The Assailant by James Patrick Hunt Page B

backyard and gave the detectives a signal, and Escobar knocked on the front door.
    A girl of an uncertain age opened it. Maybe fourteen, but no more than seventeen.
    â€œYeah?”
    Escobar said, “County police, miss. We’re here to see Roland.”
    â€œHe ain’t here.”
    â€œNo?” Escobar said. He stepped forward. “Can I see?” He made it sound like a question.
    The girl stepped back and opened the door. And then they were in.
    A black man of about thirty was sitting on a couch in the nextroom. He was in the glare of a big-screen television. There was another girl sitting next to him. When she saw the policemen, she got off the couch and moved to the kitchen.
    Roland Gent sighed. “Man,” he said. “Ain’t you got no respect for privacy?”
    â€œSorry, Roland,” Escobar said. “We’ve got some bad news for you.”
    He gave them his penitentiary stare. “What?”
    â€œOne of your girls was killed last night.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œAdele Sayers.”
    After a moment, he said, “Estelle?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou shitting me?”
    â€œNo. She’s dead, Roland.” Escobar’s expression hardened then. “Why don’t you stand up.”
    Roland Gent did so. And Hastings thought it was funny, the policeman’s reaction. Escobar didn’t think much of Roland Gent, but he wanted the man to show respect for a lady.
    Roland said, “What happened?”
    â€œDon’t you know?”
    â€œMan, I didn’t—you know I didn’t.”
    â€œYou didn’t what?”
    â€œI didn’t kill her. I don’t—I didn’t . . . What happened? Where is she?”
    Escobar said, “Where were you last night? Where have you been?”
    â€œI was out. I mean
out.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œAt a club. North Side. Man, you serious?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œHey, I haven’t even seen Estelle in, like, two months. I swear.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œShe wanted to go her own way. And that was fine with me.”
    â€œFine with you? You let your ladies quit on you?”
    â€œMan, they want to go, they go.”
    Escobar said, “We think she was killed by someone she knew.”
    â€œThat may be so. But it ain’t me. I hear she joined some Internet service. I mean, she’s working on her own, for all I know.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œThe Internet service,” Escobar said. “What’s the name?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    Escobar sighed. “Roland, I think you’re lying.”
    Roland Gent frowned, shifted his body, and said, “You arresting me, or what? I’m thinking you’re not. Not because I didn’t do nothing, which I didn’t, but because you know you don’t have enough to hang it on me.”
    Escobar said, “What if I told you we found your prints inside her car?”
    Roland Gent smiled. “I’d say you’re blowing smoke up my ass. And now I know it.” He seemed to feel better now, like a card-player who’s just seen his opponent’s tell. Roland said, “She drive a Camaro or TransAm, right? Right? I know because I remember when she got it. And I know I’ve never been in it. What’s the game here, huh? Dead white girl and you want to hang it on a black man, right? Put it on the television so people feel better? Times change, huh. Can’t beat a nigger into confessing a crime he didn’t commit, so you try to con him instead.”
    â€œOh, shit,” Escobar said. Like,
Here we go
.
    And Roland Gent said, “You know Mr. Jeffrey Coyle, don’t you? My lawyer? Because I’m nice, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I’ll call him and see if he thinks it’s a good idea for us to sit down and talk to you. He says it is, I’ll do it. At his office. Not yours. Until then, Detective, I got