Detective Henderson stepped into the bar with wariness, looked around, spotted the shotgun still in Bubba’s hand, and raised an eyebrow. Then he spotted Kyle Byrne, sprawled in the booth where Ramirez had pushed him, and he growled.
“You get him?” said Ramirez.
“Not yet,” said Henderson. “You talk to the kid, find out what the hell is happening?”
“Haven’t had the chance.”
“Want to take him down to the box?”
“We can do it here.”
“And if he clams up?”
“Then we’ll box him nice and tight for a week,” said Ramirez. “Let’s see what’s going on outside first.” As they both walked to the door, Ramirez turned and pointed at Kyle. “Don’t you dare move,” she said. Then she turned to Bubba Jr. “If he stands up, shoot him.”
“With pleasure,” said Junior.
Ten minutes later Ramirez and Henderson were sitting in Kyle’s booth, Henderson beside Kyle, blocking his exit, and Ramirez across from him. The two cops had mugs of soda before them, Kyle a halffinished bottle of Rolling Rock.
“What was in the file cabinet, Kyle?” said Ramirez.
“What file cabinet?”
“Stop being cute.”
“I can’t help it,” said Kyle, smiling. “I was born this way.”
Ramirez stared for a bit and couldn’t stop herself from laughing. He was cute, and he knew it, which didn’t obviate the fact that he was playing it way too cute for his own good.
“Did I see who I thought I saw coming out of the bar a few minutes before you?” said Ramirez.
“Who did you think you saw?”
“Who do you think I saw?”
“Who do you think I think you—”
“Can we get on with this?” said Henderson. “The two of you are giving me a headache.”
“We’ve got a United States senator involved in our murder case,” said Ramirez. “How do you like them apples, Henderson?”
“I don’t,” said Henderson. “It means this peckerhead’s got us mixed up in something explosive enough to put my pension at risk.”
“You wouldn’t want to risk Henderson’s pension, would you, Kyle?” said Ramirez.
“No, ma’am.”
“So let me do some guessing here, just off the top of my head. Your father had something going on with Truscott before he was a senator. Your father died in 1994, right? That was when the senator was running for Congress the first time, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I don’t follow politics.”
“You follow it enough to know that there was something of interest to a United States senator in the file cabinet your father hid in the basement of your old house. It was probably of interest enough to get your house and your car torched. And whatever was in that cabinet was of interest enough to said U.S. senator for His Eminence to show up at a dive like this. How am I doing?”
“Not bad for a cop.”
She didn’t like that comment, and she let him know it with a glare. “A shame about the Datsun. Was it insured?”
“At some point it was, I suppose.”
“The breadth of your stupidity is astounding. Ever hear of a guy named Spangler?”
“No. I don’t think . . . Wait. Spangler?”
“That’s right.”
“A law yer?”
“That’s the one. How do you know him?”
“I don’t,” said Kyle. “But I think my father might have known him.”
“Pretty damn well, I’d bet. You see, we think this Spangler might have killed Laszlo Toth. And his face and hands were covered with something that might have been burns, maybe from your house. And he was waiting outside this bar with what appeared to be a bagful of firepower, looking, we guess, for you.”
“Where is he now?”
“We thought we had him, but he disappeared.”
“Nice work.”
“It would have been easier,” said Henderson, “if we knew even a little of what the hell was going on. And the reason we don’t is because you’ve been telling us squat.”
Kyle looked at Henderson and then at Ramirez. “Why do you say he knew my father pretty damn well?”
“Kyle, we want to impress upon you how dangerous your situation has become,” said Henderson. “We think whatever you found in that file cabinet might have gotten Toth killed, and maybe your father, too.”
“He died of a heart attack,” said Kyle.
“That’s what the death certificate reads,” said Ramirez. “But it was signed by a New Jersey doctor who was convicted of falsifying death records for an embalming factory that processed bodies for a load of funeral parlors in the tristate area. The embalming house was selling body parts and made them more attractive by altering the death certificates. Your father was cremated, right?”
“Yes,” said Kyle, looking distracted.
“So maybe it wasn’t a heart attack. Maybe he was murdered by this Spangler character and then shipped up there for his death certificate to be faked and his parts sold. Anyone in the funeral business could have set it up. What you found in that file cabinet would put you next on this guy’s list.”
“If you want our help,” said Henderson, “it’s time to come clean. What did you find, son?”
“Nothing.”
“You know that blackmail is against the law.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” said Kyle.
He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, closed his eyes, leaned his mouth on his thumbs. As Ramirez stared, she could see him thinking something through. Then the blood seemed to drain from his face. So they’d finally scared the little bastard, thought Ramirez. She was a bit saddened, actually. She had liked his unflappability, had liked that his wide and wicked smile seemed impervious to fear. It hadn’t seemed so much foolish as foolhardy, which was a different thing entirely. But now he was just another scared little rat in over his head. Why were men always such disappointments?
“Am I under arrest?” said Kyle finally.
“No,” said Ramirez. “But we’ll protect you, if that’s what you’re asking. We promise. Tell us what you know, and we’ll take care of you.”
“No, I mean am I free to leave?”