“What do you mean?” Marty asked.
“Well, I was wondering, if you were writing about such a man, a
professional, what are the various terms you’d use to refer to him?”
Marty sensed an unspoken implication in the question, something that was
getting close to the heart of whatever agenda Lowbock was promoting, but
he was not quite sure what it was.
Apparently Paige sensed it, too, for she said, “Exactly what are you
trying to say, Lieutenant?”
Frustratingly, Cyrus Lowbock edged away from confrontation again. In
fact, he lowered his gaze to his notes and pretended as if there had
been nothing more to his question than casual curiosity about a writer’s
choice of synonyms. “Anyway, you’re very lucky that a professional like
this, a man who would carry a P7 threaded for a silencer, wasn’t able to
get the best of you.”
“I surprised him.”
“Evidently.”
“By having a gun in my desk drawer.”
“It always pays to be prepared,” Lowbock said. Then quickly, “But you
were lucky to get the best of him in hand-to-hand combat, too. A
professional like that would be a good close-in fighter, maybe even know
Tae Kwon Do or something, like they always do in books and movies.”
“He was slowed a little. Two shots in the chest.”
Nodding, the detective said, “Yes, that’s right, I remember.
Ought to’ve brought down any ordinary man.”
“He was lively enough.” Marty tenderly touched his throat.
Changing subjects with a suddenness meant to be disconcerting, Lowbock
said, “Mr. Stillwater, were you drinking this afternoon?”
Giving in to his anger, Marty said, “It can’t be explained away that
easily, Lieutenant.”
“You weren’t drinking this afternoon?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don’t, but
when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe.
And there’s a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the
wood floor.”
“I drank some beer after.”
“After what?”
“After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back.
At least I thought it was broken.”
“So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was
just the thing.”
Paige glared at the detective. “You’re trying so hard to make the whole
business sound silly–”
“–and I wish to hell you’d just come right out and tell us why you
don’t believe me,” Marty added.
“I don’t disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very
frustrating, you feel put-upon, you’re still shaken up, tired. But I’m
still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That’s what I do. It’s my
job.
And I really haven’t formed any theories or opinions yet.”
Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him
a set of fully formed opinions when he’d first sat down at the
dining-room table.
After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, “I almost
drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like
hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn’t swallow without agony.
When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than
anything else, the most refreshing.”
With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a
page in his notebook. “So you only had that one can of Coors.”
“Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was
feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other . . . how the
look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so
surprised to see the bastard gone, after he’d looked half dead, the can
of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand.”
Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective
was drawing. A bottle. A long-necked beer bottle.
“So then half a can of Coors,” Lowbock said.
“That’s right.”
“Maybe two-thirds.”
“Yes.”
“But nothing more.”
“No.”
Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said,
“What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the
kitchen sink?”
“Rest area, this exit,” Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, “You