I gave him a smile I couldn’t contain due to the fireworks display that was exploding inside my head. I was that happy. “Your big day on the Del Norte?”
“What about it?”
“That last shot you fired missed Willie Washburn. But it found another target. We’re here to arrest you for killing Mr. Wei Fong, Fred-o. Charge of murder, second degree.”
“No way, Lindsay,” Brinkley said and shrugged indifferently. “You’re saying I shot someone I didn’t even see?”
“Yeah. You’re a hell of a great shot.”
“You’re dreaming, little lady. I’ve been cleared of the Del Norte shootings. I’m legally insane, remember? What you’re talking about is double jeopardy.”
“You weren’t charged for Mr. Fong’s death in your trial, Fred. This is a new case. New evidence. New jury. And I’m guessing that your mother is going to be a witness for the prosecution this time.”
Brinkley’s smile faded as I told him to turn around. I cuffed him, and Conklin read him his rights.
Rich and I marched Alfred Brinkley out to our car. As soon as we arranged him in the backseat behind the mesh screen, his face changed, took on a pained expression that made me think perhaps he’d gone back to an earlier time — when he was a boy and bad things started happening to him.
But Fred was singing by the time we got back to the freeway. “Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores / Porque cantando se allegran / Cielito lindo.”
“Your mother teach you that, Fred?” I asked him. I knew the words to the old song: “Sing, don’t cry. Because by singing, the sky lightens and becomes beautiful.”
I glanced into the rearview mirror and was startled to see that Brinkley was looking at the reflection of my eyes. He stopped singing and said in a loud stage whisper, “Hey, Lindsay, you really think you’ve got me?”