“No one borrows my truck.” He watches Tomasetti open the refrigerator. He wants to tell him to stop snooping; I see it in his eyes. But he doesn’t have the balls.

Tomasetti nails him with a hard stare. “I understand you’re on probation.”

Long blinks, runs slender fingers through tousled hair. “Yeah. I did something stupid a long time ago. Did my time.”

“You know you can go back to prison for lying to the cops, don’t you?”

“I don’t have any reason to lie to you guys. I was at the bar all night. I swear. You can check.”

Tomasetti shows his teeth. “We will.”

“Any particular reason you’re so nervous?” I ask.

Long swings around as if he’s expecting me to attack him from behind. “Cops make me nervous.”

“Why is that?” I ask.

“Because you guys charged in here like I did something wrong.” Long’s nervousness is giving way to indignation now. “I’ve kept my nose clean ever since I got out.”

“Do you own a firearm?” I ask.

He blinks at me. “I’m on probation.”

In my peripheral vision, Tomasetti rolls his eyes. “Is that a yes or no?”

“I sold my guns when I got busted. Needed the money to pay my lawyer.”

“What kind of guns?”

“Deer rifle. Revolver that belonged to my grandfather.”

I jot it in my notebook. “Who did you sell them to?”

“Pawnshop in Mansfield. I think I’ve still got receipts.”

“Dig them out,” I say. “We may need them.”

“Okay.”

“Do you work?” Tomasetti asks.

“I’ve been with the railroad for going on two years.”

“What about a girlfriend?” I ask.

“What kind of question is that?”

“One you have to answer,” Tomasetti snaps.

“No one regular.”

A thought occurs to me, so I jump in with the next question. “Do you know a guy by the name of Scott Barbereaux?”

Long makes a show of thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe I went to school with him.”

“You need to be more definitive,” I say.

He looks at me as if he’s not sure what the word means. “I think I did go to school with him.”

“Were you friends?” I ask.

Long shakes his head. “He was always sort of a jock. You know, played football and shit. I was . . . more of a hood, I guess.”

Tomasetti stares hard at him. “You telling us the truth?”

Long can’t hold his gaze, and fixes his eyes on the floor. “I don’t have any reason to lie. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“If I find out you told even one teeny weeny little lie,” Tomasetti says conversationally, “I’ll come back, and I’ll make you regret it. Are you clear on that?”

I see sweat on Long’s forehead and upper lip. His gaze meet’s Tomasetti’s then skitters away. “I got it.”

CHAPTER 16