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From Chapter One of
Defective Goods:
Page stared at me. “This is
unbelievable.”
I
had to agree. The murders at Choice Manufacturing were still fresh in
my mind. I had helped Page by finding a crucial piece of evidence but
the connection had been more than cop and witness. One of the murder
victims had been my boss and an acquaintance of Page’s. The fact that
we were confronted with a similar situation so soon was statistically
impossible.
“At
least this guy isn’t a friend of ours,” I said, trying to sound
reassuring.
“Thank God for that.” Page rubbed his eyes. “Do me a favor. Go inside
and see Detective Beekly. He’s interviewing Hector Viana and the other
employees. See if there’s anything he needs from you. I’ll catch up
with you later.”
Shaking his head, Page left my car and walked toward Zucker. Together
they looked at the sky, and then Zucker pulled a green tarp from the
trunk of his squad.
I
inhaled deeply, letting the air get to the bottom of my lungs. Then I
let it out slowly, trying to ease the tension headache that was building
behind my forehead. After inhaling and exhaling again, I stuffed my
purse into my tote bag and went into the Big Bear.
The
restaurant interior décor was mountain man meets Metropolis. In the
bar, snowshoes and fishing rods shared the walls with plasma screen
televisions. Neon beer signs hung from the ceiling along with stuffed
ducks and fish. The pine log booths and tables in the dining room had
probably matched the plank flooring when the restaurant was new. Now
the floor was the color of the coffee I’d just consumed. I smelled
barbeque.
Several young men and women were gathered around the bar. I looked into
the dining room and saw Hector Viana in a booth with a man I assumed was
the detective. I sat down at a table nearby to wait for my turn with
Beekly.
It
was horrible sitting at the table with nothing to do. I was
uncomfortably aware that the group in the bar occasionally glanced my
way. My stomach growled. Periodically I broke bits off the muffin in
my tote and ate I wished I had a book with me. I hoped I still had a
job. I wanted to phone Margaret to give her an update. Calling her
from the dining room probably wasn’t appropriate. I was uneasy about
leaving the room in case Beekly wanted me. Margaret would have to wait.
Page came by around ten o’clock and handed me another cup of coffee. He
made a droll remark about not spilling it before he continued outside.
I didn’t see him again after that.
Viana finally left the booth and Beekly came over to join me at the
table. He had a round, bald head, round rosy cheeks and a round tummy.
He even wore round, wire-rimmed glasses. Quietly and politely, he
explained that, although I had already told my story to Page, he wanted
to hear it for himself.
As
I spoke, he took notes, filling two pages with his personal shorthand.
No mention was made of what Viana had been asked or of what he had
said. Beekly reviewed the morning’s activities step-by-step, taking me
back over each detail. And then it was over.
“Don’t I have to go to the station and sign a statement?”
Beekly chuckled. “You watch too much television.”
“So
I’ve been told.”
“Suspects go to the station. You’re not a suspect – yet.”
That wasn’t particularly reassuring. The idea that I might be a suspect
hadn’t occurred to me but a good detective would certainly consider me a
possibility until a better one presented itself. For now, I was just a
witness. And free to leave.
The
media had gathered in force. I passed their trucks and cars as I pulled
out of the Big Bear lot onto the roadway. They glanced my way but my
car doesn’t have antenna or lights so a glance was all I got.
I
could feel my body sag in the post-adrenaline letdown. As tired as I
felt, sleep was the furthest thing from my mind. The scene from the
previous day, Dick Wilton barely visible behind the Norfolk pine,
hailing Jake Prince, replayed continually. Should I have recognized
him? If I had, it wouldn’t change anything. Wilton would still be
sitting in his car with a bullet in his heart.
The
news came on the radio. The lead story was the murder at the Big Bear.
The reporter didn’t say much except to repeat facts I already knew and
refer to the disturbance in the “bucolic town.” That was quite a
stretch. Vernon Hills is a great place but it stopped being bucolic
years ago when the first shopping mall went up.
I
was trying to decide if any central Lake County towns still warranted
that description when my cell phone rang. The number in the display was
familiar. Apparently, my mother had been listening to the radio. I
wished she lived a little father away. Then she would have heard the
news from me instead of from a Chicago radio station.
“Hi, Mom.”
“So?”
“So
what?”
“So was that dead guy found
anywhere near your hotel?
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