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“Where were you last Friday night?”
The blinking stopped and the pale grays widened slightly. As though Monck’s question offered a glimmer of hope. “At Shabbat services. Then I went home.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“The rabbi and his wife. My mother.”
“You got home from the synagogue at what time?”
“I don’t know. Not late.”
“And you never left your condo?”
“No. You can ask my mother. Where is she?”
“Do you know a man named Bobby Galloway?”
“No.”
“Quentin Bonner?”
“No.”
“Ryder Palke?”
“No. No.” Raising his cuffed hands and slamming them onto the table so loud the sound made me jump.
“Calvin Cloke?”
“Why are you asking me about these people?”
“What do you do for a living, Uri?”
“I’m ashochet.”
“A butcher.”
Stribbe nodded.
“What do you butcher?”
“Poultry and beef.”
“Do you enjoy killing animals?” To throw Stribbe off guard.
“What? No!” More blinking. “Kosher slaughter must be done properly. It’s a commandment of the torah. The torah.”
“Of course it is.”
Monck rose and circled the table. Placed his prosthetic hand on Stribbe’s shoulder.
Stribbe recoiled as though shocked with an electric prod. “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”
“The sooner you cooperate, the sooner that can happen.”
“My mother knows I’m here. I spoke to her. Where is she?”
Monck leaned one hip onto the edge of the table. Looked deep into Stribbe’s eyes.
