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“I’m Officer Petroff,” the male officer says. “This is my partner, Officer Martell. You are?”
“Steve Winniker,” he says, the name he gave Mrs. Lebowski, the name on the fake driver’s license in the wallet in his back pocket.
“We’re investigating a shooting in the area that occurred last Saturday night,” Officer Petroff says.
“A shooting?” He vaguely recalls reading something about a shooting near the harbor.What is the neighborhood coming to?
Officer Petroff checks his notes, although he suspects this is all for show. “Victim’s name was Richard Ashenbrand. You know him, by any chance?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Happened around twoA.M., a few blocks from here. It appears that Mr. Ashenbrand may have been targeted.”
“I don’t understand.” He looks directly at Officer Martell. “How can I help?”
“We’re canvassing the area,” Officer Martell tells him, still avoiding contact with his eyes. “Trying to find anyone who might have seen or heard anything.”
He smiles at Mrs. Lebowski, wondering what she’s already told them. While it’s doubtful she recalls anything of what happened that night, he doesn’t want to be caught in a lie. And he’s just told her daughter that the two of them were together at precisely that time. He glances in Jenna’s direction, but her round Polish face reveals nothing.
“Iwasawake,” he tells the police officers, “and Ididhear something, now that I think about it.”
Officer Martell’s large brown eyes instantly shoot to his.
“I thought it was a car door slamming,” he continues without prompting, “but it could have been a gunshot, I guess. I looked down the street, but there was nothing, so I forgot about it.”
“Your windows face the street?” Officer Petroff looks toward the ceiling, as if trying to get a feel for the layout of the house.
“Uh, no. They don’t.”Damn it,he thinks. What’s the matter with him? He knows better than to volunteer information. All he had to say was, “Sorry, officers. Didn’t see or hear a thing,” and that would have been the end of it. “Actually, I wasn’t in my apartment. I was helping Mrs. Lebowski.”
“You were?” asks Imogene.
“At two in the morning?” The question comes from Officer Martell.
He quickly explains the events of last Saturday night. “I got her back into bed,” he concludes, “and I was returning to my apartment when I heard what I assumed was a car door slamming. I looked, but, like I said, I didn’t see anything.”
“And then what?” asks Officer Petroff, clearly the more suspicious of the two officers.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you go anywhere?”
“Just to bed.”
“Do you mind my asking what kind of car you drive, Mr. Winniker?” The question comes out of nowhere.
“A Subaru.”
“Color?”
“Black. Why?”
“A neighbor reported seeing a black sedan speeding off at about that time.”
“Well, there’s no shortage of black sedans,” he says, then stops. He’s volunteered as much information as he’s going to. He shrugs and shakes his head, as if to say,“If there was a black car speeding off at two in the morning last Saturday, it wasn’t mine.”
Although it probably was, he realizes. Speeding off to dispose of Nadia’s body.
He almost laughs. How ironic it would be, after everything he’s done, to be arrested and hauled off to jail for something hedidn’tdo, to be tripped up by a random neighborhood shooting while transporting his latest “date” to a dumpster in Newton!
