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  “I said, ‘is that right?’ ”

  “Yes! That’s right.”

  “Your kids’re living up in Shasta with their mother?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “She says you never see them. That you have them every other weekend but don’t even bother.”

  “It’s a long way off! I just need to get over this injury and get some stuff together and I’ll start seeing them again. When I get my own place and some money I’m going to petition the court for more custody and I’ll bring them back here more often.”

  “According to Mavis,” Fagan said, “you could’ve fought them moving all the way up there. She didn’t get it. I don’t get it.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I do my best.”

  “Really? Your best seems pretty half-assed to me, asshole. Your mother also told me you got yourself into some credit card debt. She doesn’t know how much it is because you refuse to tell her but she says your phone rings off the hook from collection agencies. She also said you were running out of money from your little worker’s comp scam and that you’re behind in your rent. You really are a fuck-up, aren’t you? Can’t even afford to live at your mommy’s house and can’t get your shit together enough to be a proper father to your children. I got the feeling Mavis was a little ashamed of her son. What do you think of that?”

  Paul didn’t answer. How do you answer such a question? Sure, he’d maxed out his Amex, Bank of America Visa Card, Chase Visa and Master Cards, and his Discover Card. He owed a lot, too, about eighty thousand. So what? Lots of people were in that position, especially with the shitty economy and all the foreclosures and unemployment. Didn’t make him a murderer.

  And the thing about never seeing his kids. What Detective Fagan didn’t get was how expensive it could be to fight an ex-wife who hated you and who had some pretty good reasons to keep you away from the kids. At least he thought about it all the time and felt like total shit about it. Wasn’t that something?

  “Then I did some digging into your precious Tina and do you know what I found out?”

  “What?” Paul said.

  “That you’re still the beneficiary to her life insurance policy at her job, which was for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. You’ll also be entitled to survivor benefits from the money in her pension fund, in the form of a lump payment or as a monthly annuity. Since Ms. Dunn had worked twenty years for the county, it adds up to quite a bit of money coming to you—possibly several hundred thousand dollars. How do you like that?”

  Fagan leaned back.

  “That is what we in the law enforcement business call motive, Mr. Dunn. Not only were you clearly pissed at your wife for leaving you, and at Mr. Pisko for taking her away, but you stood to gain handsomely from her death.”

  Paul hadn’t even thought about the life insurance and pension money. He wondered if he was really entitled to it.

  “And, now, as far as opportunity goes, I’m pleased to report that the time of death is most likely sometime between six and eight p.m.—the time you were out eating chicken wings and shit.”

  Fagan picked up the notepad and studied it. “I don’t care what it says here, I don’t care what we find on the surveillance cameras or in the receipts and records of any of these places. I think you had plenty of time to drop in at the Pisko house. Just around the corner from Walgreens isn’t it?”

  Paul could not stop the tears.

  “Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of fucking murderer. Stop it stop it stop it! What the fuck are you doing? This is crazy! I didn’t kill them. I would never kill them. That’s not what I do. That is not my world. Can’t you see that? I’m just some … regular person. I belong out there.”

  He pointed to the door.

  “Can’t you see who I am? What I am?”

  Fagan stood and moved over to the other chair on the other side of the table. Paul sobbed. Didn’t look up.

  “Grab the pen and paper shithead. You’ll feel a lot better after you confess.”

  “Isn’t there someone else I can talk to?”

  “What, like the ‘good cop?’ Is that what you want? Sorry, that’s only on TV. I’m afraid all you got is me.”

  “How about a lawyer then?”

  “Who’s your lawyer?”

  “I don’t have one, at least not for this kind of shit.”

  “Then who the fuck’re you gonna call?”

  “I thought you’d appoint one for me, a public defender. You know, like you say in the Miranda rights. Or at least give me a chance to find one.”

  “I haven’t read you your rights. That’s only if you’re arrested.”

  “So I’m not under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Then I want to leave.”

  “You can’t. You’re being detained.”

  Paul felt certain Fagan had to arrest him to keep him there, even to detain him. Decided to demand that he let him leave, see what he’d do. What did he have to lose? Shit. He didn’t want to get arrested. Saw an image in his head: dressed in an orange jumpsuit in a large cell, surrounded by inmates all taking turns hitting him in the face while giggling. He had to get out of there. But, if he stayed, he’d demand a lawyer, someone to help him.

  “Arrest me or let me go,” Paul said.

  They stared at each other. Fagan looked at the mirror and nodded his head. It was slight and almost imperceptible, but a definite nod. What the hell?

  Seconds later a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Fagan said.

  Another plainclothes cop stuck in his head.

  “Detective Fagan, could you come out here real quick? It’s important.”

  “Hold on one second,” Fagan said to Paul. He turned to go.

  “I need to leave,” Paul said. He began to stand. Fagan lurched at him quickly while bringing his right fist behind his head. Paul sat back down. What else could he do? The guy scared the shit out of him.

  Fagan returned just a couple of minutes later. Holding a cell phone. One of those huge Samsung Galaxies.

  “Hold still,” he said. He pointed the phone at Paul and took his picture. Turned the phone around and stabbed it with his index finger until he saw the image. Seemingly satisfied, he turned to go.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  This time when he left the room, Paul heard the lock click. Fagan was gone about ten minutes. When he came back, he was smiling. He sat down, this time all the way across the table. He seemed less stressed, less pissed. Relaxed, even.

  “Mr. Dunn, do you own a 1988 Honda Civic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it silver?”

  “I’m pretty sure you know that. But, yes.”

  “And is that the car you were driving around last night back and forth from the bank to Wing Stop to Walgreens, etc?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  He leaned back.

  “Guess what?” Smiling.

  Paul just looked at him.

  “I just spoke with a witness that identified you as the man who parked a vehicle in front of Pisko’s place at just after 7:30 last night. The sun was going down but it was still light. This witness saw you then enter the house carrying an object that was the approximate shape and size of a sawed-off shotgun. A few minutes later, this helpful citizen heard four loud explosive sounds, after which they saw you walking out the side gate, still carrying the object. You were then seen leaving in your car.”

  Something wasn’t right.

  “What do you think of that, Mr. Dunn?”

  “Nothing.”

  Paul didn’t get it. How could someone be so sure of this? Especially since it wasn’t true?

  “Ready to confess now?”

  He pushed the paper and pen Paul’s way. Paul pushed the pad back.

  “No.”

  Paul knew Fagan was lying. He was so sure Paul’d done it that he thought he could trick him into giving up. Paul’d seen this a thousand times on The First 48 and on Dateline. Fagan figured that if he was g
uilty, the trick would probably work. Especially on a guy like him who wasn’t a regular criminal used to dealing with the police and all their bullshit.

  “You’re lying,” Paul said. He stood up. “I have to leave now. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I need a shower.”

  Fagan slumped in his chair. He sighed.

  “This is such bullshit,” Paul said. “Is this how it works? You just take the most likely suspect and brutalize them into confessing and if that doesn’t work you make up some witness? Is that what you call police work Detective Fagan?”

  “What makes you so sure I’m lying?”

  This time Paul stood over him.

  “Because I wasn’t there,” Paul was really screaming. “Because I DIDN’T DO IT. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

  “Okay, okay,” Fagan said. “Calm down. Jesus. Calm down.”

  All of a sudden everything was different. The detective changed, transformed, right before Paul’s eyes. He didn’t seem to hate him now. His face was no longer red, and it was softer, friendly almost. This is what happens, Paul guessed, when a person goes from being seen as a criminal to being seen as just another regular citizen. A victim even. Fagan seemed to look sympathetic—like they were on the same side.

  Paul sat down.

  “I had to try,” Fagan said. He shrugged. “Christ, not only do you fit the usual profile—financially troubled angry spouse and all that shit—you even look guilty. When we came to the door this morning you looked at us like you’d been expecting the police to show up and take your ass away. I thought I had a slam dunk. Shit.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Man, what a relief. But, still, Tina was dead.

  “So, seriously, you don’t think I’m a suspect anymore?”

  Paul could see Fagan thinking, like he was considering just what to reveal.

  “Oh, you might’ve done it, I guess. You are still a … person of interest.”

  “I hope you stop finding me so interesting.”

  “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss. Really”

  “Thank you.”

  Then, Paul really started crying. Didn’t want to, but the weeping just came on uncontrollably. The kind of tears where the shoulders shake and your chest heaves up and down.

  “I’ll be right back,” Fagan said.

  By the time he came back with a box of tissues, Paul’d stopped crying.

  He wiped his face.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to kill Tina Dunn or Mr. Pisko?” Fagan said.

  “Tina, no. As for Pisko—I’m pretty sure that dude’s always been shady. Apparently he was kind of famous in both high school and college for being a dirty, violent football player. I looked it up. They used to call him ‘the hammer’ after some famous NFL guy. He eventually got kicked out off the Fresno State team for getting too many penalties or some such shit. ”

  “The hammer?”

  “Right.”

  “Yeah, I think I remember that. Long time ago. Anyway, in spite of the fact that he owns a used car lot, we can’t find anything on him so far. He doesn’t have a criminal record. He’s never been sued, which is rare for guys in that profession. He’s never even been investigated by the DMV or the State. The guy was clean.”

  “He wasn’t clean. Smart for sure, but not clean. I’d been watching him and asking around ever since she started seeing him. I just think he had a real knack for staying out of trouble.”

  “Until last night.”

  “Right.”

  Pause. Paul thought about Tina and tried not to picture her with shotgun wounds. There was one thing he knew about her that would probably help the investigation, but he didn’t want to say something that would make Tina look bad.

  “I’m sure that car lot was just a front,” Paul said. “I bet if you investigated you’d find that he didn’t sell that many cars.”

  “I’ll look into it.”

  Paul shrugged. “I’m just saying, the guy was totally sleazy. Scary. You should’ve seen the kind of people he hung out with.”

  “Really? Like who?”

  “I don’t know … just dudes who looked like they’d been in prison, you know? The kind of guys I don’t mess with.”

  “Do you have any names?”

  “Check out his partner at the lot. Guy named Rincon. Jorge Rincon. I bet he has a record. In fact, back when I knew Tina was seeing Mark in secret, my whole stupid family was together for Christmas. I overheard my sister Bethany whining—as usual—about how her and her husband Pete had no cash and were going bankrupt or some such shit and Tina said, ‘I know this guy Rincon that owns a car lot who also makes quick loans if you have some collateral like a house or vehicle.’ ”

  “So?”

  “So when I asked Tina about it she denied the conversation ever happened, told me I was crazy.”

  “Did you ask your sister?”

  “No way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate that bitch. Plus, she’s incapable of telling the truth about anything. Same for her husband.”

  “So it’s Jorge Rincon? Like J O R G E?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “And your sister and her husband? What’re their names?”

  “Bethany and Pete Fish. They have a real estate company. Or had, I’m not sure what’s going on with that. And Pete started his own church a couple of years ago, after leaving Big Valley Grace. So now he’s Reverend Pete Fish. What a joke.”

  Fagan was writing. “So, their last name is Fish?”

  “I know, weird, huh?”

  Fagan wrote the name down. Stood up. Looked like he was done with Paul, at least for now.

  “But don’t worry man,” Paul said. “I know of a couple of more people that might know something about Mark and Rincon. That might talk now that Pisko is dead, you know? I’ll look into all of this, and get back to you.”

  Fagan was opening the door. Looking sheepish.

  “There’s no need for you to do any … uh … investigating, Mr. Dunn. But, of course, if you think of anything, please contact me.”

  He handed Paul his card. Paul took it and left.

  EIGHT

  Miranda Fish woke up just before nine a.m., when she felt her right tit vibrating. She opened her eyes and saw Logan passed out at her feet, his fingers still touching the laptop keyboard. The screen saver was on: all the best pictures of Miranda alone and Miranda with Logan floating by in an endless young suburban Kama Sutra slide show.

  It was her grandmother calling. She kicked Logan.

  “Dude,” she said. “This is it.”

  Logan opened one eye briefly.

  “Hello? Grandma? What? Say that again? What? No. Way. Aunt Tina is dead? Shot? No shit? Oh, that is so awful. Her boyfriend too? Oh oh. Both of them together?”

  Miranda cried uncontrollably. She kicked Logan again.

  “Dude, my Aunt Tina and her new boyfriend are dead. Someone shot them with a shotgun.”

  Logan rolled his eyes.

  “Oh my God, grandma. I am so sorry. This is so awful.”

  She listened to Mavis for several minutes.

  Logan started to suck on her right big toe. She tried not to giggle as she listened to Mavis.

  “Oh, Grandma. This is so sad, you know? And he’s still in with the detective? Wow. Hey, does anyone else know? Oh, you told my mom? Okay.”

  Logan made his way up past her knees and licked both inner thighs. She looked down at him and reached out her right hand to run her fingers through his hair, before she remembered that he’d shaved his head right after the killings. Logan’s tongue flicked her clit and he stuck a finger inside. She was so wet.

  “Hey, Logan and I will go over to your place and wait for you okay? So you don’t have to be alone in case he’s arrested or something. No, no, no. It’s no problem. We’ll be right over.”

  Miranda ended the call. She leaned back on the headboard and stretched out her legs. Reached out to the computer and hit a key to
stop the screen saver. Up popped the paused murder video. She positioned it so the webcam pointed basically between her legs and at her torso. Set it to take a photo every five seconds. Hit play on the video. Grabbed Logan by his armpits, pulled him up, took his cock and guided it inside her pussy. She stared at the video as he fucked her.

  “Hurry up,” she said. “We got to get to Grandma’s before she gets home from the jailhouse.”

  NINE

  Paul couldn’t believe he was free. He’d only been at the police station a couple of hours and had already gotten sort of used to it. Used to being a prisoner, under someone else’s control. He never wanted to feel that way again.

  Mavis waited on a bench by the door. She wore a little black suit with a super short skirt, black fishnet stockings, and spike-heeled black pumps. As usual, there was massive cleavage bursting out of her mostly unbuttoned white silk blouse. Her legs were crossed demurely, and she spoke to a policeman who stood over her, staring down at her tits.

  Paul didn’t want to walk up to them. He felt ashamed and embarrassed about what the Modesto Police Department thought he’d done, and he didn’t know if this guy was aware of what he’d been accused of or not. But, since Mavis had no verbal filter, he was pretty certain she’d told him. He didn’t want to risk seeing the man’s eyes when he realized who he was. So, he just walked past his mother to the door, making sure she saw him.

  He found her latest brand-new Cadillac out on the street and waited by the passenger side. Probably 90 degrees already. He began to sweat immediately. Stared at the police station doors. Nothing.

  This was not a new thing, but it’d been a while since he’d had to wait for his mother while she finished up some serious flirting. He’d learned years before to always have an out of his own. Now, he was stuck, and his back was killing him.

  The door opened and out she stepped. Now with a different, younger cop. He was in jeans, boots, and a tight t-shirt, but he was definitely a cop. Looked like an actor from one of the TV shows like NCIS or something, or maybe more like one of those USA shows like Burn Notice. Dude was hard looking, but pretty. They were both going to smoke out front. Paul knew this was going to take forever. It didn’t matter that her daughter-in-law of nearly six years was just viciously murdered, it made no difference that her son was standing out in the burning Modesto sun wearing silly yellow sweatpants and a grimy t-shirt and flip flops with horrible bed head waiting for her outside the police station after he’d been accused of the two murders and suffered some nasty brutality. No, all that mattered to Mavis was that some cute guy might be fascinated with her and her tits, her body, her sexy hair, and would hopefully want to come over and fuck her sometime.