The taller of the two Miami-Dade officers said, “Are you Henry Walsh?”

  “I guess that depends,” I said, although I knew I wasn’t likely in any kind of place to be playing games. I reconsidered my answer. “Yes, I’m Henry. Can I help you with something?”

  The tall one said, “We need to ask you some questions.”

  “Questions?” I said. “I like questions.”

  The two cops looked at each other and the tall one said, “Would you mind coming with us? Downtown?”

  “What’s downtown?” I said, even though I knew what he meant. I couldn’t help myself.

  “We’d like you to come to the station,” the tall one said. “One of our detectives is waiting for you.”

  I thought about it. “Detective Collins?” I said. “She couldn’t come here herself?”

  The short one of the two shook his head. “Detective Helms.”

  “I don’t know a detective by that name,” I said. “What’s it about?”

  The two paused, as if they weren’t sure they should answer.

  The tall one said, “You were spotted at Save-More Storage a little while ago.”

  I tried to hold my swallow, looking from one cop to the other. “So?”

  The cop sighed, “You asked me what it’s about. And I’m telling you. Detective Helms will explain the situation.”

  “So you’re asking me to go with you, because I was at a storage place?”

  “Mr. Walsh, we are only asking. But we hope you’ll cooperate.”

  I looked at my watch and couldn’t understand how these two showed up at the hotel so fast, when Kathy and I had only left the storage place within the hour.

  I said, “How’d you find me?” I said. “How’d you know I was there?”

  The taller office said, “The building has been under surveillance.”

  The shorter one hadn’t said much of anything, stepping away from us for a moment to use the two-way radio clipped to his vest. He walked far enough away I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “Just so I’m clear,” I said. “I’m not under arrest?”

  “No sir,” the tall one said. “Detective Helms is waiting.”

  I looked at the door to my room. “You mind if I go in and change out of these pants?”

  The shorter one turned back to us, stepped over and looked down at my leg and the blood-covered shoe. “You want to tell us what happened?”

  “I really don’t,” I said. “It’s nothing. I snagged it on something.”

  The two gave each other a quick glance, then the tall one nodded. “Hurry up.”

  I pulled my card key and slid it through the remote lock, but of course it wouldn’t open. I tried twice, shaking the handle. I glanced back at the two cops watching me. “I don’t know why we can’t just use regular keys.” I tried it again, sliding the card through the lock, and this time it opened. I slipped inside and looked back at the two cops still watching me. “Be right out.” I closed the door, reached into my pocket and checked my phone. It still didn’t work, and at that point I knew it was likely dead for good.

  I thought about calling Alex, but thought I’d wait to see what was ahead for me, down at the station. I thought about the fact they had the place under surveillance, and wondered if they’d grabbed Kathy out in the parking lot. I wouldn’t know either way, since I didn’t have a phone. I didn’t even know her number offhand. The dead phone in my hand was useless.

  I opened my duffel bag and pulled out a pair of paints. I would’ve preferred shorts, but didn’t need to show off my bandaged leg and introduce any more questions than I apparently already had coming.

  I slipped into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face, running my wet hands through my hair. Looking in the mirror, I looked like I’d aged a few years since I first arrived in Miami. The bags under my eyes… the touch of gray showing up in my unshaved face.

  I wiped my hands and headed back out into the hall, where both cops were in conversation, but stopped as soon as I stepped out of the room.

  “I was just thinking,” I said. “What if I refuse to go?”

  The taller, older-looking one said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can always come back, but you won’t have a choice at that point.”

  “Can you at least be a little more specific about what this is all about?” I said.

  “We already told you, sir,” said the shorter cop. He was stocky, with a thick neck like he spent his off days in the gym.

  I paused, thinking through my limited options, then finally nodded. It wasn’t worth stirring the pot. “Okay.”

  The three of us walked down the hall and turned the corner to the elevator.

  I said, “What’d you say is the detective’s name? Helms?”

  The shorter cop nodded.

  I wondered what would’ve happened to Detective Collins. I had to guess she was the one who’d told them where to find me, but I also didn’t understand why she wouldn’t just come get me herself. Or why this Helms guy was now involved.

  Maybe it was an entirely different case, or simply related but not specific to the homicide. I could only guess.

  Chapter 19

  I was escorted up the steps of the Miami-Dade police station, through the glass doors at the main entrance and through another door that led us to a small but open area with what looked like at least a dozen cops. Half of them were at desks, the others standing, some sipping from Styrofoam cups hanging around like they had nothing to do.

  One of the officers I drove with had disappeared as soon as we got there, the other—the shorter one with all the muscle—walked ahead of me through the room and down a hall. He stopped at an open door and gestured for me to walk in ahead of him.

  “Take a seat,” he said, nodding toward a long steel table bolted to the floor in the middle of the windowless room. “Detective Helms will be with you in a moment.” He turned for the door, then looked back at me. “You want a coffee?”

  I thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

  The officer's last name, I’d learned, was Lapinski. Another Polish cop out of the dozens I’d met over the years. I don’t know what it was, but it seemed like a lot of cops were of Polish descent. Maybe it did just seem that way.

  He closed the door behind him when he left the room and, I felt, for a moment, like the questioning wasn’t going to be as voluntary as they made it sound.

  A video camera on the wall had a red light on it and was pointed toward the table. A round clock hung on one wall, but nothing else.

  The fake leather cushion on the seat was worn and flattened, with a hole in the side of it where it looked like someone had picked away at it and tore out pieces of foam.

  The phone in the middle of the table had three tiny lights flashing, each with a different set of numbers next to it.

  The door opened, and Officer Lapinski walked in with a foam cup in each hand, sipping from one as he placed the other in front of me. “Cream?” he said.

  I picked up the hot cup, shaking my head. “This is good. Thank you.”

  He gave a nod and again turned for the door. “Helms’ll be in, in a few minutes.” He looked back one more time before closing the door.

  I sat, alone now, and gave a nod and a smile to the camera. I wondered if there was a chance this detective, Detective Helms, was talking to someone else. Maybe they’d already talked to Kathy, knowing right then there was a serious risk we’d both end up giving different stories.

  I sipped the coffee, but could smell the burntness as soon as I had it up near my nose. It was too hot to get a good taste of it, but it was more likely than not it wasn’t very good either way. I don’t know what it was about cops. They never had good coffee at the station. Maybe that’s why they spent so much time in coffee shops.

  The door opened and a middle-aged, balding man with a disheveled look had his eyes on a folder he held with both hands.

  He dropped the folder on the table and sat across from me, looking at the contents before finally raising his gaze. “So, you’re Henry Walsh, huh?” He gave a quick nod. “Gary Helms,” he said, as if trying to make it like we were on the same level. “Thanks for coming in.”

  “I’m not sure I had a choice,” I said.

  The detective grinned and inched his chair closer to the table, once again scanning over the documents in the folder. “So…” He paused, eyes still on whatever he had in that folder. “You know why you’re here?”

  “To answer your questions,” I said.

  “You were spotted coming out of a storage facility we’ve had our eyes on for a few weeks.”

  “Was I the only one coming out of the place?” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’re the only one who’s friends with Brock Mason.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “And you happened to be there with his sister, so…”

  I didn’t respond.

  Helms said, “I understand you had some kind of relationship with her?”

  “A relationship?” I shrugged.

  Helms was clearly a bit grizzled, appearing like he’d been around the block a few times, and back again. I had a feeling he wasn’t easily fooled, and playing games with him was a short-term solution.

  “What’s the crime?” I said.

  He gave me a look, like he wasn’t sure he had an answer.

  I said, “I mean… Do you think I’ve done something wrong here? Or…”

  “I haven’t said that,” the detective said.

  After a long pause, he slid his chair back, the leg tips scraping on the hard vinyl floor. “We’ve had our eye on that storage facility for the past few weeks. It’s not uncommon these storage businesses are used for criminal activity. Storing stolen goods. Money. Drugs. When we got a tip a couple of weeks back, we thought we’d keep an eye on the place, see if anything came up. Nobody’s been in or out of there at all. Not until today.”

  I waited for more, but decided I’d just keep quiet.

  Helms grinned. “So, you want to tell me what you and your old girlfriend were doing there? From what we were able to tell, you went in empty-handed. But whether or not either of you came out with something is another story.”

  I shook my head. “We took nothing from there.”

  “Am I supposed to believe you?” Helms said.

  I leaned on the table and looked the man in the eye. “I can’t tell you what you should or shouldn’t believe. But that’s the truth.”

  He got up from the table, straightening his tie.

  I said, “What I don’t understand is how you had those two cops over to the hotel so fast. I’d only been gone from the storage place, I don’t know, maybe a half hour, at most.”

  “You say it like we don’t know who you are,” he said.

  I decided, before I’d continue, maybe it would be best to keep my mouth shut. Clearly they were suspicious of me. One thing I hadn’t heard anything about was what had happened in the park. I assumed how it had all gone down, in broad daylight, would at least be newsworthy. I still didn’t know if the man Kathy had shot was dead or alive.

  But I wasn’t about to ask.

  “Okay,” he said, taking a pen and spiral-bound notepad from his shirt pocket. He flipped the cover over. “Let’s get down to the million-dollar question.”

  “I was wondering why you hadn’t asked,” I said.

  “Then, why don’t you tell me,” the detective said. “What was it you were doing at Save-More Storage today?”

  I thought for a moment before responding. I was still on the fence about coming clean versus feeding him a lie. And without knowing what the detective already knew, I had to be careful about my answer. The last thing I needed to do was implicate myself for something I had nothing to do with, and knew little about.

  I said, “Why wouldn’t you just get a search warrant, go in there and look for yourself?”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “Not yet.”

  “You can’t just get a search warrant, go through the place?”

  “Mr. Walsh. If you could please just tell me what it was you were doing there, you would save us a lot of trouble. And as far as we know, Kathy Arnold does not have a unit in that building. At least not one registered under her own name. Neither did Brock Mason.”

  “Her husband?” I said.

  The detective shook his head. “No.”

  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say to this man. Of course, the easy thing to do—and maybe the right thing to do— would be to tell him what Kathy showed me. But I’m not sure he’d believe me if I told him I knew nothing about who any of it belonged to.

  I never promised Kathy I’d keep quiet, although that was before the cops showed up, waiting for me outside my room at the hotel.

  I said, “Does any of this have something to do with the recent murders?”

  “You mean, your buddy? And his so-called girlfriend?”

  “And Steve Rogers,” I said. “Jillian’s ex-husband?”

  The detective shrugged. “Honestly, we hadn’t made any kind of connection until today, when we saw you and your girlfriend coming out of that storage facility.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” I said, knowing the detective was trying to get under my skin.

  “Well, you knew who I was talking about,” he said, a big grin on his face. “So, clearly…”

  “Clearly nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing between us. And I’d appreciate it if you—”

  “Relax, Mr. Walsh,” the detective said, turning to look toward the door when it opened.

  Officer Lapinski poked his head into the room. “Gary, can I have a word with you?”

  Detective Helms nodded, but didn’t move from his chair.

  Lapinski didn’t look like he knew if he should talk, or if Helms was going to follow him out into the hall. Lapinski went ahead with what he had to say. “They’ve located Kathy Arnold’s vehicle; I don’t have the exact location yet. But it appears there may’ve been foul play. The driver-side door was left wide open. No sign of Mrs. Arnold.”

  “No sign?” Helms said. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where the hell is she?”

  Lapinski shrugged and shook his head. “It’s in a neighborhood, dead-end street, in North Miami. I don’t have all the details yet, but there’s blood in the vehicle.”

  I didn’t mention there was a chance the blood could have been mine. If I did, I’d open up a whole other can of worms.

  “What are you saying?” I said. “Is she missing? Or...”

  “You know what happened to her?” Helms said, eyes on me now.

  “I already told you I don’t,” I said. “I saw her at the hotel, as I said, when she dropped me off.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Helms said.

  I had to think for a moment. “I thought she said she was on her way home.”

  Chapter 20

  I drove with Detective Helms in his Dodge Durango heading to North Miami, turning onto Northeast Sixteenth Avenue and passing a sign at the entrance to a park, reading Enchanted Elaine Gordon Park. The next turn brought us to Enchanted Forest Place, a residential street with an abundance of overgrown vegetation on either side of the road. Single-family houses were spread out with spacious yards filled with numerous tall oak trees covered in Spanish moss.

  The detective stopped behind Kathy’s white Mercedes, the trunk open and parked along the heavily wooded area between two houses. Three Miami-Dade police vehicles were on the scene, officers standing outside the car.

  I had the door open, jumping out before he fully stopped.

  The driver-side door to the Mercedes was also open, one officer inside, going through the car. He turned and looked back at me as I approached and stood behind him.

  “What have you found?” I said.

  He stepped back from the car and gave me a confused look. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Henry Walsh,” I said, as if that would clear anything up.

  The officer turned when Detective Helms came up behind me, said, “Who is this guy?”

  “Nobody,” he said, slipping past me to get a look inside the car. “Find anything?”

  I looked toward the other officers, walking along the wooded area with another man in plain clothes who’d glanced my way when I said my name. At first, I thought he was a cop. But I quickly realized who it was.

  Kathy’s husband looked older than in the photos of him I’d found online, thinner now with gray hair coming out from under his stained baseball cap. He wore work boots and faded jeans and an untucked plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

  I assumed the tank-sized pickup truck was his.

  Luke Arnold narrowed his eyes, staring back at me. He held a wad of something in behind his lower lip, then shot a thick stream of brown spit from his mouth to the ground and started toward me.

  I remembered how Kathy had mentioned her husband reminded her of me, and I tried to make sense of her statement.

  Luke shoved one of the officers out of his way and started toward me with long steps, fists clenched. Without a word, he threw a right hook I wasn’t expecting, and followed it with a punch to my head that felt like someone had tossed a brick at me from five feet away.

  I stumbled back and fell to one knee, getting right back to my feet before he came at me again with a wild swing. But this time I ducked and came up with a punch, hitting him in a place few men deserve to be struck.

  Luke let out a yelp, like an injured dog, and collapsed just as the officers had grabbed me, trying to get us apart.

  I wiped blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, my right ear burning and ringing from the punch he landed that felt like a mule had kicked me. “Nice to finally meet,” I said, watching the cops help Luke to his feet, holding him back.

  Detective Helms was one of the cops holding me, his fingers digging into the crux of my arm. “Christ,” he said with somewhat of a growl. “What’s the matter with you two?”

  “You two?” I said. “Didn’t you see what just happened?”

  Luke Arnold’s chest was moving in and out with his heavy, labored breathing. He had a look on his face like he wasn’t quite done with me.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21