Page 85 of Rest In Pink

“What the fuck do you want?” Faye demanded, keeping the door open to one eye.

“We want to question you about your brother,” I said.

“I don’t know nothing about Mickey.” It was interesting how even the way she spoke was reverting just mentioning her brother’s name.

“You grew up with him,” I said. “Surely you know something. Favorite meal. His birthday. Why he burned down the church.”

“You got a warrant?” Faye asked.

“Why he was coming here yesterday?” I added.

“What?” Faye said.

“We spotted him coming up Factory Road yesterday,” I said. “Gave chase but he lost us on Short Hill Road.”

Rain spoke up. “You don’t want us to get a warrant. Believe me.”

I believed her. “We also want to talk about why Mickey burned down the Iron Wolves clubhouse in Cincinnati a few months ago.”

A man’s voice came from behind her and the eye disappeared for a second as she whispered something harsh back. Then the door closed, a chain rattled, and the door opened wide.

I gestured for Rain to lead the way since she had the tougher badge.

Faye didn’t look ready for a roll in the hay. Her face was haggard and she looked old. Stress does that to people. It’s the way a woman who lost two children in the past several months should look, but I didn’t think that was the cause.

Pete OneTree stood in a corner of the living room. He didn’t have an AR slung over his shoulder but I was pretty confident he had a firearm secreted somewhere on his body. He wore jeans and a t-shirt under a denim vest that had the Iron Wolves colors on the back. No name tag or Raider patch this time.

“Officer Cooper,” Pete said. “And friend.”

“I’m Inspector Still from Cincinnati Police,” Rain said. “And this isDetectiveCooper.” Rain moved to the left, clearing my firing lane which Pete noticed. Faye stood next to Pete, clueless about fields of fire.

Pete spoke first. “So about the blaze—”

Rain cut him off. “We’re asking the questions.”

Pete pointed at her leg. “Saw the hitch. Above or below the knee?”

“None of your business,” Rain said.

Pete reached down and thumped a knuckle on his left leg. “Below for me. The Corps said I was as good as new and gave me ten percent disability. Seems losing a limb is only ten percent. I guess if you lose them all, it’s only forty? And what are you supposed to do for the other sixty percent if you need a job?”

“You don’t have a fucking job,” Rain snapped. “You’re a criminal. Don’t play wounded vet comrade with me, asshole.”

They’d apparently gotten off on the wrong foot, leg, whatever, so I stepped forward. “We’re just here for information.”

“This time,” Rain added.

“You want to find Mickey Pitts,” Pete said.

“We do,” I said.

“So do we,” Pete said. “If I knew where he was, you wouldn’t need to find him.”

“What happened? I thought he was the head honcho of the Cincinnati group?” I asked.

I noticed that Rain was slowly moving to the left, looking around, inventorying everything in Margot’s house in sight. The place was not as immaculate as it had been when Margot was living there, so the real clues were the things Margot wouldn’t have sitting out—empty bottles of booze, dirty take-out boxes, cigarette stubs in china saucers. The few dust-covered pictures were mostly of Peri, with some of Margot and her late husband, Navy.

“You said it,” Pete replied. “He burned down our clubhouse.”

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