if it pissed him off when you did.”
“He didn’t turn around. That says something. What’s your theory? That he did it for her—I mean, at her behest, or that they did it together?”
Brussels scoffed. “So you agree we have to have a theory now?”
“A theory would be nice,” said Starvold.
“That’s what we’re talking out here.”
“You’re still working out your personal issue using Connie Wexler.”
“Nope.”
“She didn’t know the comic book guy.”
“That we know of . And I’m not convinced that’s got anything to do with this.”
“Other than Barry Taupe’s partner getting murdered and this comic book guy he almost bought the store from disappearing.”
“The buying thing we only have from the friend. The accountant,” Brussels reminded him.
“That’s Erika.”
“The other best friend of Connie. What is it about this lady. I never heard so many fucking ‘she’s-my-best friends’ in my life.”
“That’s women. Friendships,” said Starvold.
“But Barry Taupe too.”
Starvold pushed his unwritten on tablet across the table, put his hands on the table, then rested his chin on his hands.
“I want to drop this thing. Move on the something else.”
Brussels sneered. “Leave a grieving widow without closure.”
“Yeah. I know you’re concerned about her feelings. Robb Hart was a shit bag. Anybody could have done it. She had no idea what he was up to. Vegas PD didn’t have anything. And since the department already turned down my Vegas trip request…”
“So you don’t mind somebody getting his brains spread all over his own garage under your nose. Good to know.
“Not under my goddamn nose. Anything else we dig up is only going to embarrass this family further.”
“Okay. Now you’re the fucking boss, I guess.”
“Tommy,” said Starvold, “I think we should let this one cool awhile. If something comes our way, like a raccoon digs up the comic-book owner’s body in Barry’s back yard, or…”
“How about if somebody walks in and confesses, would that work for you too?”
“Yes..”
“No skin off my ass. Doesn’t fucking matter to me. I hate the bitch anyway. As you said.”
“Maybe a fresh pair of eyes.”
“On what?”
“This case.” said Starvold. “What else?”
“You want to bring another couple guys in on this?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Except that two fucking seconds ago, you said we should drop it altogether.”
“So?”
“So I sense an undercurrent to your thoughts.”
Starvold sat back up. “Okay ..?”
“You don’t want off this at all. You want me off.”
“That’s not it, Tommy.”
“You think I’ve decided it’s the woman, and you don’t agree. You can still fuck her if she’s guilty. We could work that in, if that’s the problem.”
“That’s not the problem. You’re the fuckin’ problem.”
“Now comes the truth.”
“Don’t make it out to be something it isn’t. We’re fine, I just don’t know what it is about her and you, and I don’t fucking care. You’ve got your family things to deal with now, and you don’t talk about them, so I don’t know. But this lady didn’t do anything for you to hate her, and you’re fucking my shit up with all your nonsense.”
“So it’s your shit now.”
“I guess it is.”
“Then maybe I should take a half-day. Get out of the way, while you save the widow Hart or Wexler or whatever the fuck she’s calling herself this week.”
“You’d think you of all people would have sympathy for her situation. Raising a teenager now and all.”
Tommy ignored the last part. The dig. “I’m fucking going home.”
And go fucking home he would. He walked out of the interview room, out of the precinct, and got into his car. He even caught a glimpse of Barry Taupe pulling out of the visitor’s parking lot.
Tommy drove south, got caught in the I-5 traffic, headed home to Red Valley. Thought about calling, decided it was better not
“He didn’t turn around. That says something. What’s your theory? That he did it for her—I mean, at her behest, or that they did it together?”
Brussels scoffed. “So you agree we have to have a theory now?”
“A theory would be nice,” said Starvold.
“That’s what we’re talking out here.”
“You’re still working out your personal issue using Connie Wexler.”
“Nope.”
“She didn’t know the comic book guy.”
“That we know of . And I’m not convinced that’s got anything to do with this.”
“Other than Barry Taupe’s partner getting murdered and this comic book guy he almost bought the store from disappearing.”
“The buying thing we only have from the friend. The accountant,” Brussels reminded him.
“That’s Erika.”
“The other best friend of Connie. What is it about this lady. I never heard so many fucking ‘she’s-my-best friends’ in my life.”
“That’s women. Friendships,” said Starvold.
“But Barry Taupe too.”
Starvold pushed his unwritten on tablet across the table, put his hands on the table, then rested his chin on his hands.
“I want to drop this thing. Move on the something else.”
Brussels sneered. “Leave a grieving widow without closure.”
“Yeah. I know you’re concerned about her feelings. Robb Hart was a shit bag. Anybody could have done it. She had no idea what he was up to. Vegas PD didn’t have anything. And since the department already turned down my Vegas trip request…”
“So you don’t mind somebody getting his brains spread all over his own garage under your nose. Good to know.
“Not under my goddamn nose. Anything else we dig up is only going to embarrass this family further.”
“Okay. Now you’re the fucking boss, I guess.”
“Tommy,” said Starvold, “I think we should let this one cool awhile. If something comes our way, like a raccoon digs up the comic-book owner’s body in Barry’s back yard, or…”
“How about if somebody walks in and confesses, would that work for you too?”
“Yes..”
“No skin off my ass. Doesn’t fucking matter to me. I hate the bitch anyway. As you said.”
“Maybe a fresh pair of eyes.”
“On what?”
“This case.” said Starvold. “What else?”
“You want to bring another couple guys in on this?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. Except that two fucking seconds ago, you said we should drop it altogether.”
“So?”
“So I sense an undercurrent to your thoughts.”
Starvold sat back up. “Okay ..?”
“You don’t want off this at all. You want me off.”
“That’s not it, Tommy.”
“You think I’ve decided it’s the woman, and you don’t agree. You can still fuck her if she’s guilty. We could work that in, if that’s the problem.”
“That’s not the problem. You’re the fuckin’ problem.”
“Now comes the truth.”
“Don’t make it out to be something it isn’t. We’re fine, I just don’t know what it is about her and you, and I don’t fucking care. You’ve got your family things to deal with now, and you don’t talk about them, so I don’t know. But this lady didn’t do anything for you to hate her, and you’re fucking my shit up with all your nonsense.”
“So it’s your shit now.”
“I guess it is.”
“Then maybe I should take a half-day. Get out of the way, while you save the widow Hart or Wexler or whatever the fuck she’s calling herself this week.”
“You’d think you of all people would have sympathy for her situation. Raising a teenager now and all.”
Tommy ignored the last part. The dig. “I’m fucking going home.”
And go fucking home he would. He walked out of the interview room, out of the precinct, and got into his car. He even caught a glimpse of Barry Taupe pulling out of the visitor’s parking lot.
Tommy drove south, got caught in the I-5 traffic, headed home to Red Valley. Thought about calling, decided it was better not
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