Bone Secrets 03 - Buried

anger crossed Fielding’s face as he studied the fastener and then vanished, and his face took on the doldrums look again. Mason noted the anger.
    Can’t fool me, buddy. You just try to look lazy.
    There was a pissed-off man inside that soft body.
    “Mason Callahan, I’m with OSP.”
    Fielding raised his gaze to meet Mason’s. And shrugged.
    Silence.
    Mason internally rolled his eyes. You’d think the asshole would appreciate the opportunity to see and talk with someone new. A break in his boring routine.
    “Sandra Edge. It’s been a while,” Mason stated.
    Fielding’s puffy face didn’t flinch.
    “Why her?” Mason asked.
    Mason saw a touch of surprise behind the lazy eyes. The directness of the question had caught Fielding off guard.
    “Why not?” Fielding’s voice was surprisingly high pitched for an older man. He sounded like a thirteen-year-old. A thirteen-year-old girl.
    It was Mason’s turn to be surprised, and he wondered if Fielding was gay.
Dumbass. Like a voice indicates sexual preference.
    “Did you know her before?”
    Annoyance crossed Fielding’s face. “Why are you asking questions that you already know the answers to?”
    “Humor me. I didn’t have time to read your case.”
    Fielding’s gaze narrowed. “In a hurry? What’s the rush?”
    Again, Mason was treated to a glimpse of the person hiding inside the soft figure. Fielding wasn’t dumb.
    Of course he’s dumb. He’s sitting in prison for murder.
    “Sandra’s roommate disappeared nine years after she was killed. Dawn Henderson. Her body just turned up, and we’re looking into it.”
    “Can’t help you there. I’ve been inside.”
    “Again. Why Sandra?”
    Fielding shrugged and looked away. “A lack of planning on your part does not necessitate urgency on my part,” he stated as if reading from a rule book.
    Mason’s anger tightened his throat.
He’s fucking with me. He’s bored.
    “I saw that on a sign in a public health office once,” Fielding said. “Seemed typical of public employee attitudes. Roles are reversed here, aren’t they?”
    Mason leaned forward, his hands on the metal table.
    “Why Sandra? Where’d you meet? And don’t give me shit about wasting your time with information that’s already in your file. You’ve got plenty of time to waste. Why don’t you just enjoy talking to my pretty face and see it as a break in your boring-assed routine. All the other prisoners should be so lucky.”
    Fielding’s mouth twitched at one corner. “Okay, Detective. I’ll play. I met Sandra at a local bar. She was selling it. I was interested. I was stoned. Things got out of hand. The end.”
    “Local bar? You both lived close by?”
    Fielding shrugged. “My buddy lived close by. I was in town and camped out on his couch for a few days.”
    “Where did you live?”
    “Nowhere.”
    “Transient?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “So you had no money to pay her. No money for a roof over your head and no money for the hooker. But you had money for the dope and beer. Fucking typical.”
    The anger flashed through Fielding’s eyes, and Mason knew he’d perfectly nailed Fielding’s life at the time.
    “You must be loving prison. Three squares a day, a roof, cable. And it doesn’t cost you a dime. In fact, as Joe Taxpayer, I’m paying for your stay at the Ritz.” Mason paused. “And you’re very welcome. Anything to keep shit like you off the street.
    “Your buddy must have been thrilled when you went to prison and got off his couch. I bet you weren’t there for just a few days, you were probably sponging off of him for weeks.”
    “Fuck you. He went in, too.”
    “Went in? Prison?”
    “Yeah, he was there. You really should read the fucking file so you don’t sound like an idiot. Gary and I both went away forSandra’s murder. He got off easy because they lost half the damn evidence.”
    “And because you were the one who actually killed her. He was probably just there to party,” Mason prodded. “You fucked up his life, too. What was his name?”
    “Who, Gary? You’re coming off as a dumbshit because you haven’t reviewed the case.” Fielding’s face reddened. “You’re like a high school newspaper reporter who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”
    “Gary what?”
    “Gary Busey.”
    “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Grow up.”
    “Gary Hinkes.”
    Mason wrote the name in his mental notebook. “Was that so hard?”
    “Are you really a cop? ’Cause you don’t seem to know