Faye Kellerman - Walking Shadows

“What do you know, Dash? It’s all going to come out anyway. I might as well hear it from you first.”

“I don’t know anything!”

Decker didn’t speak. He exchanged glances with Lennie. She had been calm throughout the interview and had been taking a lot of notes. If Brady Neil wasn’t a dealer or a poker champ or hadn’t made a lucky bet on the horses, there was only one other way where a kid could get easy cash.

Decker said, “By any chance, did Brady pay you for stolen property?”

“No. I never stole nothing.”

Most probably a lie. Decker said, “Did Brady pay you to fence stolen property?”

“It wasn’t stolen.” Dash realized his mistake and shut his mouth.

“What kind of stuff did he ask you to fence?”

“It wasn’t stolen.”

“What was it, first of all?”

“Shitty stuff—mostly old and broken electronics. Told us he got it dumpster diving.”

“What kind of electronics?”

“Old phones, laptops, and broken game systems. There’s a market for that—recycling old shit. I went where he told me, met a guy on the street, and gave him the crap. A couple of days later, Brady slipped me some cash.”

“How much?”

“Around ten to twenty bucks for the load.”

“Why didn’t Brady fence it himself? Why use you as a middleman?”

Dash said, “I have no idea. But it was easy money for me, so I didn’t ask questions.” He had averted his eyes. “And really it looked too crappy to be hot stuff.”

Again, the kid was probably lying. Decker said, “And that’s the only thing you did for Brady? Give this man junk?”

“Yep.”

“What about your pals?”

“Brady didn’t trust them. Said they were too stupid.”

Dash was the smart one, then. The world was in serious trouble. Decker said, “Occasionally was there was a new iPhone or a new laptop?”

“I don’t remember. Whatever. Brady said he got all the stuff from dumpsters.”

“And I bet Brady also told you that you couldn’t get into trouble because you’re underage. Not true, you know.”

“It was only junk,” Harden insisted. “If he was jackin’ swank, I didn’t know about it.”

“How long were you selling junk for him?”

“A couple of months … maybe six months.”

Decker said, “And you never tried to run your own scam?”

“It wasn’t a scam. He had the contacts and he found the stuff in the garbage. Me? I don’t dive in shit for twenty dollars. Once he cleans it up, I’ll run errands. What the fuck?”

“You stay right here, Dash. I’ll be back.” Decker got up and Lennie followed.

Once they were out of earshot, Decker said, “What do you think?”

“The scheme sounds plausible.”

“Yes, it does, but do you think he’s being truthful?”

Lennie paused, then said, “I don’t think he killed Brady Neil.”

“Why?”

“I believe he may be hiding something—like peddling stolen property. He’s nervous—like shaking his leg and looking everywhere but at you. But I don’t think he’s hiding murder. He isn’t acting nervous enough .”

“Maybe to him, human life is expendable.”

She thought a moment. “Would he really stick around if he had just murdered someone twelve hours ago?”

“He might if he was a dumb kid, which he is … despite being the smart one.”

Lennie smiled. “Smart is a relative term.”

“It is indeed.” Decker shrugged. “I agree with you. I don’t think he murdered Brady Neil, but he’s not telling the entire truth. Let’s see how his story lines up with what Chris Gingold says. Go into the other interview room and pull out McAdams and Butterfield.”

It turned out that Gingold mostly verified what Harden told them. Dash was the first one to find the body, and Dash told them that he knew Brady Neil. As for Chris, he denied knowing Neil. That was probably a lie, but with nothing definitive to keep the boys locked up, they were released after promising to be good citizens and stop whacking mailboxes.

Decker said, “We have Riley Summers coming into the station tomorrow at ten, correct?”

“That’s what he told me,” McAdams said.

“Let’s see what he has to say.” Decker turned to Lennie. “You do the interviewing.” He turned to Kevin Butterfield, a seasoned former detective who, like Decker, had semiretired. He was tall and bald and had a professorial gaze, as if giving each question its due deliberation. “Do you mind sitting in with Officer Baccus?”

“Not at all.” He turned to Lennie. “We should talk before—say nine-thirty tomorrow, after you’ve thought about what you want to ask?”

She said, “That would be great. Thank you.”

McAdams said, “What’s the plan now?”

Decker was reading a text on his phone. He looked at the time: six minutes to six. “Uh, it looks like Brady Neil’s sister has decided I’m legit. She wants me to come to her apartment at seven-thirty instead of her coming here.” He looked up at Tyler. “As long as you’re getting a salary, you might as well come with me.”

“Want me to check up on the canvassing?” Butterfield said.

“They didn’t hear the mailboxes being whacked right in front of their houses, so I’m not too hopeful on that regard,” Decker said. “On the other hand, the elderly have insomnia. Maybe someone peeked through their shades and saw a car drive off.”

“I’m gonna grab a sandwich and then I’ll go back to Canterbury,” Butterfield said.

“Fine.” To McAdams, Decker said. “You should grab some dinner also.”

“You’re not eating?”

“Pick me up a toasted bagel and cream cheese at Bagelmania. And a cup of coffee. The station’s stuff is swill.”

“I can do that,” Lennie said.

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Have you ever interviewed before?”

“A few times.”

“Prepare some questions, then.”

“I’ll do it as soon as I come back with your bagel.”

“Get yourself one on me.”

“I brown-bagged it.” A half smile. “Working in Homicide for the first time, I guess I figured it would be a long night.”

BEFORE INTERVIEWING BRANDYNeil, Decker hoped to glean some background, looking over the numerous articles online on the Levine double murder case. Eventually, he was able to flush out a story.

Over two decades ago, at four in the morning, Gregg Levine had made a 911 call from Levine’s Luscious Gems. In a panicky and stunned voice, he explained that his parents—Lydia and Glen—had been robbed, tied up, beaten, and shot in the head. Police were immediately dispatched. Arriving at the bloody, gruesome scene, the officers took an initial statement from Gregg. He and his parents had been working through the night, taking annual inventory, when two men with ski masks charged into the store. Gregg had been in the back and peeked out, long enough to see his parents whacked over the head and kicked and beaten by the robbers. Fearing for his life, Gregg hid inside a utility closet behind the water heater as he heard the sound of screams and finally two gunshots. Those sounds were followed by the clang of broken glass and muffled voices. He did not open the door until two hours later, after he was fairly positive that the intruders had left the store.