CHAPTER THREE

      THE COOT’S BAYOUpolice headquarters hadn’t changed a bit in the past ten years. Oh, the interrogation room where they brought Mitch might have received a fresh coat of paint to cover graffiti left there by suspects, going from gray to a sickly green, but new graffiti had replaced the old. Likewise, the furniture was new, but the table’s veneer was already peeling up, and the cheap metal chairs were bent out of shape, wobbling uncomfortably.

       But the smell—a nauseating mixture of burned coffee, stale cigarettes, sweat and fear—was exactly the same.

       Sitting here made Mitch feel seventeen years old again. But this time, they weren’t questioning him about a missing car.

       At least they hadn’t let his brother interrogate him. Mitch never would have been able to hold on to his temper if he’d had to answer to that smug bastard.

       Instead, the cop questioning him—Lieutenant Gary Addlestein—was a fortyish man with the shape and overall charm of a fire hydrant, and he clearly thought Mitch was guilty. Every question he shot Mitch’s way dripped with skepticism. Every answer Mitch gave resulted in the guy raising a suspicious eyebrow and staring, saying nothing, waiting for Mitch to fill the silence with some incriminating additions to his story.

       Raleigh had warned him about that. She’d counseled Mitch to answer as briefly as possible, then resist adding or clarifying anything unless asked specifically.

       Although Mitch had been the one to insist, he had second thoughts about the wisdom of including Beth. It wasn’t that he doubted her abilities. She definitely knew her stuff. The very first thing she’d done was request to see the security video from the grocery store where he and Robby had stolen the Monte Carlo.

       Not that Mitch would attempt to deny it was him and Robby on the tape, and that they had, indeed, stolen a car. But she made note of the date and time on the video, the license plate of the car, the clothing each of them was wearing—any of which might become crucial when it came down to establishing a time line for the evening’s events.

       “So, let me get this straight,” Raleigh said. “This video footage is the sum total of the evidence you have against my client?”

       “That, and his admission of guilt in the car theft.”

       “The car theft has nothing to do with the murder. And I will move to bar any mention of that alleged crime during a trial, if it comes to that. The charges were dropped. Mitch’s arrest record was expunged.”

       “Yeah, that was a sweet little deal you worked out, courtesy of your billionaire boss,” Detective Addlestein drawled. “But the cops in this department have long memories.”

       “Robby and Mitch spent lots of evenings together. They were friends,” Raleigh continued. “The fact they happened to be together the night Robby may have disappeared doesn’t say much. You have no motive. You have no murder weapon, no trace evidence, no witnesses. My client has no history of violence.”

       “No history of violence?” Addlestein hooted. “The kid was in a fight every other weekend.”

       Mitch tried not to cringe. This was exactly the subject he didn’t want to discuss. He glanced over at Beth. Her face revealed nothing.

       “I don’t see that any assault charges were ever filed.”

       “No one bothers to file charges over street fighting, long as both parties are still breathing when it’s over. Doesn’t mean your client wasn’t prone to violence.”

       “Throwing a punch now and then isn’t the same as shooting someone with a gun. It’s well established my client never owned a gun and didn’t even like guns. Have you even talked to Mitch’s mother?”

       Mitch nudged Raleigh with his foot. He did not want his mother dragged into this.

       Raleigh ignored his hint. “Mr. Delacroix maintains he was home in bed less than an hour after the surveillance video was taken, because he had to work the next day. His mother could corroborate this.”

       Or she could throw him to the wolves. Mitch wasn’t close to his mom and had no way of knowing whether she would try to help him, or hammer nails into his coffin by making him look like a liar.

       “An hour isn’t much time to joyride,” Raleigh continued, “have an argument, shoot someone, dispose of the body and the car, and arrive home to kiss your mother good-night.”

       The cop leaned back in his chair, as if bored by Raleigh’s arguments. “Well, now, she was probably questioned after the car theft, if sonny-boy here tried to use her as an alibi. At the time, she might have said what time he came home. But all of that information is gone now. Expunged. Destroyed.”

       “You and I both know you never really throw that stuff away,” Raleigh argued.

       Addlestein shrugged helplessly.

       Great. Getting his arrest record expunged was supposed to help Mitch. Now it was biting him in the butt.

       “What about Larry?” Mitch asked suddenly.

       “Who?” Raleigh and the detective asked at the same time.

       “Crazy Larry. He was with us that night.”

       The cop suddenly looked more alert. “First I’ve heard of it.”

       “I never mentioned it before because I didn’t want to drag him into the car theft thing. And, let’s face it, being a known associate of Crazy Larry wasn’t likely to help me twelve years ago. But now it could.”

       “You’re talking about Larry Montague.”

       “Yeah, that’s him. You should talk to him. He was with Robby after I went home. And if he knew something, even if he just saw something, it’s not likely he would have gone voluntarily to the police.”

       Addlestein scribbled something on his pad. “Last I knew, Larry Montague was homeless. He floats in and out of the area. I’ll talk to him—if I can find him.”