Page 25 of Torched Spades
Uncrossing my arms, I spread them wide. “Then there’s your answer.”
“There’swhatanswer?”
He’s getting flustered, which is exactly the point. Pretty boy’s realizing that while he was busy patting himself on the back, I turned his little interrogation into a game ofWho’s on First.
“Large diesel forklifts operate at about a hundred decibels,” Holding his stare, I fold my hands behind my head. “Stationary cargo ships output a minimum of a hundred and seventy decibels just floating on their asses. Never was good at math, but so far, I think that’s about two hundred and seventy decibels of ear-fucking power. Now, this is just a guess, but I’m ballparking a gunshot to be about a hundred and fifty.”
Five seconds. That’s all the awkward silence I’m allowed to savor before Ledger has his phone in his hand. I anticipated ten, possibly fifteen, but it appears I’ve pushed the detective further than I thought.
He leans both elbows on the table, a sheen of sweat beading on his upper lip as he types. “So you’re saying you were operating a forklift on the docks during the alleged shots?”
Nice try.
“No,yousaid that.” I nod at the phone now sitting still in his hands. “Well? What’s the verdict, detective?”
He glances up, distraction-by-design slicing a vertical line between his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play dumb, Jack… Contrary to what your mother says, you’re just not good at it.” I smile, that line on his forehead now joined by a pulsing vein. “You Googled the decibels of a gunshot as soon as the words left my mouth. How close did I get?”
“One hundred and sixty average,” he bites out between clenched teeth.
“Huh…” I click my tongue. “So close.”
Slamming the folder closed, Ledger leans over it, his face reddening with fury. “We’ve sat here for twenty minutes, and you haven’t answered a single goddamn question.”
No shit.
“I wasn’t aware that was a requirement. You asked me to come to the station and speak with you. We’ve been speaking, and I think you’ve learned a lot. You’re welcome.”
He pounds his fist on the table, causing it to rattle. “Henry Starling claims he was scheduled to work a furniture shipment on berth six, but you sent him to berth five to move an early arrival of Bentleys—a cargo dock a hundred feet away that was fully manned. Why is that, Mr. Malone?”
The monster in me begs to go for his jugular, but I didn’t beat him at his own game this whole time to let him provoke me on the final play.
Unlocking my hands from behind my head, I lean forward, mimicking his movement. “I’m not Henry’s supervisor, detective. I can’tsendhim anywhere. Whatever he did was of his own free will. I did my job and got the fuck out. Besides, if you’re so concerned about who was doing what and where, why don’t you check the surveillance footage of the docks and the warehouse?”
“I have,” he says, biting out every syllable. “It’s been conveniently erased.”
I’m insulted. There was nothing “convenient” about locating the Port of Providence IP address, hacking the router, and changing the public control interface of all seven security feeds.
That shit took hours.
I shrug. “Well, that is unfortunate.”
“The thing is, I’ve spoken to Port of Providence’s General Manager.” Pursing his lips, he watches for a reaction as he settles back in his chair. “Security footage loops every seventy-two hours, so there’s no reason last night’s shouldn’t be there.”
“I’m sorry, is there a question in there somewhere, or are you looking for suggestions? Because I have to be honest, detective, I just spent eight hours doing my job. I’m not in the mood to do yours, too.”
The rising anger in his eyes flickers then hardens. “You’re a criminal, Mr. Malone.”
“And all this time I thought I was Italian.”
Instead of rising to the bait, his gaze falls back down to his forgotten folder. “An ex-fireman from Pennsylvania, huh?” He flips through the pages, making irritating humming noises as he lists my offenses. “Busted for setting a series of fires his crew had to put out. An eyewitness came forward and instead of going to jail, the fallen hero plea-bargained out and escaped jail time by forfeiting his badge, paying restitution, and agreeing to psychiatric evaluation.”
That last one catches my attention, and I wonder how in-depth that file goes. Is it all surface charges or does he know details?
Specifically, the details of which psychiatrist I’m seeing.
Until I know the answer, I have to play this smart and safe.
