“Do you?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said.
“You have someone else you think did it?”
“Not really,” I repeated.
He nodded.
I was suddenly acutely conscious of how tall Jorge was. Not quite as tall as Michael, but definitely well over six feet. Even across the room, leaning against the wall, he seemed to loom over me. Having people loom over me didn’t usually bother me—in fact, at five feet ten, I didn’t often get loomed over at all. But right now, anyone tall enough to loom over me was tall enough to be the killer, and that made me nervous. Even worse, this was someone who might have been trying to hide evidence. I eyed the room for possible weapons. I settled on a wrought iron fireplace set I’d made for Cousin Horace and had yet to wrap. The poker would make a lovely club. I had to fight the temptation to stand up and grab it.
Or was that a good instinct?
“You didn’t tell the chief about Doleson trying to blackmail me, did you?” Jorge asked.
Would that question have made me quite as nervous under other circumstances? If we’d been in a public place instead of a small office on a deserted floor of a building that would not begin to fill up with theatergoers for another hour or two?
“No, I didn’t,” I said. “But I think you should.”
He looked relieved.
“Michael and I both think so,” I added.
He frowned slightly in annoyance. Was he annoyed because I was nagging him to talk to the chief? Or because I had just reminded him that I wasn’t the only person to know about Dole-son’s blackmail attempt?
“I know you think I’m being paranoid,” he said. “But you don’t get it. I’m not worried about Chief Burke. He’ll find the real killer.”
“Even if people don’t tell him what could be vital information?”
“If he goes through Doleson’s papers, the chief will find whatever stuff Doleson’s got that he could use to blackmail people,” Jorge said. “And if he’s got stuff on me, I’m sure the chief will see it’s bogus. Or he’ll talk to me and I’ll tell him.”
“But you’re hoping Doleson threw away whatever he’d been collecting on you when he found out you weren’t blackmail-able,” I said. “Okay. Can’t you just tell the chief that you suspect Doleson of blackmail?”
“And say what—that there are guys living at the Pines who shouldn’t be as broke as they are? Guys who looked nervous every time Doleson came around? And that Doleson lived pretty well, for someone whose sole source of income was a mostly empty storage building and a run-down apartment building? You really think that would help?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But as you said yourself, there’s a killer out there.”
“And the chief would only think I was trying to divert suspicion away from myself.”
I stood up, and pretended to stretch my back, as if I’d been hunched over the computer too long. Maybe I could work my way over to the poker.
“Why would he suspect you?” I asked.
“Maybe because they’re going to find my fingerprints inside the shed where Doleson was killed.”
I couldn’t keep my mouth from falling open in shock.
“What are your fingerprints doing there?” I asked.
“From when I was helping clean it up—the night before the parade. Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
He looked stricken. I shook my head slightly.
“There were a lot of people helping out the night before the parade,” I said. “I don’t specifically remember seeing you.”
“I was helping Rob—remember?”
I remembered that Rob had made a half-hearted effort at cleaning the shed out in the morning, and that when I’d inspected it, I’d immediately rolled up my sleeves and done it right. But if Rob had had anyone helping him, I hadn’t noticed.
“Not really,” I said.
Jorge groaned, and buried his face in his hands.
“But I was pretty busy, you know,” I said. “I’m sure some of the other people there will remember you. Rob, for example.”
“It’d be so much better if you remembered it,” he said. Was that a plea to lie for him? Or maybe a threat? Or just an accurate assessment of Rob’s potential value as an alibi?
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “Maybe something will jog my memory. But don’t you have something else that’s going to need explaining?”
He looked puzzled.
“The sweatshirt you threw away after the parade? The one the police now have?” I decided it would be better not to mention the part I’d played in getting it to the police.