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“Meaning he had to go back home and hide it. And his wife and daughter didn’t know about this how?”
“Lisa Hawkins was really sick, of course, and slept in another bedroom. The daughter, Mitzi, answered the door basically in her underwear. She looked like crap. High as a kite on something. She could tell us nothing. We had to go to Mrs. Hawkins’s bedroom to see her. She couldn’t even get out of bed. She was basically in in-home hospice.”
“Damn,” said Jamison. “Last thing she needed was for this to drop in her lap.”
“She was really upset. Wanted to know what was going on. But she was making no sense, and I’m not sure she could even process what we were telling her. And her stoned daughter couldn’t either. Between the two of them, Hawkins could have driven his car through the front of the house and I don’t think they’d have noticed.”
“Did Hawkins answer any questions?”
“The uniforms told him what he was charged with when they arrested him. But no other details. I told him basically what had gone down.”
“What was his reaction?”
Now Decker’s mind fully engaged with the memory. He was no longer in the Richardses’ old home. He was in the interrogation room with the younger Lancaster sitting next to him and the still living Hawkins across from him. The man was tall and lean, but strongly built, before the cancer came to tear him down. His face was ruggedly handsome, and Decker remembered his hands being strong-looking and heavily callused. They could have easily strangled the life out of a young girl.
***
“Mr. Hawkins, while we’re waiting for your PD to be assigned, can you clear up a few points for us?” said Decker. “It would be a big help, but you have the right to refuse to answer, just to be clear.”
Hawkins settled his arms over his chest and said, “Like what?”
“Like where were you tonight between seven and nine-thirty or so?”
Hawkins scratched his cheek. “Taking a walk. Been walking all night. Was doing that when your boys picked me up. No law against walking.”
“In the pouring rain?”
Hawkins touched his wet clothes. “And here’s the proof. When they picked me up, that’s what I was doing. Honest to God.”
“Where were you walking?”
“All over. Had to think.”
“What about?”
“None of your beeswax.” He paused. “And, hold on, they never told me who was killed.”
Lancaster told him who and where.
“Hell, I don’t know those people.”
Decker said casually, “So you’ve never been to that house?”
“Never. No reason to.”
“You see anybody on your walk who can corroborate your story?”
“Nope. It was raining. Nobody was dumb enough to be outside, except me.”
“You ever been to the American Grill on Franklin Street?” asked Lancaster.
“I don’t eat out much. Can’t afford it.”
“You ever run into the owner?”
“And who’s that?”
“David Katz.”
