Page 34 of Rest In Pink

Cash was in one cell, while the five county guys were in another. We’d cut Thacker loose last night since he’d been the victim.

George unlocked the county cell. “Your foreman is out front. He says the county will pay for your part of the damages and Jill isn’t pressing charges. You’re free to go.”

They lumbered out and George locked the cage. He pointed at Cash. “Come on.”

“I’m free?” Cash asked. His lips had puffed up very nicely overnight.

“Hell, no,” George said.

We went down the hall to the interrogation room. It was actually an old storage closet that could barely hold the small table and four chairs, two on each side. The walls were painted drab grey, aka dour grey. I’d suggested we have my friend Rain, a crime scene specialist, paint splotches of red paint on them and the table to make suspects think it was blood splatter, but George had nixed that. Some of my best ideas are simply outside the bell curve and not appreciated.

George pointed at the seat that faced the camera hung from the ceiling. It was real and on, unlike those at the Country Club where Lavender had died. George read Cash his rights as we sat across from him.

“It was just a fight,” Cash said, before we had a chance to even ask a question. “I’ll pay Jill for any damages.”

“We saw you start it,” George said. “Plus, a couple of people filmed it with their phones.”

“Oh, come on,” Cash said. His black shirt was speckled with dried vomit. In the small room the stink was not pleasant. I wondered how many black shirts he had in his closet to advertise the fact that he was a young widower.

George glanced at me. One of the reasons he’d sent Bartlett home last night was so we could sit and talk some things out. How to interrogate Cash was one of them. We’d both eventually managed to grab a couple of hours of sleep, George on the old sofa in his office, me in the bed of the Gladiator where I kept a pad and sleeping bag. It’s very comfy.

“You assaulted a police officer,” I said.

“What?”

I pointed at my cheek. “You hit me.”

“I barely touched you.”

Which was true, but not relevant at the moment.

“And look what you did to me,” Cash said, pointing at his very real puffed-up lip. “You’re lucky I don’t press charges.”

“Have you always been this stupid?” I asked. “You’re lucky I only hit you once.” And he was because I’d spent three years boxing in the Bronx while going to high school. The streets there had been tough and my father even tougher. All three had taught me how to take a punch. And give one.

I reached into my breast pocket and brought out a copy of the bank statement I’d recovered from Navy Blue’s wrecked car a month ago. I unfolded it and slid it across the table.

Cash looked at it. “What’s this?”

“A suicide note,” I said.

Cash blinked. “What?”

“It was in Navy’s car when he drove it off the road into the ravine and killed himself.”

“That was an accident,” Cash said.

“Was it?” George said.

I followed. “How much money did Navy front you for the development?”

“What is this? Good cop? Bad cop?” His eyes danced back and forth between George and me. “Come on, guys. I was drunk last night. My wife died a month ago. I’ve been a mess. But I’ll straighten up.” He tried the bullshit charming smile which was pretty gross considering the busted lip. “Give me a break here. I’m grieving.”

“How much did Navy give you?” I asked.

“What does that have to do with last night?” Cash demanded, the smile and charm gone.

“Why are you fronting this company, Cash?” I asked.

---