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“It wasn’t him.”
“Look, I think it was. Remember how I told you he torched some cat’s car back in the day? The guy who smacked his sister around?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, under the hot lights he let us know that was only the first burn job. There are more.”
Shit.
“Yeah. He confessed to starting two other fires since then. Another car, then a house. And, the house belonged to a girl he tried to date but shot him down.”
Shit.
“Really? Did he confess to the Bellview’s fire?”
“Not yet. But I plan on another round of interrogation. It’s just a conversation or two away.”
“Heard from Rudd or Volksman?”
“Sure. I heard from both.”
Good. Hold your chin up high, RDB. Here comes some better news. Got to be.
“Shoot,” I say.
“Rudd told me that before she met you she heard you were an asshole and she made a bet with a co-worker you’d be better than the rumors. Said she lost fi
fty bucks.”
“Case related? Anything?”
“No.”
“Volksman then?”
“He said the pastrami Reuben over at Macotoni’s Deli at 5th and Brookside was great but the corned beef Reuben was shit.”
“Case related?”
“No.”
I hang the phone up.
52
I’m halfway through the pastrami Reuben at Macotoni’s when the phone rings.
“Mr. Buckner?” Female voice.
“Yes?” I say, wanting this meal to be interrupted. As further proof that Volksman is a liar and a horrible human being with no intrinsic worth, the pastrami Reuben here sucks.
“Mr. Buckner, my name is Belinda Boothe.”
Macotoni’s is great for all things Italian deli; their hard meats, pastas and imported cheeses can’t be beat. I always take a stuffed pepper home with me. But pastrami is, more or less, smoked corn beef, and Macotoni’s smokes their own meats. They suck at working a smoker. All I taste is salt and shittiness.
I grab a smoke. Lean back.
“Thank you for calling me back, Ms. Boothe. Has your mother told you about me?”
