He nudged the mug to safety, looked inside, shook his head. “You have breakfast?”
“I’m fine.”
“You always are.”
“When did you get here?”
“Six thirty but who’s keeping tabs?” Wheeling his chair around to face me, he examined his Timex. “Forty minutes, let’s strategize.”
I said, “Nothing I say is going to teach you anything.”
“Try me.”
“Don’t scare them away.”
He nodded. “I called at eight to confirm. Garrett answered and said, ‘Of course, sir,’ but he did sound like someone with a gun to his head.”
“Any indication why he got in touch?”
“Didn’t ask. Tell you one thing, he stands me up, I’m going after him big-time. And his parents. They all know something and they’re going to give it to me.”
I said nothing.
He said, “Fine, I’m posturing. Apart from not freaking them out, what’s the strategy?”
“Don’t know that the concept’s relevant.”
“Why not?”
“Too many unknowns.”
He rolled his shoulders, then his neck, a great ape chafed by a zoo cage. “I’ll ask it this way: What if it was you doing the interviewing?”
Collecting crumbs, he sprinkled them into his wastebasket. Creating a delicate beige rain that he studied with weary but sharp eyes.
I said, “I’d treat it the same as meeting a new patient. Keep things friendly, do very little talking and a lot of listening.”
“Psychological warfare.”
“That’s not exactly how I’d put it—”
“Fine, emotional manipulation. And if he tries to leave, I chain the goddamn door.”
He’d returned with a cup of biohazard coffee from the big detective room downstairs when his desk phone rang.
“Really... be down in a sec.”
Knotting his tie and smoothing his hair, he said, “Ten minutes early, ol’ Garrett is eager.”
I said, “Maybe you won’t need the chain.”
We walked up the hall where a couple of interview rooms sit.
He opened the door to the first, flipped the Interview in Progress switch. “Wait here, no sense overwhelming them with a welcome party.” Winking. “Psychological sensitivity and all that.”
I entered to find that he’d prearranged the furniture for The Soft Approach: table positioned in the center, rather than shoved into a corner to make an interviewee feel trapped. The chairs were also socially configured: three of them placed around three sides.
Like friends dining out, rather than two against one.
No equipment was visible but this room had been retrofitted last year with invisible audio sensors and video cameras. Flip the switch, it’s a go.
I’d barely settled when Milo stepped in toting a fourth chair. Following him were Mr. and Mrs. Garrett Burdette.
The newlyweds were both adorned by subtle tans and stylish clothes. For the bride, a white silk blouse with billowing sleeves, black skinny jeans, and red crocodile stiletto pumps. I’d never seen the groom duded up but a few days in Italy had changed that: bright-blue linen shirt, white gabardine slacks, brown basket-weave loafers, no socks. An impressive dark stubble beard sparingly flecked with gray lent Garrett Burdette’s face some grit and gravitas. So did black-framed Le Corbusier eyeglasses and a gold pinkie ring set with a tiny carved cameo.
A matching stone three times the size dangled from a gold chain nesting in the hollow of Brearely Burdette’s smooth neck. Her lush, dark hair bore lighter tints than at the wedding. The hand not enhanced by a diamond ring led to an arm graced by half a dozen gold bangles.
Milo said, “You guys look great.”
Objectively, the two of them did. But they hung their heads as they shuffled in, gripping each other’s hands, waiting passively as Milo arranged four chairs on four sides.
“Sit wherever, Mr. and Mrs. B. Make yourselves comfortable.”
The look that passed between the couple said that was impossible, but they cater-cornered from each other and held hands atop the table.
“Coffee? Tea? Coke?”
“No, thanks,” said Brearely Burdette. Hoarse voice, low volume. Slight redness around the sclera of her eyes suggested a tough morning. As she stroked the top of her husband’s jumpy hand, his Adam’s apple took an upward elevator ride before plummeting downward.
“Okay, then.” Milo shut the door. As he sat near Garrett, Garrett sucked in his breath and looked at Brearely.
She said, “It’s okay, honey. You know what to do.”
As if she’d coached him. She probably had.
He blew out enough air to flutter his lips and turn them rubbery. Scratching his stubbly chin, he said, “All right... this is something I’ve been thinking about. I wasn’t sure what to do so I waited to see if it would stay on my mind. It did. I told my wife. She convinced me.”
“Sweetie-doll,” said Brearely, “you would’ve done it anyway. You know what’s right.”
She gave his cheek a quick, light peck.
He said, “Thanks, babe — Lieutenant, I probably should’ve come forward earlier. I guess I just — all the stress, who goes through something like what we did?”
Brearely nodded.
Milo said, “Unbelievable.”
Garrett said, “So we needed to get away. Like I told you, a honeymoon now wasn’t our original plan, we really were going to wait. But then things... piled up. My firm said okay. So.”
Shrug.
Milo said, “Italy was good?”
Brearely said, “Amazing.” To Garrett: “You chilled, you had time to think, you figured it out, here we are.”
“More like you figured it out, babe. You gave me moral clarity.”
“No, doll.” She squeezed his hand. “I just listened. You knew. You know.”
Her smile swung around, encompassing three sides of the table. Every man in the room graced with a share.
“I suppose,” said Garrett. He pressed his wife’s palm to his cheek.
She said, “You opened yourself up.” The smile expanded. “And you also found out you’ve got a great beard. Look at my man’s macho pelt, guys. Just a few days.”
Milo said, “Impressive.”
Garrett gave a mournful look. “Yeah, that’s me, Mr. Macho. Sorry, Lieutenant, no sense delaying. We’re here because we might know something. I might. About what happened. Or maybe not, you be the judge.”
Milo sat back and crossed his legs.
Garrett said, “What we said initially was true. We don’t know her... the victim.”
“We even went over the invite list,” said Brearely. “Even though we knew she definitely wasn’t on. Then we remembered. Someone who almost was going to be there. And when you said Poland.” Heaving chest. “Wow.”
Garrett said, “We’re talking about a friend of my sister. Amanda, not Marilee. She asked us to add him to the list. Last minute. It was annoying, a hassle, we didn’t want to do it but Amanda persisted and got all...”
“Obnoxious,” said Brearely.
Garrett bit his lip. “Amanda can get like that.”
Milo said, “Persistent.”
Brearely said, “Obnoxious and pushy. Who does that at the last minute? The table plans took forever to figure out, we used two separate computer programs. Then five days before, she comes up with that?”
Milo said, “A friend of hers.”
“Some kind of genius,” said Garrett. “She called him The Brain.”
Brearely said, “You’re obnoxious, who cares what your IQ is?”
Milo said, “A friend.”
“Or maybe more like a mentor,” said Garrett. “An academic type.”