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The driveway is long and leads down a gradual decline toward the unremarkable house. I see a curtain move inside as Mitch walks to the mailbox to grab the mail, never taking his eyes off me as he does. It’s a bright, cool day and he’s not wearing sunglasses. He squints in the sunshine to see me.
“Mitch?” I ask, extending my hand. “I’m Santos Augustine. Good to meet you.”
He looks at it, at my suit and dark glasses, then back at the SUVs before nodding and wiping his hand on his pants before shaking mine. He’s in his store uniform.
“I don’t think I know you.”
“I was a friend of Detective Hayes.”
He’s quick to recognize the name and his nervous gaze bounces back to the SUVs.
“How did you find me?”
“It wasn’t too hard.”
He swallows, and I’m pretty sure he can make out the outline of the men inside the second parked vehicle.
“Don’t worry about them. Can we go inside? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“You’re a detective?” he asks, but he doesn’t think so.
“No.” I consider my answer for a minute and decide to go with the truth. “Hayes was investigating the death of someone close to me when he had his accident.” I push my hands into my pockets. “It’s cold out here. Can we go in?”
“My mom’s inside.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “I just have a couple of questions about what you told the police you saw. That’s all. Just a few minutes, Mitch. I came a long way to talk to you.”
He nods because I am pretty sure he knows I’m not going away. I follow him to the front door, which he opens. He calls out to his mom to tell her he’s home. I walk in after him and close the door, taking in the old house with its yellowed lace curtains covering the windows, the furniture looking like it’s been here for decades.
“Mitch,” an older woman says, coming out of the small kitchen. Her gaze is squarely on me. “Who’s this?”
“Santos Augustine, Ms. Forest,” I say, walking toward her and extending a hand.
She looks me over from head to toe and doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, she glances over her shoulder at her son.
“It’s okay, Mom. Mr. Augustine was friends with that man who died.”
“Was he?” she asks, gaze back on me. “He had a lot of well-dressed friends, that man.”
I’m about to ask what she means when she walks around me. “Five minutes,” she tells Mitch.
He nods and I can see he’s anxious. “It’s okay, Mom, promise.”
She gives me one more look before she disappears down a hallway.
I turn to Mitch. “What did she mean about friends?”
He shakes his head and points to the living room, and I follow him in. He sits on the edge of the couch, and I take the armchair. Mitch leans his elbows on his knees and puts his head in his hands. He tries not to look at me directly.
“After that man… Some guys dressed like you came by saying they wanted to make sure I was okay. The trauma and all. They came a couple of times.”
“Oh? Do you know who they were?”
Mitch shakes his head. “No, but they didn’t seem very nice.” I wait. “I’d told the police I saw the man before he went over.”
“You mean before he fell?”
He glances at the corridor where his mom disappeared. “He didn’t fall.”
