The hut on the right was lifeless.
“I don’t understand,” Whalen said. “What are we supposed to be looking at?”
“That hut on the right looks like it’s been abandoned,” Steve said. “That may be where the dead person lived.”
“Abandoned? Why?”
“Sometimes,” Steve said, “the Mayans do it to escape a dead person’s spirit. If they think the spirit is unhappy or angry, they stay away from the hut.” He pointed at the hut’s entrance. “See those bowls on the ground? They’re probably filled with food, to appease the angry spirit. They want it to go to the next world.”
“Can we go into the hut?” Megan asked Eddie.
The guide blinked nervously and looked at the ground.
Steve said, “I think you got your answer.”
Megan glanced at a nearby hut. A young woman with angry eyes retreated into its interior.
It was Josue Chaca’s mother.
26
“We’ve been over this three times already.” Luke leaned back on the rear legs of his metal-frame chair and shook his head at the water-stained acoustic ceiling tiles.
He had spent the past four hours in a windowless interview room at the Police Administration Building, the downtown headquarters of LAPD. The three homicide detectives seemed to study his every twitch, and the tone of their questioning had gradually shifted from conversational to interrogative. Two of the detectives, a man and a woman, sat opposite him at the metal-frame table. The third detective was standing behind the other two, leaning against the wall. It was O’Reilly.
“We just want to be clear about your answer,” the female detective offered with palms outstretched. Apparently, she had taken the role of friendly cop.
Luke aimed his eyes at Lieutenant Groff, the burly man sitting across from him, who was clearly in charge. “How many different ways can I say it? From five-thirty to seven-thirty, I was having dinner with my father and another doctor named Ben Wilson at a place called Kolter’s Deli. Afterward, I walked my father home — he lives a few blocks from the restaurant. I got back to my car about eight o’clock and got home about eight-twenty. The rest of the night, I was at home, alone. Ask my landlord. He probably keeps a closer watch on my schedule than I do.”
“Actually, we have talked to him,” the lieutenant said. “He can tell us only that you came home sometime before nine.”
The one time Walter’s meddlesome nature could have helped, Luke thought, and the man didn’t bother to look at his watch.
Detective O’Reilly was mute, observing and listening as the other two detectives peppered Luke with questions covering every minute of the past two days — where he had gone, what he had done, who he had seen — pressing him to account for an endless stream of what seemed like meaningless minutiae.
Groff looked down at his notes. “Detective O’Reilly recently spoke with your supervisor, Dr. Barnesdale.”
“He’s not my supervisor.”
Groff ignored the comment. “He says that when he told you about your suspension, you were— quote—‘highly agitated.’ ”
“That’s not how I’d characterize our discussion.”
“He also says you described Mr. Erickson as a serious threat to his daughter.”
“I probably said something like that.”
“Did you feel you needed to protect the girl?”
“I didn’t feel I needed to murder her father.”
Groff looked at the other two detectives in turn, then came back at Luke. “Do you know a private investigator named Billy Sanford?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Some guy was following me yesterday, taking photographs. I assume that’s the person you’re asking about.”
“Right. Well, Mr. Sanford tells us that you physically assaulted him. He says that your attack was unprovoked and that you threatened his client, Mr. Erickson.”
“The guy was harassing me.”
“How was he harassing you, Dr. McKenna?”
Luke could see where this was going. “Look, I wanted him off my back. He’d been following me. There was nothing more to it than that.”
To Groff, there seemed to be much more to it than that and he spent the next several minutes dissecting Luke’s encounter with the P.I.
Throughout the exchange, Luke’s attention bounced between the lieutenant’s questions and the timing of the murder. From their questions, he guessed that Erickson had been murdered sometime between eight and eight-thirty. Was it just a coincidence that the killing occurred during a half-hour period for which he had no alibi? Or had the killer set him up? If the latter, there had to be an accomplice who was tracking him at the time of the shooting.
When Groff stopped to glance at his notes, Luke jumped into the pause. “My fight with Erickson was all over the news. Maybe your killer is using me as a decoy.” Luke described his dual sightings of the Asian and how the man had run when spotted.
“So,” Groff said, “this guy sees you attack Mr. Sanford, and then bolts when you start running at him.” He glanced back at O’Reilly. “I’d say that sounds like a fairly normal reaction.”
“He didn’t look the least bit frightened, Lieutenant.”
O’Reilly shifted his stance against the wall. “Describe this man.”
“He was young, maybe thirty, and he was driving a large black sedan. I wasn’t close enough to get a good look at him.”
“Did anyone else see this man?” the woman asked. “Is there anybody who can corroborate your account?
Luke shook his head.
“Did you get a look at his license plate?” Groff asked.
“No.”
The lieutenant bobbed his head from side to side in an exaggerated manner, as though wanting to make his skepticism obvious.
A moment later, as if responding to some unseen signal from Groff, the woman said, “Dr. McKenna, we’ll probably have more questions for you. Do you have any plans to leave the city in the next few days?”
“No.”
Detective O’Reilly pushed himself off the wall and said, “I have a few questions.”
“Be my guest,” Groff said.
“Dr. McKenna, do you know what a 201 file is?”
“My military record.”
“Yours arrived by fax this morning.” O’Reilly picked up a folder sitting on a side table. “It makes for interesting reading. Says in here that you were a Navy SEAL.”
Luke said nothing.
“Team Six.” O’Reilly whistled a long note. “Isn’t that one of their most elite units?”
Luke shrugged.
O’Reilly tapped his front teeth with a pencil while eyeing the report. “Seems odd that they shipped you off to the Pentagon as soon as you finished your training. I mean, I see here that you worked as an analyst in something called Naval Logistical Planning.”
“If you’re going to ask me about classified work, I want a military lawyer here.”
Luke had no idea whether military rules trumped police investigative procedures, but it was the only card he had to play.
“No, nothing like that. I was just wondering why the Navy would go to all that trouble to train you as a commando, then stick you in an office at the Pentagon. It just seems unusual, that’s all.”
“Is there a question in there?” Luke asked.
Groff pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was wondering the same thing myself.”
“Just curious. That’s all.” O’Reilly held up a hand. “I’m done.”
After McKenna left the room, O’Reilly listened to Groff and the female detective compare notes from the interview. It went without saying that O’Reilly’s opinion didn’t count for much. He was a lowly detective second grade from Rampart Division, and they had brought him into the case for just one reason: He knew something about the only person who had made it onto their suspect list so far — McKenna. That information had bought O’Reilly a door-knocker role when Groff and his team descended on McKenna’s residence at four o’clock that morning.