A bald homicide detective kept a beefy hand on Mitch Tomlin’s bicep. The detective stopped when he reached Eler. “We need to question him at the precinct, Mr. Eler. We don’t know if any charges will be filed other than pertaining to the weapon he had upstairs.”
“But what happened? The gunshot—”
The detective nodded to Mitch Tomlin. “Apparently, he thought about killing himself, then changed his mind at the last second. The weapon was fired, but only into the wall.”
The detective nodded, then led his prisoner outside. The handcuffs made a metallic noise as Mitch Tomlin walked. His eyes hadn’t made any kind of contact with anybody while the detective and Eler had talked. He was in shock. Other detectives came down from upstairs. I didn’t recognize one of them.
I had come here to talk to Mitch Tomlin and Diane Beaufort about last night. Now that Tomlin was gone, I needed to find Beaufort. I wandered back to the kitchen and waited until Eler was free. The kitchen reminded me of the kind you see on military bases. Big and clean and well organized. There probably weren’t a lot of great meals fixed here. Just big and clean and well-organized ones.
In ten minutes Eler came back. You could tell he was about to cry, and that didn’t sound like so terrible an idea actually.
“I suppose they’re just going to give up, aren’t they?”
“What?” I asked.
“The police. I’ve always heard that.”
He was babbling. “Heard what?”
“That they just decide who is the killer and slant their whole investigation to that. They don’t even consider any other possibilities.”
“A lot of what happens next depends on what Mitch tells them.”
“Did you see his face?” The tears were back in his voice.
I nodded.
“I’m afraid of what he’ll tell them.”
“Then what I’d suggest is getting a lawyer as quickly as you can.”
“I’ve got a friend in the public defender’s office.”
“Call him then. Right away.”
He seemed surprised. “You don’t think he did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you’re a pretty decent guy after all.”
“You’d better get to the damn phone.”
“Yes. Of course. Good idea.” He looked to be in shock himself.
“Where do I find Diane Beaufort?” I asked as he was going through the kitchen door.
He turned. Seeming confused again. “Probably, uh, at work.”
“Where’s work?”
“There’s a Hardee’s about four blocks from here.”
“All right. Thanks.”
He was back to shaking his head. “You really don’t think he did it, do you?”
“He was there last night and he shouldn’t have been. He was bitter over Stephen Chandler’s suicide. If I were a homicide detective, I’d have to take a damn good look at him.”
“My God,” he said, “they’re really going to charge him with murder, aren’t they?”
Gently, I said, “You’d better get to the phone, Karl.”
12
She had the kind of uptilted nose and wide eyes that fashion photographers go slightly crazy for. Her blond hair was pulled back in a bun, her blue eye makeup was applied a bit heavily, and she needed to lose maybe five pounds of baby fat — but in all, and even in her brown Hardee’s uniform, Diane Beaufort was a classic beauty.
She was behind the counter, using one of those little metal chutes they fill french-fry bags with. I recognized her from last night. The tall kid with the baseball for an Adam’s apple noticed me and stepped up instantly, perhaps fearing I was a Hardee’s inspector.
“Help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Diane.”
He looked back over his shoulder.
Diane was watching us. Frowning. Then she put down the french-fry device and wiped her hands with such elaborate care that all my cop instincts got riled.
“Hey, Diane,” the kid said, as if she hadn’t heard me.
She had, of course. Which was why she was taking off. In less than ten seconds she was gone.
I ran out the door, around the side of the big windows where mommies and daddies sat feeding their kiddies. The air was sweet and gentle and made me feel young and needful of sex. Instead, I was running alongside a Hardee’s window providing a few moments of TV-like entertainment for the diners watching me.
In the rear, big lights shone on an open area of dumpsters and empty egg crates. She wasn’t there. I ran to one end of the parking lot. No sign of her. Nor had any car taken off. I ran west to a street shaded by blooming elm trees that cast peaceful shadows on the pavement. I squinted, peering as far down the street as I could see. Nothing. No sign of her whatsoever.
I went back to the Hardee’s. The exhaust fans kicked everything in my direction. I felt as if I had been buried alive inside a hamburger.
There was only one other possibility.
I went in the back door. Down a corridor I could see the backs of several uniformed high school kids preparing various kinds of food. A radio played loud rock and roll Nobody noticed me.
I went along the corridor until I came to two doors marked men and women. I had to wait five minutes before a female came along. She was a black girl, pretty in a gangly way, with amused but now suspicious eyes.
“I need you to do me a favor,” I said.
“Nobody’s supposed to be back here but employees.” She looked around. I could picture a manager rushing out. I could picture a scene.
I took out my wallet. Showed her my Federated ID.
“This doesn’t mean you’re a policeman,” she said.
“No, but it does mean that I’m a guy who’s trying to do somebody a favor.”
“Who?”
“Diane Beaufort.”
“Diane’s nice.”
“I know. That’s why I’m trying to help her.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Go in the women’s john and see if she’s in there.”
Her eyes, which had gotten friendly for a time, were suspicious again.
“Is she hiding from you?”
I had to take the chance of telling her the truth. “Yeah. But she doesn’t know that I’m trying to help her.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Just tell her this. Tell her that Mitch Tomlin was arrested tonight.”
“Mitch Tomlin? The boy from Falworthy?”
“Yeah.”
“God.”
“Please tell her.”
She stared at me a moment then nodded. “Okay.”
She was gone two or three minutes. In the interim a boy in a brown uniform walked past me and said, “You’re not supposed to be back here.”
“I know.”
Then he just kept walking right out the back door.
The girl led Diane Beaufort out a few minutes later. “He has a badge,” the girl said, “but it doesn’t mean anything.” Diane nodded. She stood straight and still, as if she were about to be executed. The girl said, “You want me to wait with you?”
Diane shook her head.
The girl looked at Diane and then looked at me and left.
“How about going out in the parking lot?” I said. “It’s sort of tough to talk in here.” And it was: too narrow, too shadowy, with people hovering on the edges.
“No,” she said.
“The police arrested Mitch tonight.”
“That’s what Loretta said.”
“Do you think he killed David Curtis?”
“No.”
“Don’t you want to help him?”
“Yes.”
After a few zombie-like exchanges I finally realized I was dealing with a very stoned young lady.
“Can you take some time off?”
“When?” she asked.
“Right now.”
“I don’t know.”
“You need to get straight.”
She touched nail-bitten fingers to a beautiful cheekbone. “I know. I’m pretty fucked up.”