Page 20 of A Gathering of Secrets

“No, it was just a bunch of mouth flapping mostly.”

“Did you threaten Daniel?”

“I told him if he didn’t leave I’d pick him up and throw him off my property. That wadn’t no threat; it was a promise and I’da made good on it, too.”

“Where were you two nights ago?” I ask.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He gapes at me. “You going to try to hang that fire on me just because we had a little argument? Or because I got a record?”

Glock steps up beside me. “Why don’t you just calm down and answer the question.”

Martino’s eyes flash black and go mean. Itching for a fight. No thought past the next thirty seconds and an impulse that has his hands clenching into fists.

“I didn’t do shit to that little punk-ass bitch,” the felon spits.

Glock has faced down worse than the likes of Chris Martino. He doesn’t talk about the things he saw in Afghanistan, the things he did. But there’s been a few times in the years I’ve known him that I’ve seen it in his eyes. I think on some instinctive level, he knows we’re kindred souls.

“You better think real hard before you make a move,” Glock says quietly.

“Chris.” I say his name firmly.

Martino blinks, seems to snap out of it.

“Come on,” I say. “I have to ask the same questions of everyone who knew or had contact with Daniel. If only to eliminate them from my list of suspects.”

The statement isn’t exactly true, but it’s enough to break him out of street-fighter mode. Martino’s brows knit and he seems to think about it. “I went bowling with my ex–old lady, then we went down to the Brass Rail.”

The Brass Rail is a bar just outside Painters Mill. There’s a live band every weekend. Beer by the pitcher. Dollar shots on Wednesday. Fights in the parking lot. Drugs sold out of the men’s room. One-stop shopping for any knucklehead looking for a good time or trouble or both.

I pull out my notebook. “What time did you leave the Brass Rail?”

“We stayed till close. Two or so. Bunch of people saw us. You can ask.”

“Did you go straight home?”

“Yeah.”

“Alone?”

He sighs and for the first time looks inexplicably embarrassed. “My old lady was with me.”

“She stay all night?”

“Yup.”

“Ex–old lady got a name?” Glock asks.

“Trisha. Last name’s still Martino.”

I jot it down and then look at him. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Martino.”

Glock and I turn away and start toward the Explorer. As we get in, Glock makes eye contact with me. “That guy has killed a lot of brain cells in his time.”

“Drugs and alcohol have a tendency to do that.” I start the engine.

“You think he did it?”

“I think he’s capable.” I ease the Explorer through high grass, hoping I don’t run over anything that might puncture a tire. “He doesn’t seem like much of a planner.”