Blood and Bone by William Lashner Page B

rusty to be of much use. Has he asked for a lawyer?”
“Not yet.”
“He call anyone?”
“No.”
“Who notified us?”
“Anonymous call from a pay phone.”
“Pay phone, huh? Those things still around?”
“Apparent ly.”
“What did he say he was doing in there?”
“Visiting his father’s old office before they shut it down. Looking for something to remember his father by. A keepsake or such. Sounds a bit demented if you ask me.”
“You get along with your father, Ramirez?”
“I did, at least when he wasn’t drinking. He died when I was in high school.”
“How did it make you feel?”
“It hurt, and then I got over it.”
“And now you don’t feel abandoned, betrayed, bitter?” “I feel nothing,” she said. “Let me do him alone. We started building a rapport at the funeral—until he figured I was a cop. Give me half an hour and I’ll push him into coming clean.”
“That’s the problem with your technique right there. Rapport is fine, but pushing’s good for giving birth and not much else. Does he know we can’t hold him for the burglary?”
“Not yet, and I don’t want to tell him before we have to.”
“I’m not surprised the landlord won’t press charges. He’s had enough bad publicity over the murder, and he’s going to have to rent the place soon. But what was Mrs. Toth’s excuse?”
“She said she felt sorry for him,” said Ramirez. “Said her husband was such a skinflint he refused to give the kid a break even though he’d promised to financially support the mother.”
“I guess she got over her fit of weeping at the funeral.”
“Maybe we can change her mind by telling her the boy is a suspect in her husband’s murder.”
“Is that what he is?”
“What do you think?” said Ramirez.
Henderson looked at Kyle as he sat slumped in a strange quiescence. There was something lost and yet full of serene acceptance in his expression, as if he had no idea of what was going on and found the situation both familiar and comforting.
“I think he’s a confused kid who misses his dad,” said Henderson.
“You’ve gotten soft over the years.”
“Maybe I have. But before you finger a man for murder, you ought at least to have some reasonable motive.”
“Like the widow said, this Toth had promised to make payments from the law firm to the kid and his mother after the father’s death, then reneged. Maybe it was revenge. Or maybe he just broke in for that keepsake he was looking for and found the victim in the office working late and panicked.”
“And he looks like the panicky type to you.”
“No need to get wise. We still haven’t gotten a straight answer about how this Liam Byrne died. Maybe Toth was somehow involved, maybe the Byrne boy found out how, maybe he decided on a little payback.”
“Why now?”
“Why not? And if he did do the shooting, it could certainly explain why he was in the office last night. If he lost something accidentally during the shooting, something that could connect him to the murder, he’d have to come back to find it. Like that cuff link we found under Toth’s desk.”
Henderson eyed Byrne’s ragged T-shirt. “He look like a cuff-link kind of guy to you?”
“He was wearing a suit at the funeral.”
“What kind of shirt?”
Ramirez thought for a moment and then frowned. “Button-down oxford.”
“Good for you,” said Henderson. “You might make a detective yet.”
“Screw off, old man. Whether you like it or not, I’m here already. And what the hell did you mean about a problem with my interrogation technique? My interrogation technique is spot-on, it’s legendary, it’s why the brass put me here.”
“To learn, maybe. You can’t go in trying to bully a suspect, unless you want him to close like a clam. You have to care about him as a human being.”
She snorted. “I can pretend to care with the best of them.”
“No, see, that’s just it. It’s not a parlor trick, not a technique.