Blue Like Me (Trevor Finnegan) by Aaron Philip Clark

Author:Aaron Philip Clark [Clark, Aaron Philip]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2022-11-07T16:00:00+00:00

Nightfall—always harder to work a crime scene once the sun goes down, and that’s what this is, a crime scene. Hill didn’t commit suicide. Someone sat him down, forced him to type the note, and then marched him out to the barn under threat, likely gunpoint. It’s beyond a gut feeling, something honed from years of standing over dead bodies, working homicides till they ran dry as brittle bones. Between conjecture and conviction is knowing that the deceased had no say in the matter. Someone took them from the world with designs, motives, and opportunity.

I stand in the road with arms raised high. My state-issued private investigator’s ID dangles around my neck, twirling in the light wind. A police SUV nears, flashing red and blue. An ambulance follows behind. The vehicles come to a stop, headlights bright in my eyes. Two officers get out of the SUV, step into the light. I remain still.

“You the one who found the victim?” one officer asks as they approach slowly. He’s a man with a military fade, skintight on the sides, thicker on the top. The cut doesn’t suit him. Maybe ten years ago, he had a soldier’s physique, but now his neck is a fatty buttress for the water jug of a head on his shoulders.

“Yes.”

“Identification?”

“Around my neck,” I say. “And I’ve got a licensed firearm.”

The officer studies the snubnose that I’ve placed on the ground in front of me and says, “You can put your hands down,” without questioning why I had them up in the first place. “I’m Officer Vasquez. That’s my partner, Officer Stewart.”

“OK,” I say, picking up my gun.

Stewart is a petite white woman with a familiar face, though I’m certain I’ve never seen her before. Without asking, she takes hold of the ID around my neck, studies it, then lets it slip from her fingers. “Trevor Finnegan, private investigator,” she says, staring back at me. Behind her dark eyes, belligerence seems in conflict with her need to be professional.

“Are you working a job out here?” Vasquez asks, taking out his field notepad and pen.

“I came for dinner and found him hanging in the barn . . .”

“A dinner invitation?” He points his pen at me. “A special occasion?” I don’t respond right away. “Or something routine?” He flicks the silver pen like a conductor bringing the orchestra to tempo. I don’t know how to interpret the gesture, but it isn’t a show of respect. “The dinner, sir?” he asks.

“Sorry,” I say, remembering how people looked at me when I questioned them in uniform. Afraid. Apprehensive. Despondent. Studying my face for an inkling of how I might use my power with impunity. “We try for once a month. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“And who is he?”

“Brixton Hill.”

“He family?”

I pause. “Yes, a family friend. He’s like an uncle.”

“OK,” Vasquez says. “Stewart is going to take a look in the barn.”

Stewart pulls her flashlight from her Sam Browne and turns it on, directing the white beam in front of her.

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