Page 54 of Body Count

“Gray?”Sunny asked.He had a nice voice.I hadn’t noticed that before.Deep.Masculine.Confident.Not quite a command, but not quite…not.

“I wanted to talk to you about Tip Wheeler.”

He was a good liar.There was barely even a flicker of it in his face.“I don’t know who that is.”

“Yes, you do.The boy who was attacked at one of your parties.”

Sunny sipped his drink.Pretended to think.“I remember hearing about it.I’m not sure I’m going to be able to help you.I was…occupied that night.I didn’t even know what had happened until the deputies told me.”He frowned.“I spoke to a pair of detectives from the Dore County Sheriff’s Department.I understood they were handling the investigation.”

“Like I said, this is an informal conversation.”

That made him smile, but his eyes were hard, dark glass.“I don’t know what happened, Gray.It was a party.Parties get out of hand.People lose their inhibitions.They get out of control.”He examined my face again, and in a different voice, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“That was pretty good.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“You do it very well,” I told him.

“Do what?”

“The house helps.The money.Plus, your whole schtick.The suit, the hair, the voice.I bet those two dumbasses ate it up.”

He held his drink and stared at me.

You shouldn’t have said dumbasses, that voice inside me suggested.

“Let’s try this again,” I said.“Tell me about Tip Wheeler.”

His mouth stayed relaxed, but the tightness showed in his jaw.“I didn’t know the young man.”

“See, that’s stupid.You’re probably good at whatever it is you do—making money with other people’s money, I’d guess, or some bullshit C-suite job.But that’s a stupid thing to say when it’s so easy to disprove.”

“I’m not lying.I didn’t know him.”And then he sipped his drink, studying me over the glass.“How old are you?”

“I think you did know Tip.He certainly knew you.You beat the shit out of his mother.”

The slight widening of his eyes was the only hint that something had disturbed his sense of control, but all he said was “Twenty-seven?Twenty-eight?It’s hard to tell; you have great skin.”

“Do you admit you knew Lola Wheeler?”

“Let me guess: only child.”

“I asked you a question.”

“And I asked you one.I’ve asked you two, I suppose.”

“Did you know Lola Wheeler?”

“How old are you?”

I fought the urge to grit my teeth.At some juvenile level, it felt like surrendering—letting him win by answering his question.And that adolescent side of me wanted to dig in my heels and fight it out.But I remembered—even if it was only hazily, right then—that fighting with a suspect wasn’t good policework.It definitely wasn’t a good interview technique.My boy hadn’t been my trainer; I’d been a detective before I came to Wahredua.But in the ways that counted, he’d trained me better than any other partner I’d had.And my boy had told me there was only one rule for interviews: keep them talking.If they stop talking, the interview is over.

“Twenty-eight.”

“God, to be twenty-eight again.Eat whatever you want.Drink whatever you want.Fuck whoever you want.”

The word, dropped so casually into the conversation, was like a slap.

---