Page 24

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the inside of a room like this.

Off-white walls. One table. Two chairs. A large mirror across from me that’s actually a window on the other side. I wonder how many pairs of eyes are staring at me, watching my every move and sizing me up, just waiting for the resident good cop/bad cop squad to come in and make an example out of me.

The door opens. Anna Silva walks in carrying a file at her side. I expect another cop to walk in after her, but she closes the door behind us. We’re alone. With obvious exception to the peepers behind the glass, of course.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Murray,” she says as she takes the chair across from me.

“Hello, Detective,” I say, my voice sounding far sterner than I intended, but this woman did shove me against a wall about an hour ago.

She smiles, partially. She sits in silence for another few seconds, her eyes laser-focused on mine. I’d blink, but I don’t want to piss her off.

“Mr. Murray, where were you the night before last from seven to eight?” she asks.

“In my truck,” I answer. “Just like the night before that.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“Oh, about dozen hungry people in the Ramsay Park area.”

“No one else?”

I turn up my cuffed hands.

She scribbles something on her notes. “Does your truck have security footage that can back up your story?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Just never bothered,” I say. “Never thought I’d have to prove I didn’t kill anybody. The park has some, though. Check with them. Please.”

She stares at me, studying me with hard, unblinking eyes. “You sure you’re not hiding anything else, Mr. Murray?” she asks.

“I’m not hiding anything, Detective.”

Anna turns a page in her file. “Would you mind telling me who Jacob Tyler is?”

I deflate. “So, I changed my name. That’s not illegal.”

“Armed robbery is,” she reads. “Three counts of possession. About a half-dozen misdemeanors before your eighteenth birthday. Nineteen counts of fraud? That’s…” She shakes her head. “Impressive.”

“I made a few fake IDs for friends,” I say with a shrug. “It was also over a decade ago. Not exactly relevant.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I paid my debt.”

“To society, maybe. But I suspect you still have a little debt left over to someone else.” She looks up. “Daniel Quinn, perhaps?”

“I owe him nothing.”

“So, you do know him?”

I bite down. Walked right into it. Good going, asshole.

“Yes,” I confirm. “He owns the lot I park my truck in.”

“Do you know who Daniel Quinn is, Mr. Murray?”