Page 66 of A Deeper Darkness
He pulled up in front of a knot of people two houses away from the Emerson place.
A slightly overweight man with a noticeable monk spot walked over to the car as Fletcher exited the vehicle.
“Oh, good, you’re here. That was quick.”
“Detective Darren Fletcher, Metro Homicide. There’s a problem?”
“Uh, yeah? We called about Roy.”
Roy?
“I’m sorry, sir. I was coming to the neighborhood on another matter. What seems to be the issue?”
The man pointed across the street. Fletcher recognized the house—he and Hart had talked to the woman the morning of the Croswell murder. Oh…that’s right. He searched his memory for the name, but the neighbor jumped in and gave it to him.
“Roy Lyons. He’s camped out on poor Maggie’s porch. Roaring drunk, from the looks of it, and he keeps yelling at the door. We told him she wasn’t there, but he won’t listen.Thishas happened before.” The tone of righteous indignation almost made Fletcher smile. Almost.
“Well, let me go talk to him and see what his problem is. Thanks for the heads-up.”
“Certainly.” The man turned back to his friends, and they all watched Fletcher walk across the street. He could feel their eyes on him.
Fletch could smell Lyons from five feet away. He reeked of old booze and damp cigarettes. Sweat mingled with the miasma. His hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot. He had the look of a former athlete gone to seed.
“Mr. Lyons? Is there something I can help you with?”
The man’s eyes rolled Fletcher’s way. He didn’t move from his slump. His words were slurry. “Get the bitch to open the door, that’s what.”
Fletcher pulled out his badge. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step off the porch. Can you come down here so we can talk for a moment?”
“I ain’t going nowhere. I gotta talk to Maggie.”
“The neighbors say she isn’t there.”
“They always say that. She’s there. I saw the cake on the table. The brat had a birthday. I can’t believe she lets my sons near that bastard.”
Fletcher felt a moment’s alarm. He remembered Maggie Lyons now. Lawyer. Said her husband was a deadbeat, and her kid was having a birthday. But that was three days ago.
“Near who, sir?”
“Jennifer Jill.”He sneered the words, the anger in his voice palpable. “I ain’t paying jack shit for that brat. It ain’t mine. Bitch cheated on me. Wants to go to law school, she says. Wants me to pay for it. Raise the brat. Fuck that shit.”
The logic of the very inebriated was sometimes hard to follow. Fletcher tried again. “Mr. Lyons, could I ask for you to start at the beginning? I’m afraid I don’t have the background information on your ex-wife.”
Lyons closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. They were still relatively unfocused, and his words were even more slurred.
“Fine. It’s a short enough story.Iwas here taking care of our family. Our house. Keeping the roof over our heads.Shecame back knocked up. Simple as that. I divorcehersorry ass, can prove adultery, butshegets the kids. And they makemepayher. I told ’em, hell no. I ain’t paying for some other dude’s kid. So they garnishee my wages. Now I’m out of my money, and I’m about to be out of a job. I need to talk to her, make her see reason. I can’t pay for my own apartment.”
Fletcher felt comfortable enough to take his hand off his weapon, and leaned against the porch. The man was blindingly drunk, enough to fall if he stood, and Fletcher was reasonably confident that wasn’t going to happen any time soon. He’d had enough practice with drunks to recognize one about to keel over. And this was interesting information. A less threatening stance might yield more.
“Sir, could you be more specific? Mrs. Lyons returned home from where?”
“Afghanistan, dumb ass. She’s rolling in dough, gets that military pension and shit.”
Fletcher’s mouth dropped open.
“Your wife was in Afghanistan?”
“Yeah. She was in charge of present…present…presenting… ’Scuse me.” Lyons pulled himself to a semistanding position and vomited over the side of the porch. Fletcher pulled the collar of his shirt over his nose in disgust. Good grief.
