4th of July (Women's Murder Club 4)

“Stay right where you are, Keith. I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

Chapter 128

THE THREE OF US were in “the box,” the small gray-tiled interrogation room inside the police station. The chief had already told me that he had his doubts.

He’d known Keith Howard for a dozen years as the Man in the Moon auto mechanic with nothing more on his mind than a steady dollar and a well-tuned car.

But the chief was going along with my instincts, thank God, because I’d seen a look in Keith’s eyes that frankly scared the hell out of me. It was the same soulless look I’d seen on the faces of sociopaths before.

I sat opposite Keith at the scarred metal table, both of us dripping rainwater, while Chief Stark leaned against the wall in a corner of the room. Behind the glass, other cops watched, hoping that I was right, that soon they’d have more to go on than a knife and a hunch.

Since his arrest, Keith had regressed, seeming much younger than his twenty-seven years.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” he said, directing his pitch to me. “I was just following you. Girls always know when a guy likes them. You know that, so just tell them, okay?”

“You mean you were stalking me,” I said. “That’s your explanation?”

“No, I was following you. Big difference, Lindsay.”

“What can I say? I don’t get it. Why were you following me?”

“You know why! Someone was trying to hurt you.”

“Is that why you shot at my sister’s house?”

“Me? I didn’t do that.” Keith’s voice cracked and he put a steeple of fingers across the bridge of his nose. “I like you, always have. And now you’re going to hold that against me.”

“You’re pissing me off, you little ass wipe,” the chief finally muttered. He stepped forward and slapped Keith across the back of his head. “Be a man. What have you done?”

Keith seemed to fold into himself then. He dropped his head to the table, rolled it from side to side, and moaned, a hollow cry that seemed to come from some bottomless place of misery and fear.

But all the moans in the world wouldn’t help him. I’d been suckered by crocodile tears recently, and it was a terrible mistake I wouldn’t make again.

“Keith, you’re scaring me, buddy,” I said evenly. “You’re in a real jam right now, so don’t be stupid. Tell us what you’ve done so we can help you spin the story to the DA. I’ll help you, Keith. I mean it. So tell me. Are we going to find blood stains on your knife?”

“Noooo,” he howled. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

I relaxed the muscles in my face. Then I smiled. I covered Keith’s hand with my own.

“Would you feel more comfortable if we took off those cuffs?”

I looked up at the chief, who nodded. He took keys from his shirt pocket and undid the lock. Keith regained his composure. He shook his hands, unzipped his slicker, and flung it over the back of the chair. Then he peeled off the sweater he wore underneath.

If I had been standing up, my knees would have buckled and I would have dropped to the floor.

Keith was wearing an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the logo from the Distillery, the tourist restaurant on Highway 1 in Moss Beach.

It was a carbon copy of the shirt John Doe #24 had been wearing when he was whipped and killed ten years before.

Chapter 129

KEITH SAW ME STARING at his shirt.

“You like?” he asked breezily, his smile returning as if we were back at his garage. “This one’s practically a classic,” he said. “The Distillery doesn’t even sell T-shirts anymore.”

Maybe not, but its bloody twin was locked in the evidence room at the Hall of Justice.

“Where were you the night before last, Keith?” I pressed.