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“I see.” Detective Willoughby nodded. “We heard about the burglary at your family’s law firm. That’s a damn shame.”
“Yes, they took the laptops and vandalized the office, including my own stuff.”
“Do you know anything about who could have done that?”
“The burglary?” I swallowed hard, entering dangerous territory. “No, we met with the police that night, and I told them what I know.”
“That was before the fatal accident at Glen Meade Apartments? A man was killed, Barry Rigel? You were there, at the scene?”
“Yes,” I admitted, shifting in the chair.
“Did you tell your PO about that?”
“It just happened. I’ll tell him when I see him.”
“Okay.” Detective Willoughby made another note.
I held my breath, waiting for the follow-up, every muscle tensed.
Detective Willoughby looked up. “Tell me, do you know a Stan Malinowski? He owns a company called Runstan.”
I didn’t know why the detective was switching gears, but it kept me off-balance. “Yes, he’s a client.”
“Were you at a wake today for one of Runstan’s employees, Neil Lemaire?”
“Yes,” I admitted, telling myself to stay calm. I wasn’t about to play into their hands, and they didn’t necessarily know anything. There were a lot of people who had seen the fight in the parking lot, and any one of them could have said something. Anyway it wasn’t a parole violation to get jumped by an irate CEO.
“Did you know Neil Lemaire?”
“No, I never met the man,” I answered truthfully. I felt like we were shading custodial interrogation, like John had said the other night, but nobody was reading me any Miranda warnings. I didn’t know if I should pull the plug. I didn’t want them reporting me to my PO, so I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.
“If you didn’t know Neil Lemaire, why did you go to his wake?”
“I wanted to meet someone who would be there.”
Detective Willoughby consulted his notepad. “Were you at Dutton Run Park the night Lemaire died?”
Oh no.I flashed on that rainy night. I’d spoken to a cop and reporters, so I couldn’t deny being on the scene. “Detective Willoughby, I don’t know why you’re asking these questions. Or why you’re here.”
“We wanted to talk with you informally.” Detective Willoughby shrugged. “A lot has been happening around you—a burglary, a traffic fatality, a suicide. You’re going to have a lot to tell your PO when you see him.”
“I’m not sure you answered my question,” I said, and just then, Mango bolted out from under the couch.
Detective Willoughby startled. “Sheesh, that cat is fast.”
“Yes, she is.”
“My wife loves cats. Me, not so much.”
“She’s a nice cat,” I said, trying to be casual. I didn’t know how much they knew. I felt as if we were playing cat and mouse, literally. And I didn’t like being the mouse.
“By the way, when did you get a cat?”
“Recently.”
“Where?”
“From a friend, named Lillian,” I answered, beginning to worry.
