desk, the surface lost under stacks of folders and papers.
“I’m representing Marcy,” Vicky said.
“So Mr. Morrison has notified me.” Gianelli clasped his hands on a stack of papers, rolling his shoulders, making himself comfortable. His face was immobile. He could be Indian, Vicky thought, taking in every detail—the clothes they wore, the expressions on their faces—giving nothing back. She had known the local agent for more than six years now, sitting across from him, bantering over the guilt or innocence, the evidence or lack thereof, of dozens of clients. She knew the way his mind worked, the logic with which he marshaled evidence and drew conclusions, a lot like John O’Malley. The two men had more in common than opera.
“Is my client a suspect?” she said.
“What?” Marcy turned sideways, and Vicky could feel the anger shooting from her eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“The investigation is ongoing,” Gianelli said. “Nobody’s been cleared yet.”
Vicky reached over and set a hand on the girl’s arm. The muscles felt tight, capable of propelling the small body out of the chair. Keeping her eyes on the agent, she said, “Let’s get something clear. My client had nothing to do with Ned Windsong’s death. She saw the men who killed him, and she’s willing to cooperate to see that they are prosecuted.”
Gianelli nodded. He opened a folder, pulled out a stack of photos and handed them across the desk. “Recognize anyone?” he said to Marcy.
Vicky took the photos and held them out, but the girl kept her fingers laced together, her eyes on the floor. “I don’t want to look at those guys again,” she said.
“It will only take a moment.” Vicky held the photos in front of the girl.
“We want to pick them up before they can get too far away,” Gianelli said.
The girl’s head snapped back. “You think they left?”
“It’s possible.”
Marcy took hold of the photos then and stared at the image of a man with long, black hair and a pockmarked face. “I never seen this one.” She tossed the photo onto the desk and looked at the next photo and the one after that. All with black hair and dark skin and dark, wary eyes. Vicky wondered if they looked the same to a white girl.
Marcy held up the next photo. “He’s the one that hit me,” she said. She handed the photo to Vicky and studied another. “He’s the guy with the gun.” Vicky passed both photos to Gianelli.
“Dwayne Hawk and Lionel Lookingglass,” he said, laying the photos side by side as if he were dealing two poker cards. “Do you know them?”
“Why would I know them?” A whine came into Marcy’s voice.
“Seen them before?”
“Look, Ted,” Vicky said, “she’s ID’d...”
“I think so,” Marcy said.
The office went quiet. Vicky was aware of the traffic sounds floating up from the street below. She glanced at the girl clasping and unclasping her hands, the blonde hair draped like a veil along the side of her face.
“Tell me about them,” Gianelli said.
“They came to see Ned last week.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“I didn’t remember.” The whine came into her voice again. Vicky turned toward her, and she said, “I didn’t, Vicky, honest. You gotta believe me. I didn’t recognize them until just now when I saw the photos.”
“Okay, okay.” Vicky patted the girl’s arm. She looked at Gianelli. “My client has been through a horrific experience,” she said, starting to get up. “I suggest we continue this interview at a later time.”
“No!” Vicky felt the girl take hold of her arm, the thin fingers digging into her flesh. “They’re the Indians that killed Ned. I want them punished. I want them in prison forever.”
Vicky settled back in her chair. “Okay,” she said.
“What happened when they came to Ned’s place?” Gianelli said, a patient note sounding in his voice, as if he had just kicked over a rock and spotted something new and
“I’m representing Marcy,” Vicky said.
“So Mr. Morrison has notified me.” Gianelli clasped his hands on a stack of papers, rolling his shoulders, making himself comfortable. His face was immobile. He could be Indian, Vicky thought, taking in every detail—the clothes they wore, the expressions on their faces—giving nothing back. She had known the local agent for more than six years now, sitting across from him, bantering over the guilt or innocence, the evidence or lack thereof, of dozens of clients. She knew the way his mind worked, the logic with which he marshaled evidence and drew conclusions, a lot like John O’Malley. The two men had more in common than opera.
“Is my client a suspect?” she said.
“What?” Marcy turned sideways, and Vicky could feel the anger shooting from her eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“The investigation is ongoing,” Gianelli said. “Nobody’s been cleared yet.”
Vicky reached over and set a hand on the girl’s arm. The muscles felt tight, capable of propelling the small body out of the chair. Keeping her eyes on the agent, she said, “Let’s get something clear. My client had nothing to do with Ned Windsong’s death. She saw the men who killed him, and she’s willing to cooperate to see that they are prosecuted.”
Gianelli nodded. He opened a folder, pulled out a stack of photos and handed them across the desk. “Recognize anyone?” he said to Marcy.
Vicky took the photos and held them out, but the girl kept her fingers laced together, her eyes on the floor. “I don’t want to look at those guys again,” she said.
“It will only take a moment.” Vicky held the photos in front of the girl.
“We want to pick them up before they can get too far away,” Gianelli said.
The girl’s head snapped back. “You think they left?”
“It’s possible.”
Marcy took hold of the photos then and stared at the image of a man with long, black hair and a pockmarked face. “I never seen this one.” She tossed the photo onto the desk and looked at the next photo and the one after that. All with black hair and dark skin and dark, wary eyes. Vicky wondered if they looked the same to a white girl.
Marcy held up the next photo. “He’s the one that hit me,” she said. She handed the photo to Vicky and studied another. “He’s the guy with the gun.” Vicky passed both photos to Gianelli.
“Dwayne Hawk and Lionel Lookingglass,” he said, laying the photos side by side as if he were dealing two poker cards. “Do you know them?”
“Why would I know them?” A whine came into Marcy’s voice.
“Seen them before?”
“Look, Ted,” Vicky said, “she’s ID’d...”
“I think so,” Marcy said.
The office went quiet. Vicky was aware of the traffic sounds floating up from the street below. She glanced at the girl clasping and unclasping her hands, the blonde hair draped like a veil along the side of her face.
“Tell me about them,” Gianelli said.
“They came to see Ned last week.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“I didn’t remember.” The whine came into her voice again. Vicky turned toward her, and she said, “I didn’t, Vicky, honest. You gotta believe me. I didn’t recognize them until just now when I saw the photos.”
“Okay, okay.” Vicky patted the girl’s arm. She looked at Gianelli. “My client has been through a horrific experience,” she said, starting to get up. “I suggest we continue this interview at a later time.”
“No!” Vicky felt the girl take hold of her arm, the thin fingers digging into her flesh. “They’re the Indians that killed Ned. I want them punished. I want them in prison forever.”
Vicky settled back in her chair. “Okay,” she said.
“What happened when they came to Ned’s place?” Gianelli said, a patient note sounding in his voice, as if he had just kicked over a rock and spotted something new and
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