The Angel Singers by Dorien Grey Page B

ignition at the scene, that meant whoever did it was following Jefferson and knew who was driving.”
    “And you told Booth the circumstances of the explosion—where Grant was and why?”
    “Well, we told him where and that we’d interviewed the guy he was visiting. I’m sure Booth could fill in the blanks,” Dan said.
    “And his reaction?”
    “He repeated that he didn’t know anything about Jefferson’s personal life.”
    When I’d talked with Booth, I’d found his protestations that Grant was pure as the driven snow somewhat hard to swallow. Now, realizing that he knew perfectly well when he talked to me where Grant had died and what he’d been doing there, I found his remarks flat-out suspect.
    “So, I gather that at the moment, Booth’s top on your list,” I said.
    “At the moment,” Marty replied. “We’re looking as closely as we can into his past, and we understand Jefferson was something less than an applicant for sainthood. Which is why we’re here talking to you. What’s your take on all this? What do you know that we don’t?”
    I told them everything I knew, including the details of Jim Bowers’ accident, Booth’s having visited Bowers at the hospital, the “coincidence” of Booth’s mechanic being called in at night for repairs to a baby-blue Porsche and the mechanic’s subsequent suspicious move to Tulsa.
    I also gave them a recap of my conversations with the various chorus members and Rothenberger, including Booth’s story about the mysterious Robert Smith.
    “Now, it strikes me that, if Booth really did think Smith might be involved, he would have made a point of telling you about him,” I said. “Even if he were completely innocent and not thinking clearly when you first interviewed him, I’d surely think he’d have called you later to mention the guy.”
    Marty and Dan looked at one another, then at me and shook their heads in unison.
    “Not yet, anyway,” Dan said.
    “Well,” I told them, “my first reaction was that he might be making it up on the spot to get me off his back. If he does contact you about it, I might take it a bit more seriously. I did get the name and phone number for the guy in Atlanta who handed Grant off to him—his name’s Bernie Niles, and I get the idea that the hand-off wasn’t exactly voluntarily.
    “Booth claims Smith was trying to run a scam on Niles, and that Grant ratted him out and Smith went to jail because of it. If that’s true, it could have made the guy mad enough to want to kill him, especially if Booth was right in calling Smith a psychopath. And if by chance Smith did track Grant here, the only way he could have done so would be through Niles. I’ve got a call in to Niles, but he hasn’t returned it yet.”
    “Tell you what,” Carpenter said, “why don’t you give us the number? I’ve got a buddy on the Atlanta force who owes me a favor. I’ll ask him to check with Niles and find out anything he can about this Smith character.”
    “I appreciate that, Dan,” I said. “But I’ve found that gays are more willing to talk to another gay than to the police. Let me see what I can find out about Smith from him. But if you could check Smith’s criminal history, we can combine our notes.”
    They didn’t look as though they were quite convinced.
    “Look,” I said, “if this is all a wild goose chase, I’ll have saved you the time and trouble to do it yourselves. If I turn up anything of interest, you can take it from there.”
    The two detectives exchanged glances, then Carpenter said, “Okay. It’s not like we’re exactly looking for extra work.”
    “You know, we really should put you on the payroll,” Marty said with a grin.
    “I appreciate the thought,” I said, “and no disrespect, but I think I prefer things the way they are. We’ve got a nice thing going here, and in my line of work I don’t think it would be a big plus to be associated too closely with the police. But I’ve got it on my list of