Ted tried to ignore him and mostly succeeded. “He’s tall, broad, thick through the waist like a weight lifter, not a bodybuilder. Shaved head. Some tats on his neck, but I couldn’t tell you what they were. I’m convinced he’s the same guy who was hanging around with Mrs. Rubiano earlier this week. I mentioned him to you then.”

“There’s a lot of guys like that around,” Duran said. “Anything else?”

“He ties a Windsor knot with a button-down shirt,” Ted said, ticked that Duran hadn’t shown any interest in the troll.

“What are you? The fashion critic?” Duran asked with a smile. Kasabian laughed without one.

“Sister Alberta Marie would have smacked me on the head with a ruler for not tying a four-in-hand.” He was beginning to have fun tweaking these two.

Duran nodded as though he recognized a fellow Catholic-school sufferer. “The guy wears a tie to a baseball game?”

“He was definitely overdressed for the bleachers.” Ted was feeling much too comfortable, he realized.

Kasabian was watching him, waiting for a misstep. “Have you got plans to see Mrs. Rubiano again?”

“Have you got any other ideas as to who killed Richie? Or why? Or do you think if you bust my chops enough, I’ll confess just to shut you up?” Ted was fed up. He had cooperated—maybe not to the fullest extent but far beyond what any competent criminal defense attorney would have allowed.

A swell of raucous laughter rolled from the bar, drowning any chance of communication. As the roar subsided, Kasabian sat back and shot a glance at his partner.

“My partner thinks you’re telling the truth,” Kasabian said. “I don’t. I think Mr. Rubiano was a punk, only one step up from people like you. But it’s my job to find out who did him. And I think it’s you. I don’t know whether the wife is involved or not, but I’m going to find out.”

It felt good to have the issue stated so bluntly. There was no further need to be polite. Or to stick around. “Then we’re done, aren’t we? Unless you’re going to arrest me. No? I didn’t think so.” Ted turned to Duran. “This is the last time we talk without my lawyer.”

Duran didn’t like it. Ted didn’t care.

-25-

-25-

Ted had a mouth full of Listerine when the downstairs door buzzed. He was already running late. He spat and hustled.

“Who’s there?” He spoke into the device with no expectation of anything resembling communication. As expected, the answer from the street door was unintelligible, though the tone was authoritative and insistent. Not the cops. Not the Russian mob. Though he had not been confronted by a Jehovah’s Witness, process server, or magazine subscription salesperson in years, Ted was reluctant to let his guard down.