Spare Change by Dustin Stevens

Author:Dustin Stevens [Stevens, Dustin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-05-16T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nineteen

The man is wearing the same attire as the night before. His tie has been loosened and the jacket cast aside, but otherwise, he looks the exact same. Or, at least as close as I can remember, given that most of our interaction took place through a rearview mirror staring contest.

Seated in a tiny interview room, he sits at the head of the small metal table in the center of it, myself positioned along the long right side. Turned in his seat, one leg is crossed over the other while I sit with my hands laced before me, not having the slightest interest in matching his gaze.

This man can’t help me. He already let me know last night what he thinks, how he will be approaching things.

“Good morning,” he opens. “Thanks for coming in.”

He pauses, as if I’m supposed to acknowledge or offer my own thanks in kind. Like hell. “Have you found out anything yet?”

In my periphery, I can see his eyes narrow slightly. Clearly, he isn’t used to somebody else asking questions inside this room. What he needs to remember, though, is that I’m not a suspect, and I don’t have to aid his investigation in any way.

Besides, I guarantee mine is already further along.

“Didn’t know if I would see you this morning,” he offers, steering things back into his court.

He is bating me. We both know it. He wants nothing more than for me to say something foolish, give him some reason to focus his investigation on me. Everybody knows that a fair chunk of murders can be attributed directly to the spouse, and admittedly my interaction with the medic probably didn’t help.

Still, if I wanted to hurt Mira – a thought I can say with a thousand percent certainty has never entered my mind – I wouldn’t have brought her to Balboa Park. And I damned sure wouldn’t have screamed for help in the aftermath.

“The man was white,” I say, jumping forward, knowing what the next logical questions in order should be. Whether that’s actually where he’s headed, I have my doubts, but right now I have other things in mind. “Older than me, mid-to-late thirties. Sandy brown hair short and mussed in the front, hadn’t shaved in a few days.”

“You were able to get all this in just a quick glimpse before he started firing?” Marsh asks, skepticism clear.

I blow right past it, no interest in engaging with him any longer than necessary. I’ve seen our attacker’s face a thousand times throughout the last ten hours, each time the image drawing sharper, a few more details popping out. If you sat a sketch artist across from me right now, I could probably give a better description than his own mother.

“An inch taller than me,” I continue. “Black jeans and t-shirt. A black blanket that he dropped when he opened fire. I’m sure you guys already nabbed it.”

I don’t bother adding that it should be rife with hairs and DNA, absolutely none of it mine.

I

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