The Competition - [54]

Bailey and I headed back to her car. While she drove, I pulled out the list of email addresses I’d copied down and started to tap them into my phone. Bailey turned on the radio. It’d been a long day, and the freeway was practically empty at this time of night. Easy to fall asleep at the wheel. She tuned in to a classic rock station.

“I kind of prefer jazz,” I said.

“Yeah? You also prefer a head-on collision with that pylon?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

The first three email addresses were defunct, but I got lucky on the fourth: SHDOG68501. “Bailey, turn that thing down.”

“What?” She did-fractionally.

I turned it down the rest of the way and ignored her glare. “Shane Dolan got an email from Logan the day before the shooting.”

“No shit?”

“None at all. Listen to this: ‘Hey, dog, you da man. Thanks for all of it. See ya on the other side! Ha ha.’” I looked at Bailey.

She shrugged. “Well, could be he’s thanking Shane for helping with the guns. But it’s pretty vague.”

“Come on, Bailey. The day before the shooting? Shane’s into guns, Logan thanks him ‘for all of it.’ At the very least, Shane had to be the gun supplier. And he might very well be more.”

Bailey was silent for a moment, then nodded. “Possibly. He sure beat feet out of here, no question about that.”

It was one of the few things we didn’t have questions about. By the time Bailey dropped me off at the Biltmore, we were both visibly sagging.

“Get some rest, Knight. It’s only going to get crazier.”

“We don’t have any interviews scheduled for tomorrow, do we?” Bailey shook her head. “Then I’ll have to check in at the office.” I got out of the car and patted the roof. “But call me if anything’s shaking.”

Bailey nodded and drove off. Angel pulled open the door for me. “Long day, Ms. Knight? You look tired.”

“Very, very long day, Angel.”

He wished me good night. I wished I could’ve had one. I fell asleep like someone knocked me on the head with a club, but nightmares with children crying and a stalker with a high-pitched laugh kept me thrashing most of the night.

When my hotel phone rang, I groped for the clock, sure it was three a.m. It was seven thirty. And only two people ever called me on that phone. I knew who it wasn’t: Graden wouldn’t dare call me at that indecent hour.

I picked up the phone. “What is it, Keller?”

“Morning, Ms. Daisy.”

“I know you think that’s funny-”

“Want to talk to a witness?”

I sat up. “Who?”

“Just get down here.”

The Police Administration Building is walking distance from the Biltmore, and the streets between them are filled with churro stands. I love churros so much it’s embarrassing. Just the smell of the hot cinnamon makes my mouth water. I picked up four and ate one on the way, congratulating myself on my restraint.

Bailey was on the phone. I put two down in front of her, and she smiled her thanks. I got my coffee and sat down at an empty desk to savor my remaining churro, careful not to get the sugar and cinnamon all over me. But when Bailey ended her call, she reached out and dusted off my chin. Oh, well.

“We’ve got a kid coming in who says-” Bailey stopped as a woman in a long gray wool coat led a tall, rumpled-looking young guy toward us. Bailey stood up. “Mrs. Ester?”

“Hello, Detective,” she said. “I thought it’d be easier for you if I brought Jeremy in instead of having you out to the house.”

“That was very kind of you,” Bailey said. She introduced me and we all shook hands.

“Please call me Amy.”

“Amy, why don’t you and Jeremy follow me,” Bailey said. Every pair of eyes in the bull pen watched as we headed to the interview room.

We might not ordinarily do a witness interview in private, but we were keeping everything about this case as much under lock and key as possible. The chief had tried to appease the press by giving updates, but he couldn’t say much without compromising the investigation, so the updates basically consisted of “We’re following up on leads.” The press wasn’t fooled. They hounded him and complained-in person and in print-about the lack of progress. So the mood at the station was tense.

Jeremy was an earnest-looking kid. Tall, with tight blonde curls-like his mom-and well-spoken. My guess that he was a basketball player panned out: he was a power forward on the Fairmont varsity team. In his spare time he worked as a bagger at the local grocery store. He hadn’t been in the gym at the time of the shooting. But he had seen something he thought might be important. He started by apologizing.

“I know I should’ve told you guys about this right away, but I was freaked-out.”

His mother pursed her lips. “He didn’t even tell me until this morning, or I would’ve dragged him in right when it happened. Gave me some cockamamie story at first about a drunk driver.”

Jeremy hung his head like a puppy who’d peed on the carpet.

“So this happened when?” I asked.

“Monday,” he said.

It was Thursday. Had it only been three days since the shooting? It was hard to believe. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters. Tell us what happened.”

He spoke in a rapid, shaky voice. “I was late to school. My car battery died, and Mom had already left for work, so I had to wait for Triple-A to come and give me a jump.”