Spiral

well?”
    ”Pretty much.”
    A grave nod. Reaching into his suit coat, he came out with a folded paper. ”This is the list of all who attended the Skipper’s birthday party, with addresses and telephone numbers.”
    I took it from him. ”Thanks, Justo. Are we ready to go in?”
    ”The detectives will see you, but only if I am not present.”
    ”Wait a minute. They’ll see me but not you?”
    ”For several reasons, I think, though they mentioned none to me. First, I am a lawyer, and they are sick to death of lawyers on this case. Second, I believe if I were in charge of the investigation, I would want any ‘discrepancies’ in recollection from your interview to be a verdict of two against one.”
    Made sense from their standpoint. ”How do we proceed, then?”
    Justo tilted his head toward the counter behind him. ‘We give your name to the nice lady, she buzzes you in, and the detectives spend as much time with you as they like. I will wait for you out here.”
    ”Okay. What are these people’s names?”

    The squad room at the end of the corridor measured maybe thirty-by-thirty, with lots of old wooden desks and black swivel chairs dragged toward modernity by a couple of computers. High, clerestory windows let in surprisingly little of the Florida sunshine, the air smelling of moldy documents, possibly in the light brown folders or dark brown accordion files. The parts of the walls not playing host to bookshelves were the same beige as the metal security door, and the overall impression I drew from the room was one of dreary routine.
    Sergeant Lourdes Pintana sat behind a desk covered by papers the way snow covers an alley in Boston. Her complexion was the color of honey, her hair two shades darker and pulled straight back but long enough to brush her shoulders. She wore gold-framed half glasses partway down her nose, watching me over the tops of the concave lenses. Her suit jacket shaded toward light green, and I thought from the texture it might be linen. The desk hid whether Pintana was wearing skirt or slacks, but her torso was slim, and the hollows under high cheekbones gave the woman a fashion-model look well into her thirties.
    Detective Kyle Cascadden, on the other hand, looked as though he swung from tree to tree via strong vines. Standing to Pintana’s left against one of the bookshelves, he had a craggy brow under sandy hair that was short on top but tumbling over the back of his collar. The fish-pattern tie was tugged down almost to the second button on his shirt, a short-sleeved Kmart special that showed tattoos on each forearm including the eagle-and-anchor of the Marine Corps. At the right side of his belt I could see a badge and some kind of magnum revolver. His nose had led the charge more than once, a scar line running through the left eyebrow as well.
    From the visitor chair in front of the desk, I gave them my best smile. ”A pleasure to meet you both.”
    ”Pity we cannot say the same,” said Pintana, an icing of Spanish on her words.
    ”I’m glad to see we’re off to such a good start.” Cascadden pushed his butt away from the shelf. ”I throw you through one of those windows up there, just how far you think you’d bounce?”
    Southern country accent. ”Probably from here to the nearest federal courthouse, where civil-rights suits eat civil-service pensions.”
    Cascadden showed me some teeth, rottweiler fashion, but Pintana raised her hand in a ”Down, boy” gesture. ”Mr. Cuddy, we are meeting here instead of my office because it is more comfortable.”
    ”Doesn’t give me much hope for your office.”
    Pintana lowered her hand. ”Do you know why we are meeting with you at all?”
    ”Because somebody you respect was told by somebody you don’t that this was to be a command performance.”
    ”A what?” said Cascadden.
    Pintana canted her head at me but spoke to her partner. Like when Elton John plays for the Queen, Kyle.”
    He showed me more teeth. ”Yeah, well, nobody fucking commands’ me to do anything. We don’t just have this Held killing. There’s a whore got herself slashed to death in a hot-sheet joint, maybe because she wouldn’t do some John’s ‘joint.’ Then there’s a vehicular over on Federal Highway, hit-and-run of this tourist from — ”
    I said, ”No offense intended, Detective. I was military Police for a while, and I know how it can be in a department.”
    ”How far did you get?” asked Pintana.
    ”In terms of rank or