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“Where’s Martell now?”
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know.”
•••
I drove home, multitasking at stoplights. I kept checking if I was being followed while I googled Ryan Martell and got a slew of entries. I followed up and searched each picture, but no luck yet. I turned onto my street, surprised to see a black SUV parked in front of my house and two men in suits talking to my neighbor Susanne in her driveway.
I swallowed hard. I didn’t know who the men were, but it looked like official business. One man was tall and older with military bearing and he held a plastic folder with a large gold emblem. The other man was short and younger, and they both had an authoritative demeanor that only cops give off. All this time I’d been worrying about the bad guys, but not the allegedly good guys.
I cruised ahead slowly and Susanne pointed at me, then the two men turned in my direction.
The SUV was parked with the grille facing me, so I couldn’t see the license plate. I was betting it was a blue municipal one.
I considered driving past my house, but I was still on parole and couldn’t play games. My phone rang on the seat next to me, and I looked over to see it was my mother, but I couldn’t take the call now.
I pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and forced a smile. “Hey, Susanne!”
“Hi, TJ!” she called back, then went inside her house as the two suits crossed the driveway toward me, the older one in the lead.
“TJ Devlin?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Bill Willoughby, sergeant detective of the Chester County District Attorney’s Office, and this is my partner, Detective Jim Balleu.”
Shit. “Nice to meet you, gentlemen.” I shook their hands.
“Got a minute?” Detective Willoughby asked.
We all knew it was rhetorical.
Chapter Forty
I showed the detectives to the couch, fighting a case of nerves. I wasn’t sure about my rights. I didn’t know if I needed a lawyer. Even if I did, I wouldn’t call John. I realized the bug under the couch would record our conversation, but I didn’t know which way that would cut. There was nothing I could do about it anyway.
“Can I offer you gentlemen a glass of water or anything?” I asked, assuming they knew that no-alcohol was a condition of my parole.
“No, thanks,” Detective Willoughby answered, opening his plastic folder, which had a fresh legal pad and a silver Cross pen in a holder. He was in his late fifties with hooded brown eyes and a sunglasses tan on a long face with a small mouth.
“I’m good.” Detective Balleu was a young stud with a bump on his nose and his hair slicked back with gel.
“So how can I help you?” I asked, hearing an echo of my father’s hail-fellow-well-met. Meanwhile my phone rang again with my mother calling, but I put it on silent.
“We wanted to open up a line of communication. We hear from your PO that you’ve been checking in when you’re supposed to, staying clean.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re employed as an investigator at your family’s law firm?” Detective Willoughby looked at me expectantly, and I knew I couldn’t lie to him. Any false statements I made could be grounds for revoking my parole and sending me back to prison. Under the law, cops were allowed to lie to me, but I wasn’t allowed to lie to them. So much for justice being equal.
“Well, until recently.”
“What happened?”
“I got fired, but I have a job with my sister, investigating one of her cases.”
“I see.” Detective Willoughby made a note. “Did you tell your PO?”
“Not yet, it just happened, and I don’t see him for another three weeks.”
