Your Chariot Awaits by Lorena McCourtney Page A

twisting, but my eyelids had a blinky life of their own. Then I couldn’t help but wonder what other give-away movements I was making that I wasn’t even aware of. So I tried to hold myself rigidly motionless, not a muscle twitching.
    Detective Molino added something to his notes. Subject now exhibiting unusual body rigidity indicative of extreme anxiety, my nervous imagination supplied.
    â€œYou don’t seem to know a great deal about Mr. Norton, considering that you’d had a four months’ relationship with him,” he observed.
    True, as was becoming more obvious all the time. Murdersized gaps in what I knew about Jerry. There didn’t seem any right response to this last observation, so I remained silent.
    Detective Sergeant Molino gave me a minute, no doubt hoping I’d blurt something incriminating into the silence. When I didn’t, he went on to ask about possible enemies. I dutifully mentioned the run-ins I knew about, although I felt squeamish doing so, as if I were maligning Jerry when he had no chance to defend himself.
    More as an afterthought, I also mentioned Jerry’s Web site business, and I was surprised by an unexpected uptick in the detective’s interest. He leaned forward, his ballpoint pen poised over the notepad. If he’d had antennae, they’d have been quivering.
    â€œDid you help him with this business?
    â€œNo, I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
    â€œWere you familiar with any of his clients?”
    â€œNot by name, no. Though I’m sure there must be a complete record of them on his computer.”
    â€œDid he ever meet with any of the clients personally?”
    â€œI was under the impression all his dealings were done over the Internet. But I don’t know that for certain.”
    He went on to ask numerous other questions about the business, most of which I couldn’t answer—no doubt emphasizing again that I seemed to know suspiciously little about Jerry. Or wasn’t telling all I knew.
    The interview ended when Detective Molino thanked me and we shook hands again. I tried to make my shake firm and confident, but it’s hard to feel confident with nervous sweat rivering down your ribs and your mouth feeling as if it’s stuffed full of old socks.
    â€œWe’ll be in touch if we need any further information,” he said. “You may notice deputies in the area, interviewing your neighbors during the next few days. And if you think of any-thing else, give me a call.”
    He handed me a business card. Detective Sergeant Anton Molino. I wondered if kids ever called him Ant when he was a kid. Probably not without risk to life and limb.
    â€œI’ll do whatever I can to help.” Then, thinking maybe that had too much of a kiss-up sound, I took a deep breath and asked bluntly, “Am I a suspect?”
    â€œAt this point we’re looking at the circumstances of Mr. Norton’s death as suspicious,” he said. “The medical examiner will determine cause and manner of death after the autopsy.”
    â€œWhen will the autopsy be done?”
    â€œMonday morning, I believe.”
    â€œShould I locate a lawyer . . . just in case?”
    He gave me a calculated look that to me said, Yes! Get a lawyer. You’re going to need a good one. Although what he said out loud was, “That’s up to you, of course.” Followed by a smooth segue into, “You aren’t anticipating leaving town anytime in the near future, are you?”
    â€œAre you saying I can’t leave?”
    â€œI’d think it advisable if you stay here in town. We may want to talk to you again. Or we may need you to come in for fingerprinting.” He paused. “Although, come to think of it, if you don’t mind, we could just take care of that now. We’ll need your prints for elimination purposes because they’ll be in the limousine.”
    I couldn’t tell if this truly was an