careless with guns?”
“I don’t believe I’ve been careless.”
The raised eyebrow again. “Don’t you?”
“No.”
The detective picked up his pen and made a cryptic note in his
spiral-bound notebook. Then he began to doodle again. “Tell me, Mr.
Stillwater, do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?”
“No, of course not.”
“I see.”
Marty sipped his Pepsi.
Under the table, Paige sought his hand again. He was grateful for the
contact.
The new doodle was taking shape. A pair of handcuffs.
Lowbock said, “Are you a gun enthusiast, a collector?”
“No, not really.”
“But you have a lot of guns.”
“Not so many.”
Lowbock enumerated them on the fingers of one hand. “Well, the Smith
and Wesson, the Korth–the Colt M16 assault rifle in the foyer closet.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Looking up from his hand, meeting Marty’s eyes with that cool, intense
gaze, Lowbock said, “Were you aware the M16 was also loaded?”
“I’ve bought all the guns primarily for research, book research.
I don’t like to write about a gun without having used it.” It was the
truth, but even to Marty it sounded like flimflam.
“And you keep them loaded, tucked into drawers and closets all over the
house?”
No safe answer occurred to Marty. If he said he knew the rifle was
loaded, Lowbock would want to know why anyone would need to keep a
military weapon in such a state of readiness in a peaceful, quiet
residential neighborhood. An M16 was sure as hell not a suitable
home-defense gun except, perhaps, if you lived in Beirut or Kuwait City
or South Central Los Angeles. On the other hand, if he said that he
hadn’t known the rifle was loaded, there would be more snide questions
about his carelessness with guns and bolder insinuations that he was
lying.
Besides, whatever he said might seem foolish or deceptive in the extreme
if they had also found the Mossberg shotgun under the bed in the master
bedroom or the Beretta that he had stashed in a kitchen cabinet.
Trying not to lose his temper, he said, “What do my guns have to do with
what happened today? It seems to me we’ve gotten way off the track,
Lieutenant.”
“Is that how it seems?” Lowbock asked, as if genuinely puzzled by
Marty’s attitude.
“Yes, that’s how it seems,” Paige said sharply, obviously realizing she
was in a better position than Marty to be harsh with the detective.
“You make it seem as if Marty’s the one who broke into somebody’s home
and tried to strangle them to death.”
Marty said, “Do you have men searching the neighborhood, have you put
out an APB?”
“An APB?”
Marty was irritated by the detective’s intentional obtuseness.
“An APB for The Other.”
Frowning, Lowbock said, “For the what?”
“For the look-alike, the other me.”
“Oh, yes, him.” That wasn’t actually an answer, but Lowbock went on
with his agenda before Marty or Paige could insist on a more specific
reply, “Is the Heckler and Koch another one of the weapons you purchased
for research?”
“Heckler and Koch?”
“The P7. Fires nine-millimeter ammunition.”
“I don’t own a P7.”
“You don’t? Well, it was lying on the floor of your office upstairs.”
“That was his gun,” Marty said. “I told you he had a gun.”
“Did you know the barrel on that P7 is threaded for a silencer?”
“He had a gun, that’s all I knew. I didn’t take time to notice if it
had a silencer. I didn’t exactly have the leisure to catalogue all its
features.
“Wasn’t a silencer on it, actually, but it’s threaded for one.
Mr. Stillwater, did you know it’s illegal to equip a firearm with a
silencer?”
“It’s not my gun, Lieutenant.”
Marty was beginning to wonder if he should refuse to answer any more
questions without an attorney present. But that was crazy.
He hadn’t done anything. He was innocent. He was the victim, for God’s
sake. The police wouldn’t even have been there if he hadn’t told Paige
to call them.
“A Heckler and Koch P7 threaded for a silencer–that’s very much a
professional’s weapon, Mr. Stillwater. Hitman, assassin, whatever you
want to call him. What would you call him?”