CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

They hadn't hauled her off to an interrogation room like in the movies, some place of all industrial sheet-metal and furniture bolted to the floor, with one window a long pane of one-way glass. She wasn't cuffed, wasn't sweating under a spotlight, wasn't even getting the good-cop / bad-cop routine.

Instead, Allison was in a comfortable conference room, with nice paneling on the walls and a long oval table surrounded by swivel chairs. A cup of silty police-station coffee sat in front of her, catching the overhead light in rainbows on the oil slick floating on its surface.

None of this made the experience any easier. She only refrained from gnawing her nails by a supreme effort of will. The sudden slam of a door nearly made her leap out of her seat.

There were two cops. The plump and smartly-dressed woman had introduced herself as Detective Victoria "please call me Tori" Bryland. She seemed friendly enough, but if they all of a sudden did decide to do a routine, Allison was sure that Detective please-call-me-Tori would excel at being the bad cop despite her generous mouth and ready smile. Her partner was short, thin and balding, with a wrinkled navy-blue suit and sad puppy-dog eyes. His name was Detective Philip Mindersohn. He had not, for the record, offered to be called "Phil" or even "Philip." He had not, in fact, said much of anything at all.

The two detectives were on the other side of the table. Next to Allison was Uncle Bob's lawyer and bowling buddy, Joe Peters. Like Uncle Bob, he was portly and red-faced, but had a steel-grey gaze as sharp and intent as that of a jeweler looking for flaws in a diamond.

Uncle Bob was waiting elsewhere in the station. He'd gotten up at seven, made Allison a breakfast of mushy oatmeal and soft-boiled egg – all she could eat with her throat so swollen and sore – and promptly got on the phone. He had talked to the station to set up a time for Allison to meet with the detectives who'd been put in charge of the case, and had arranged for Joe Peters to meet them there.

"It seems pretty self-explanatory," Detective "please call me Tori" Bryland said. "With the statements from your neighbors, the ladder outside, the damage to your apartment, and the injuries you yourself sustained, I don't think anyone would argue that Mr. Cesare's actions were justified. Our only loose end is the gun."

"I bought it," Allison said. "It was stupid. I know it was stupid. But … I … I guess I wasn't thinking straight."

"Where did you buy it? Do you have a receipt?"

"There was a guy," Allison said, feeling her way carefully through the story she and Uncle Bob had worked out. "Over on Prewett Avenue. I've seen him around. Selling things. You know, watches, radios."

This much was true; there were plenty of people on Prewett who, when the sun went down, sold dubious stuff of all varieties out of the trunks of their cars or set up card tables on the sidewalk.

"Do you know his name?"

Allison shook her head.

"What did he look like?"

"Tall, pale, dark-haired," she said, now departing from the truth completely. "His hair was slicked back and he had on a black trenchcoat and sunglasses. He looked kind of like The Matrix."

"And he was selling guns?"

"I asked him if he knew where I could get one. He didn't want to tell me at first, like he thought I might be a cop, but finally he said he sometimes had guns and wanted me to come back in an hour. So I did. I gave him a hundred bucks and he gave me the gun."

Was she over-explaining? She'd heard that people with something to hide would get too nervous and let their mouths run. Prickles of sweat broke out along her hairline. She hoped that any tension in her voice would be masked by the hoarse, raspy sound of it. And that any nervousness would be taken to mean she was still rattled by the previous night's ordeal.

"The gun … was it loaded?"

"He said it wasn't." Allison shrugged. "I didn't check. I don't know anything about guns. I figured I'd get some bullets somewhere else."

"So you bought the gun on Friday evening," please-call-me-Tori said, consulting a page of notes. "Not knowing it was loaded, you took it home to your apartment. What did you do with it?"

"This is going to sound so dumb," Allison said, "but once I got it home, I was scared of it. I mean, I didn't even know for sure if it was loaded, but I was afraid it would just … go off. So I put it in a box on my bookshelf."

"Then, Saturday night, you woke up hearing an intruder."

She nodded.

"He attacked you," please-call-me-Tori continued, "and you fought with him."

Allison shuddered and instinctively touched her neck. It felt like she was wearing a collar made from a wraparound hot water bottle. "He choked me with his belt."

"Your neighbors heard all the noise and came in through the connecting kitchen."

"Hector kicked in the door, I think. The bolt's pretty flimsy."

"Which was when Mr. Cesare saw the gun on the floor, where it had fallen?"

"Right. We crashed all around my apartment. Everything was knocked over."

"Is Miss Montgomery going to be charged with possession of an unlicensed firearm?" Joe Peters asked.

"The gun was a stolen piece," please-call-me-Tori said. "It belongs to a collector of antique weaponry. How much did you say you bought it for?"

"A hundred dollars."

Detective don't-call-me-Phil spoke up. "You got quite a bargain. Something like that would normally go for upwards of seventeen hundred."

"Detective Bryland, you didn't answer my question," Joe said. "Will Miss Montgomery be charged?"

Please-call-me-Tori exchanged a glance with don't-call-me-Phil. "Under the circumstances, I think we'd all like to avoid that. However, I still have some questions of my own."

"Hector's not going to be in trouble, is he?" Allison asked. "He was trying to help me. I don't want him to be in trouble."

"I'd like to ask you about Jon Wharton."

"Who? Oh … the guy?" She felt her neck again. "Is he going to be all right?"

"He'll live," please-call-me-Tori said. "He suffered a collapsed lung and considerable blood loss. The bullet also broke a rib. But he came through surgery well, and regained consciousness early this morning. He's being held in critical care, but he is also under arrest. Mr. Wharton isn't being as cooperative as he could be. He won't admit to breaking into your apartment though we have his bike, and his prints on the ladder. He denies having been following you at all."

"What does he say happened?" Joe Peters asked.

"That he doesn't remember." The detective's generous mouth tucked down in a scowl. "He seems of the opinion that if he can't tell us anything, he won't be held accountable for anything. Apparently, he's already making plans to move back home with his mother as soon as he gets out of the hospital."

"Is that likely?" Joe asked with a disapproving frown.

"No." Here, the detectives exchanged a weighted glance.

The back of Allison's neck prickled. She didn't like that way they were looking at each other, as if trying to decide what they should say and what they should keep secret. It meant they suspected something. Even if they themselves didn't know what it was they suspected … they suspected something.

She wished she had never gotten into this. It was all Scoot's fault, damned daredevil Scoot who couldn't resist snatching a purse every couple of weeks or so.

No, that wasn't fair. Scoot's recklessness might have set the dominoes falling, but Allison had done all the thinking from that point on. If you could call it thinking. Allison had decided not to turn the contents over to the police. Allison had decided to keep the money. Allison had decided to stay silent about her phone conversation with the murderous blonde. Each of those decisions only dug her in deeper.

Right now, there was a chance she could wiggle out of this. But as that thoughtful, weighted glance between detectives went on and on, becoming a proper look, a silent-communication-bordering-on-telepathy kind of look, the worse she thought that chance might be becoming. Slimmer and slimmer. Forget suspecting. They knew something.

"You've said that you don't know Mr. Wharton," don't-call-me-Phil said.

A leaden feeling sank through her guts. Maybe she had been wrong about the good-cop / bad-cop thing after all. Maybe those sad puppy-dog eyes weren't as doleful as they seemed.

"Not by name, but I've seen him around," Allison said.

"Do you have any idea why he would break into your apartment?"

"Here, now," said Joe Peters. She was glad that he, too, had noticed the change. "This had better not be leading up to one of those 'you brought it on yourself' moments. If you're inferring that Miss Montgomery somehow encouraged this lunatic, then –"

"Mr. Peters," please-call-me-Tori said, holding up a placatory hand. "No one is saying that."

"Maybe not," he said, "but I've heard it before."

"Not from me," she said.

"How could I know why he came after me when I don't even know him?" Allison asked. "I woke up and he was just there. I'm sorry he got hurt, but it wasn't my fault. And it wasn't Hector's fault, either."

Joe Peters patted her arm, but his gaze was still on the detectives. "What's this really about?"

Don't-call-me-Phil dipped his head toward please-call-me-Tori, as if indicating that she should go ahead. She took a deep breath, looking like someone bracing herself to do an unpleasant chore, and spoke.

"This morning, Peggy Wharton, Jon's mother, went to the motel where Jon had been living. She intended to pick up some of his personal effects. When she got there, she had the manager let her in. They found a dead man in the room."

Allison's eyes bugged. Her scalp felt like it was suddenly contracted by a quick tug on a drawstring. "What?" she croaked.

"Shot," don't-call-me-Phil said. "Once. In the head."

Immediately, Allison had a flashback to her conversation with the blonde, Jade.

And what about Jon? Are you at his place?

Yeah.

That had been at around five o'clock. Had the blonde rushed right out to the motel? And, not finding 'Steffi,' killed someone else?

Joe Peters was aghast. "So this Wharton character didn't just attack my client, but killed someone?"

"We don't think he did," please-call-me-Tori said. "The other man, who right now we only know by his street name of Weasel, was discovered at eight a.m. He had only been dead for a couple of hours. Jon Wharton was in the hospital from two a.m. onward."

Allison wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward over her knees. She had gone cold all over. For a moment, she had been sure that they were going to say that this Weasel had been shot earlier, with the same gun. That wasn't possible; she knew it wasn't, but she had expected it anyway.

"Allison? Are you all right?" Joe Peters touched her arm.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I … it's …"

Please-call-me-Tori nodded. "We're sorry to put you through this when you've already been through so much. But we need to figure out exactly what happened, and some of this is still confusing us. It seems like there's a piece missing."

They asked her a few more questions, but she kept stressing that she didn't know Jon Wharton, had never met him, had only seen him here and there around the neighborhood. She repeated her story about having thought someone was following her, and how it had prompted her to get a gun.

As she spoke, she kept thinking about the folder stuffed in among her magazines. If they found that, with photos of Mr. Westbrook the antique weapon collector, what would they think? That she, Allison, had amassed information on him and then had stolen the gun from his collection for some reason or another?

Had they found it? She didn't know what might have gone on in her apartment after she'd left with Uncle Bob. She'd given the envelope of money to Eva and taken the cassette tape with her – it was in her jacket pocket right now. Had they returned and done a thorough search? If so, they wouldn't have been able to miss the folder.

And what about Jon Wharton? Had he really denied everything, said that he didn't remember, gave no reason for his presence in her apartment? Or had he looked up at them from his hospital bed and told them about Scoot? Were they playing with her? Giving her some rope and seeing if she had enough to hang herself?

She finished, and held her breath. This would be the moment when they would blow apart her feeble, fragile story like a house of cards.

"Thank you for coming down to the station, Allison," please-call-me-Tori said. "I don't think we have any other questions right now. Are you sure that you don't want to see a doctor?"

The words filled her with hopeful relief. She didn't dare let herself trust that hope too much, for fear they would abruptly yank it out from under her.

"It looks worse than it is," she said, skimming her fingertips over her face and trying to sound brave.

She had, before being ushered into this room, submitted to being photographed by Officer Flyte. The pictures would go in a file as evidence. Just what Allison had always wanted. No debutante ball for this Montgomery daughter. No off-the-shoulder ball gown, corsage, tuxedoed date. Instead, there'd be her name on a file containing photos of her, all bruised and battered.

Lovely. Her parents would be ever so proud. Assuming they found out, which was something that Allison was seriously hoping to avoid.

"Are we done here, then?" asked Joe Peters.

"Miss Montgomery will have to testify at the trial," don't-call-me-Phil said. "If we need anything more from her before then, we'll be in touch." He got up, and the others took their cues from him.

Hardly able to believe it, still waiting for that other shoe to drop, Allison slowly rose from her seat. "I … I can … uh … I can go?"

"Unless there's anything else you want to tell us," please-call-me-Tori said. Her steady gaze said that she knew Allison was holding something back, and that now was the time to spit it out.

This was it. This was her last chance to come clean. If she walked out of the room without confessing about the blonde, the purse, the phone and the rest of it, she would never be able to own up later. She would have lied to the police and gotten away with it, and if they ever found out they would never trust her again.

And what did she think that she, Allison, could do, anyway? This was no game. This was real. People had been hurt. Someone had died. The blonde called Jade was a murderer. The police needed to know about her. Needed to stop her before anyone else ended up dead.

But even if she told them now, she'd get in trouble anyway. They wouldn't be content with just a little bit of the truth. They'd want it all. Everything would have to come out. Scoot, the purses, the shoplifting, everything. There'd be no way to keep that quiet. Her parents would be told. It'd probably be on the news and in the papers.

"No, nothing," she said, and swallowed with a painful twinge. "Thank you. I wish I could have been more help."

She felt them watching her go, their suspicion boring into the back of her skull like drill bits. It was all she could do to keep a normal pace and not scurry or bolt from the room.

Joe Peters walked with her out into the reception area, where Uncle Bob sat waiting. He stood as Allison came in. His genial face was knotted in concern. She rushed to him for a hug.

"There, Allie-girl," he said, holding her and giving her a comforting pat, like he had done when she was a little kid with a skinned knee. "Let's get you out of here."

"Can I go home?" she asked.

"We'll go home, absolutely. I promise, I'll get some of that stuff cleared out of the guest room and --"

"Uncle Bob … I mean … home to my own place. My apartment."

He stopped as he was steering her toward the door, and looked at her. "You're sure you want to go back there? After everything?"

"Yes." She wasn't sure, not at all. But she had to.

"If that's what you want, Allie." He looked over at Joe Peters. "And … ah … if it's fit for human habitation."

Allison remembered the blood-soaked chair, and fought down a gag. The world went briefly grey and fuzzy. She had to stop for a second and regain her bearings. "Oh. Right."

"I called a cleaning service this morning," Joe said. "They promised to have it done by four o'clock." He checked his watch. "It's only two-thirty, so you might want to go have a late lunch or something first."

"Lunch," Allison said weakly. Lunch was the last thing she wanted right now.

"That sounds good," Uncle Bob said. "Then we'll swing by my house to pick up your bag, and I'll drive you home. Okay by you, Allie-girl?"

"Great." She managed a thin smile.

"Join us, Joe?"

Joe agreed, and after some debate between him and Bob – Allison, with no appetite, didn't get involved – settled on the Red Robin out by the mall. While they waited for their burgers and fries, Allison sipped at a strawberry lemonade that stung her throat like acid. She rejected it in favor of a milkshake, letting the creamy frozen treat slide in slow soothing decadent spoonfuls.

Joe made a quick call to the cleaning service. He ascertained that the chair had been removed, and her apartment cleaned.

"That quick and all," Uncle Bob said, impressed. "I thought with it being a crime scene –"

"Could we talk about something else, please?" asked Allison. "Anything else. Even bowling, okay?"

**