bent out of shape. Started walking toward me like he was gonna kill me. And he was hiding something under his shirt. I think it was a knife.”
“You saw—” Mike scribbled furiously in his notepad. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“I”—Tyrone looked away—“I didn’t want to get involved.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“The hell you don’t. You’re a material witness, now. You talk to me here or I’ll haul you downtown and you’ll talk to me there. Capisce?”
He swallowed. “My name’s … Tyrone. Tyrone Jackson.”
Mike’s eyes went fuzzy, as if he was trying to dredge up an association buried deep in some fold of his memory. The light slowly dawned. “You’re wanted for something, aren’t you? That’s why you didn’t want to talk.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You knew we’d want to question you, take your prints, run your name through the computer.” Mike nodded. “I think I understand now. C’mon, Prescott. Let’s get out of here.”
“What? You mean—we aren’t takin’ Earl in?”
Mike shrugged. “We have a witness who places another suspect at the scene of the crime with a weapon.”
“You don’t believe him, do you? You should arrest ’em both!”
“I’m not going to make any half-cocked arrests that’ll only blow up in my face later. Frankly, Prescott, I wasn’t very impressed by your case in the first place, but at least there was no other likely suspect. Now, with this kid’s testimony, which Mr. Kincaid is certain to put on at the preliminary hearing, I’m not even sure we have enough to bind the man over for trial. We need time to check this kid’s story.”
“You can’t just let this punk go! He killed someone!”
“If he did, we’ll prove it. In the meantime, I’m not going to bring charges that won’t stick.”
Prescott’s fists balled up. “The Chief won’t like this. He said he wanted an arrest, pronto.”
“I’m not going to waste the city’s resources bringing charges I know will be dismissed just so I can go on the evening news and complain about how the justice system doesn’t work and judges coddle criminals. First we do our job. Then we make an arrest.”
“But—but—”
“You heard me. We’re leaving.” Without another word, Mike walked briskly out of the office, followed by the two officers.
Prescott whirled on Ben. “We’ll be back, Kincaid. Don’t doubt it.” On his way out, he leaned close to Tyrone. “And next time we’ll be coming for you, too.” He slammed the door behind him.
“Thank God that’s over.” Ben turned toward Tyrone. “You and I have a few things to discuss.”
Tyrone’s eyes darted from side to side. “You think it’s true? What that blowhard said, I mean. About them comin’ back for me?”
Ben nodded. “You can count on it.”
Chapter 19
AT EIGHT THAT evening, Ben was still at the club, barely making a dent in the mess. Most of the staff had gone home some time ago; Earl and Tyrone were up in Earl’s office commiserating.
“Why don’t you go on home, Ben?” Diane said. “It’s late.”
“What, and leave you with this pit to clean up?”
“Hey, it falls in the stage manager’s job description, not the piano player’s.” She smiled, causing her cheeks to crinkle up and spread the spikes of her hairdo. “You have to be careful. Might sprain a finger or something.”
He checked his watch. “Well, I was hoping to get home by nine; NPR’s broadcasting a live John Prine concert. I’ll be back tomorrow to help.”
Diane shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
Ben was almost out the door when someone shouted at him from behind the bar. “You’ve got a call, Ben.”
Ben scrambled to the phone. “Hello?”
“Benjamin! You gotta come! He’s killing her!”
Ben’s hand gripped the phone receiver tightly. “Who? What? Who is this?”
“Benjamin! He’s beating her to death!”
“Who is this?”
“You’ve got to come quickly! He’s killing her!”
Ben listened carefully to the voice. “Mrs. Marmelstein, is this you?”
“Of course it is! What are you going to do about Christina?”
“Christina?” His jaw tightened. “Tell me exactly what’s going on. Start at the beginning.”
She spoke in short broken gasps, never more than a few words at a time. “Your friend Christina called. She’s in trouble.”
“But why would she call you?”
“Would you listen to me? He’s beating her up!”
“Who is?”
“I don’t know his name. Her ex-husband.”
“Ray? The dentist?”
“She was screaming, Benjamin! Crying! I could hear him hitting her!”
None of this made sense, but he was wasting valuable time trying to pry information out of her. “Where is she?”
“At her place.”
“I’m going right there. Can you call the police?”
“Yes. 911.”
“Right. Do it.” Ben slammed down the receiver and raced out the door. He was out of the club in ten seconds, had his van started in thirty.
Fortunately, rush hour was long over, so there was not much traffic on the Broken Arrow Expressway. There was, however, construction work in progress, and it added several minutes to his trip.
As he bobbed in and around the construction cones, Ben punched in Christina’s number on his car phone. He had laughed when Mike had first suggested that he get a car phone for his new van. It seemed like a frivolous nineties bit of frippery to him, but Mike had insisted it was a security issue—you don’t want to be trapped on a dark, lonely road with no way to call AAA when your car breaks down. At the moment, Ben was glad he had it.