“To the police?”
“First to my mom, then the police. My mom made me. But the police didn’t care.”
“Why not?”
“They thought I was lying. But I wouldn’t make that up. It’s stupid.”
“Did Natalie do anything while this was happening?”
“No. She just stood there. I don’t think she knew what to do.”
“Did the woman look like anyone you’d seen before?”
“No. I told you.” He stepped away from the screen then, began looking over his shoulder into the living room.
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you. Maybe you should have a friend come by. Keep you company.” He shrugged again, chewed on a fingernail. “You might feel better if you get outside.”
“I don’t want to. Anyway, we have a gun.” He pointed back over his shoulder at a pistol balanced on the arm of a couch, next to a half-eaten ham sandwich. Jesus.
“You sure you should have that out, James? You don’t want to use that. Guns are very dangerous.”
“Not so dangerous. My mom doesn’t care.” He looked at me straight on for the first time. “You’re pretty. You have pretty hair.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. Be careful, James.”
“That’s what I’m doing.” He sighed purposefully and walked away from the window. A second later I heard the TV squabble on again.
There are eleven bars in Wind Gap. I went to one I didn’t know, Sensors, which must have blossomed during some flash of ’80s idiocy, judging by the neon zigzags on the wall and the mini dance floor in its center. I was drinking a bourbon and scribbling down my notes from the day when KC Law plopped down in the cushioned seat opposite me. He rattled his beer on the table between us.
“I thought reporters weren’t supposed to talk to minors without permission.” He smiled, took a gulp. James’s mother must have made a phone call.
“Reporters have to be more aggressive when the police completely shut them out of an investigation,” I said, not looking up.
“Police can’t really do their work if reporters are detailing their investigations in Chicago papers.”
This game was old. I went back to my notes, soggy from glass sweat.
“Let’s try a new approach. I’m Richard Willis.” He took another gulp, smacked his lips. “You can make your dick joke now. It works on several levels.”
“Tempting.”
“Dick as in asshole. Dick as in cop.”
“Yes, I got it.”
“And you are Camille Preaker, Wind Gap girl made good in the big city.”
“Oh, that’s me all right.”
He smiled his alarming Chiclet smile and ran a hand through his hair. No wedding ring. I wondered when I began to notice such things.
“Okay, Camille, what do you say you and I call a détente? At least for now. See how it goes. I assume I don’t need to lecture you about the Capisi boy.”
“I assume you realize there’s nothing to lecture about. Why have the police dismissed the account of the one eyewitness to the kidnapping of Natalie Keene?” I picked up my pen to show him we were on record.
“Who says we dismissed it?”
“James Capisi.”
“Ah, well, there’s a good source.” He laughed. “I’ll let you in on a little something here, Miss Preaker.” He was doing a fairly good Vickery imitation, right down to twisting an imaginary pinky ring. “We don’t let nine-year-old boys be particularly privy to an ongoing investigation one way or another. Including whether or not we believe his story.”
“Do you?”
“I can’t comment.”
“It seems that if you had a fairly detailed description of a murder suspect, you might want to let people around here know, so they can be on the lookout. But you haven’t, so I’d have to guess you’d dismissed his story.”
“Again, I can’t comment.”
“I understand Ann Nash was not sexually molested,” I continued. “Is that also the case with Natalie Keene?”
“Ms. Preaker. I just can’t comment right now.”
“Then why are you sitting here talking to me?”
“Well, first of all, I know you spent a lot of your time, probably work time, with our officer the other day, giving him your version of the discovery of Natalie’s body. I wanted to thank you.”
“My version?”
“Everyone has their own version of a memory,” he said. “For instance, you said Natalie’s eyes were open. The Broussards said they were closed.”
“I can’t comment.” I was feeling spiteful.