Fall Guy

he absolutely had to. I wondered if there was some way I could get him to open up, if not about a fellow officer, then about the man who had lived with him, what his relationship to O'Fallon had been and where, if Brody knew, this Parker person was now. But I'd failed to get O'Fallon to speak when I'd had the chance. Why, then, did I imagine I'd be any more successful with Michael Brody?

CHAPTER 5
    Detective Michael Brody cut the first of two seals on the door closest to the entrance, then turned to face me.
    „There was a man living here with Tim off and on for the past few months. He's been given your name and number, in connection with getting his possessions out of the apartment.“
    „Living here?“ I asked. „With Tim?“
    „Tim had taken him in, to give him a chance at cleaning up, getting his life going again.“
    „Cleaning up? You mean drugs and alcohol?“
    Brody nodded, his face telling me he didn't exactly approve of Tim's decision in this case; no way would he, Brody, take a junkie into his home, be on the job twenty-four seven, no break ever.
    „Seems an odd thing to do.“
    „Yes, ma'am,“ he said, his knife in his hand, one seal still going from the door to the frame, the air in the hallway still and warm. „But that was Tim's way.“
    „You mean he'd done that before?“
    „Yes, ma'am. He had.“
    „Did it work?“ I asked.
    Brody slit the second seal. „There's not a terrific track record as far as that goes.“
    „You mean in rehabilitating drug addicts or in O'Fallon's attempt to rehabilitate addicts, one at a time?“
    He took off his sunglasses and looked at me as if we were just meeting for the first time, as if he'd never laid eyes on me before. Perhaps, in fact, he hadn't.
    Perhaps I hadn't looked at him either, concentrating on the information rather than the man, both then and now. But I didn't know that this was the time for a look-see, standing this close, tensed for what I would see when he opened the door, Brody looking right at me.
    „I'm just telling you to be careful,“ he said. I could smell his last cigarette, the coffee he'd had at his desk or on the way here. And something else, something that triggered a memory I couldn't quite retrieve. A door opened on the floor above us but it didn't close and there were no footsteps either. Brody leaned closer. „Don't let him rush you,“ whispering now. „He's going to try. When you're ready to let him get his things, it might be a good idea to have your husband here with you, not be here alone.“
    „He's dangerous, this—what did you say his name was?“
    „He's used a variety of street names. When he called it in, he told the responding officers his name was Parker Bowling. But he's also been known as Dick Parker, Richard Lee Bowling and Parker Lee.“
    „Is he a suspect?“
    „There's been no crime.“
    The door upstairs closed. We heard the cylinder turn over, the security chain go on.
    „I'm just letting you know that he's not a trustworthy individual, Mrs. Alexander. That's all I'm saying.“
    „It's Ms.,“ I told him, regretting it immediately. He'd been fishing and I'd taken the bait.
    „Alexander's not your married name?“ Glancing at the hand holding the leash.
    „You said 'he called it in/ Detective. You mean the accident? Does that mean he was here when it happened?“
    „Actually, no. He claims he went out early to meet a friend. When he came home a few hours later, he found Tim and called 911.“
    „He must have been pretty upset.“
    Brody nodded. „Yes, ma'am. Who wouldn't be?“
    „Was he ... ?“
    Brody didn't seem to be listening. He reached into his pocket and took out a card, pulling out a pen and writing something on the back of it.
    He was bigger than me, somewhat taller, lots more muscular, his jacket a little tight in the shoulders. I could see where his holster was, pushing at the fabric from underneath. Jacket and tie, I thought, even in the heat of summer. His neck was wide, but not like a football player's. His hair was a mousy shade of brown, cut short, standing up straight like newly mowed grass. When he looked up, I saw that his eyes were brown, but not that deep, dark brown that looks almost black. His were a more washed-out shade, like the freckles some dogs have on their chests and paws, but with flecks of green in it. Old eyes, older than the man. And there was gray at his temples, too, though he looked to be in his mid-forties, and gray in his whisk-broom mustache,