They left Goss’s apartment building at 7:00 A.M., just as rush hour began, but they were headed against traffic. They reached Jack’s house in fifteen minutes, pulled into the driveway, and marched up to the front door, Stafford leading the way. The detective gave three loud knocks and waited. There was no answer. Jack s car was in the driveway, though, so he knocked again, louder this time. He listened carefully, then smiled with success as he and his partner heard someone stirring inside.
Jack lumbered out of his bedroom and shuffled through the living room to the door. His eyes were puffy slits, and his hair stuck out in all directions. He wore no shoes and no shirt, only the baggy gray gym shorts he’d slept in. He yawned as he pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window next to the front door. He recognized the beige sedan in the driveway as an unmarked police car, and his brow furrowed with curiosity. Then his curiosity turned to concern as Lonzo Stafford’s familiar face appeared in the window. Right behind the crusty old detective was his young black partner, whom Jack recognized from Goss’s videotaped confession. Bradley seemed even taller and more formidable in person. He had the thick neck of a weight lifter, and his hair was cropped short on the sides and flat on the top, like a pencil eraser. Jack’s heart fluttered as the black detective glanced at the Mustang in the driveway. Fortunately, the top was still down so the slash wasn’t visible. Relieved, Jack took the chain off the door and opened it.
“Good morning,” Stafford said matter-of-factly.
“It certainly is morning,” Jack answered.
“We need to talk.”
“What about?” asked Jack.
“You mind if we come in?”
“What’s it about?” Jack repeated, this time more firmly.
Stafford showed no expression. “It’s about Eddy Goss.”
Jack shook his head. “Then we have nothing to talk about. I don’t work at the Freedom Institute anymore. I don’t represent Goss anymore.”
“He’s dead,” said Stafford.
Jack froze. “What?”
“Goss is dead,” he repeated, as if he liked the sound of it. “We found him in his apartment a few hours ago. Somebody killed him.”
“Are you sure?”
“I seen a few dead bodies in my day,” Stafford said. “I know a homicide when I see one. Now,” he arched an eyebrow, “you mind if we come inside for a minute?”
“Sure,” said Jack.
“You do mind?” Stafford asked, pretending to have misunderstood.
“No,” Jack said, flustered. “I mean, I don’t mind.”
“Because you don’t have to talk-”
“I don’t mind,” Jack asserted, a little too forcefully. “Come on in,” he said as he stepped aside, allowing Stafford and Bradley to pass.
As he entered, Stafford reflected on the irony of the situation. Had a homicide detective shown up at the door of any of Swyteck’s clients the night after a murder Swyteck would have been the first to tell him to get lost. It amazed Stafford how lawyers never seemed to heed their own advice.
“Have a seat,” said Jack as he cleared the newspaper off the couch.
Stafford watched him carefully. Jack’s movements were jerky, a little nervous. Stafford noted the fresh red scratches on his bare back. Could have been a woman, he thought. There was a purple bruise on his ribs, too. Would have taken a pretty aggressive woman. And the back of Jack’s left hand had a nasty cut-like from a knife. Not something a woman delivers in ordinary course.
“That’s quite a gash you got there,” said Stafford as he and his partner took their seats on the couch.
Jack glanced down, picking up on the detective’s nod at his hand. It suddenly hurt more now than when he’d stabbed himself with the steak knife. It looked worse, too. Everything looked worse than it had last night. There was a dead body and two nosy detectives booking for an explanation.
“It’s nothing, really,” said Jack. “Just a scratch.”
“Pretty deep for a scratch,” observed Bradley. “More like a puncture.”
Jack shifted uneasily, feeling somewhat double-teamed now that Stafford’s partner was talking too. He glanced at Stafford, then at Bradley. They seemed to want an explanation. So he gave them one. “Yesterday, I was doing some work on my Mustang,” he lied. “I was loosening a really tight nut, you know-one of those ones that gets rusted on real tight. I just pushed and pushed,” he said, demonstrating with his left hand. “The wrench slipped, and I cut my hand.”
Stafford arched an eyebrow suspiciously. “Didn’t know you were a lefty, Jack.”
Jack hesitated, measuring his response. “I’m not. But I use both hands.”
“You’re ambidextrous?” Bradley followed up.
“No, not exactly, but whenever I work on my car I use both hands. One gets tired, I use the other. You know how it is,” he smiled nervously, “especially on the really tough nuts.”
Stafford gave a slow, exaggerated nod, as if to say, “You’re a fool and a liar, but let’s move on.”
“So,” said Jack, “you didn’t come here to talk about cars.”
“No,” Stafford agreed. “We’re here about Goss. Some routine stuff. Just a few minutes of your time. You mind answering a few questions?”
“Sure,” Jack shrugged.
“You do mind?” said Stafford, taunting again.
“No, I don’t mind,” Jack snapped. The detective took mental note of his agitated tone.
Stafford continued the game. “It’s okay, really, if you don’t want to talk, Jack. I mean, you don’t have to talk to us.”
“I know that,” Jack said dryly.
Stafford’s eyes narrowed. “You have the right, you know, to remain silent.”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“You have the right to an attorney,” Stafford continued. “If you can’t afford an attorney-”
“Are you reading me my rights?” Jack asked. “I mean, for real?”
Stafford’s expression was deadly serious.
“Look,” said Jack, “I know you guys are just doing your job. But the truth is, nobody is going to be terribly upset if you don’t catch the guy who blew away Eddy Goss.”
“How’d you know he was shot?”
All expression drained from Jack’s face. “I just figured he’d been shot,” Jack backpedaled. “I just meant killed, that’s all.”
Stafford gave him that slow, exaggerated nod again, his old detective’s eyes brightening as he pulled a little pad and pen from his inside coat pocket. “You mind if I take a few notes?”
Jack thought for a moment. “I think this has gone far enough.”
“That’s certainly your right,” Stafford said with a shrug. “You don’t have to cooperate.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to cooperate.”
“Hey,” Bradley intervened, as if to calm Jack down. “It’s no problem.”
Jack swallowed hard, completely unaware of how obvious it was that they’d rattled the hell out of him.
The detectives rose from the couch, and Jack showed them to the door.
“See you again, Jack,” Stafford promised.
Jack showed no reaction. He just closed the door as soon as they stepped outside and went to the window, watching as the two detectives walked side-by-side to their car. He looked for some feedback, but they didn’t even look at each other until Bradley got behind the wheel and Stafford was in the passenger seat.
“There was a steak knife on the floor at Goss’s apartment,” said Stafford as his partner backed the car out of the driveway.
Bradley glanced at his passenger, then looked back at the road as he backed into the street. “So?”
Stafford sat in silence, thinking. “Check with forensics for prints. First thing.”
“Sure,” Bradley shrugged, “no problem.”
“Then call the Florida bar. They keep a set of fingerprints on all attorneys. Tell them you need a set for Swyteck.”
“Come on, Lon,” Bradley groaned. “We had a little fun with the guy in there, playing with the Miranda rights and the whole bit. But you don’t really think he killed Goss?”
“You heard me,” Stafford snapped. “Check it out.”