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The bartender looked up when Faith and Michael entered. Her eyes widened when she saw the FBI jackets and widened further when she saw the big German Shepherd trotting alongside them. She glanced intently at Ulysses, and when Faith and Michael drew closer, Faith understood why.
“Found him with his armpit slit wider than a whore’s gully!” he said, laughing uproariously at his own joke. “Serves him right, the communist. You know he told me once that I shouldn’t be allowed within five hundred feet of a school? All because I said that if girls didn’t want men hitting on them, then they shouldn’t dress like they cost twenty-five an hour. Can you believe that?” He grinned. “I wonder how much ol’ Jeter would charge me to have a turn at his armpit?”
He laughed again, but his friends didn’t join him this time. They saw the agents approaching and scattered, muttering excuses and keeping their eyes lowered.
Pratt looked around in confusion for a moment. When he saw Michael and Faith, his face paled and his eyes widened with fear, but he caught himself and hardened his expression. “What do you want?” he challenged them.
“Ulysses Pratt?” Faith asked.
“That ain’t none of your business,” he said. “I’m a god-fearing American, and I’m free to go where I please and say what I please.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Michael interjected. “Because we have some questions we’d like to ask you.”
“You can ask me right here, “Pratt said, driving his finger into the counter for emphasis. “I ain’t got no reason to go with you.”
“Here’s fine,” Faith agreed, walking to his right side while Michale remained on his left. Turk positioned himself a few feet behind Pratt’s stool and stood still, tail swishing right to left, muscles tensed like a coiled spring.
“Might be a little uncomfortable, though,” Michael added. “Seeing as you’ve made some rather interesting observations about one of our victims.”
Pratt paled another shade but remained belligerent. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you.”
“Why’s that?” Faith asked, “you didn’t mind talking to those other gentlemen.”
“Well, I ain’t talkin’ to you,” he insisted, “and you can’t arrest me because I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
Michael leaned on the counter and forced the suddenly squirrelly Ulysses Pratt to meet his gaze. “You’re drunk, Ulysses,” he said softly, “and that means you’re not thinking clearly. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt because of that. Otherwise, I’d have to think you’re stupid, and that would mean we have to go a different way with this interview.”
Pratt looked between the two agents. Their smiles were gone now, and when he looked around for support, he found the bar had cleared out. The only other person present was the bartender, who regarded him with a look of naked disgust that contrasted sharply with her earlier flirtatious demeanor. He swallowed and tried to look superior when he said, “Well, what do you want? I ain’t got all night.”
“Can you tell me your whereabouts last night?” Faith asked.
“I ain’t got to tell you my whereabouts,” he replied. “I’m an American. I have a right to come and go as I please.”
“What about ten days ago?” Faith asked. “Did you happen to be anywhere near Fayetteville at that time?”
“Fayetteville? What would I be doing in Fayetteville?”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Faith replied.
“Well, I ain’t got to tell you where I was,” Pratt insisted.
He reached for his drink, but Michael took it and reached over the counter, pouring it out into the drain by the well. Pratt glared at him and snapped, “Hey! You’re gonna pay for that.”
Michael set the glass down carefully and leaned forward until his face was inches from Pratt’s. Pratt shrank back until he bumped into Faith. He whirled around and saw that her expression was as hard as Michael’s. He frowned, sticking his lower lip out in a pout that would have made any toddler proud, and said, “I ain’t got to say where I was. I'm an American, and I—"
“We heard you the first time,” Faith interrupted. “Here’s the thing. Patrick Jeter and Dr. Gemma Montgomery were murdered and hidden in abandoned buildings near here. My partner and I just walked into the bar and heard something that sounded very much like gloating coming from your lips when you were talking about Jeter. It makes us think that you might not have liked Jeter very much, which makes us think that maybe you’re happy that he’s dead. Considering that heisdead, and by murder, it makes us think that maybe the man who likes joking about how he died might have killed him.”
“How do you know the cause of death?” Michael asked, cocking his head and exaggerating his confusion. "I'm pretty sure the police haven't released those details. Odd that you, of all people, would know that."
Pratt’s face blanched again when he realized his mistake. He looked wildly around for a way to escape, and Turk picked that moment to growl low in his throat. Pratt swallowed nervously but somehow managed to find a defiant look to plaster on his face. "I ain’t telling you nothing.”
Michael nodded. “Well, in that case, Mr. Pratt, you’re being detained on suspicion of murder.”
“Now wait just a—”
“Tell us all about it at the station,” Faith replied. “Unless you have something you want to tell us now that might clear you for the nights in question.”
Ulysses pouted and hung his head. “Fine. But no handcuffs. I’m an American and…”
