Too Close to Home

Barry grabbed a phone handset hanging from the wall and said to someone in another room, “Showtime.”

Six men walked into the room on the other side of the glass. All white, all with dark hair, all around six feet tall. Three had short-sleeved shirts on, three had sleeves that went down to their wrists.

“Face forward,” someone barked at them.

“Have a close look,” Barry said to us.

I scanned the faces of all six men and recognized no one. “You know he was wearing a mask,” I said. “A stocking mask.”

“I know,” Barry said. “I thought we’d get them all to say a few words for you.”

Ellen nodded. “That might help.”

“What would you like them to say?” Barry asked.

“Have them say,” I said, “‘This mask is so fucking hot.’”

Barry grinned, nodded, picked up the handset, and repeated my instructions.

In turn, each of the six men said, “This mask is so fucking hot.”

There was something about the way the fourth man, who was wearing his shirtsleeves down to his wrists, said it.

“That guy,” I said.

Ellen said, “Maybe, I’m not sure.” The guy in the suit made a snorting noise.

“Would it be possible,” I asked, “for all of them to put on stocking masks?” The suit looked at me like I was an idiot. “All I was thinking was, there might be something familiar in the way their faces get mashed down.”

The suit said, “That’s ridiculous. Everyone up there will look like the suspect, including my client. I’ll make laughingstocks of all of you all the way to Albany.”

Barry said, “I don’t think that’ll fly, Jim.”

I nodded. “What about their arms? The other man, he had a tattoo of a knife on his arm. His right arm.”

Barry spoke into the handset and then a voice on the other side of the glass instructed the men wearing long sleeves to roll them up.

The fourth guy, the one whose voice sounded familiar, was very slow about it.

“Let’s go,” someone barked at him.

He rolled up the sleeve, and once it was past his elbow the tip of the knife appeared. He rolled it up farther, exposing more of the blue blade, then the handle.

“That’s it,” I said, my pulse quickening. “That’s the tattoo I saw on the guy.”

Barry said to Ellen, “You recognize it?”

Ellen shook her head slowly, and said, “No.”

I whirled around. “What?”

“I don’t recognize it.”

“What are you talking about? You were with him even more than I was. He went back into the house to get you, he brought you out to the shed.”

“It was dark,” she said. “And I was so scared, I don’t know.”

Barry sidled up next to Ellen and whispered, “He’s denying everything, we haven’t got anyone who can put him with his pal Mortie, so if you can’t-”

“Detective Duckworth, something you’d like to share with the class?” the suit asked.

“Ellen,” I persisted, “how could you not recognize-”

“I think we’re done here,” said the suit. “It’s clear the woman can’t make any kind of ID, Detective Duckworth.”

“Ellen, are you sure that’s not the guy?” Barry asked. “Jim recognizes the tattoo.”

“No,” she said. “It’s all wrong. That’s not how I remember it at all. It was much longer, and skinnier. It went down below his elbow.”

“Ellen,” I said, trying to control my voice, “what the hell are you doing?”

The suit, heading for the door, said, “I’ll expect you to be releasing my client momentarily.” And then he was gone.

I was still looking at Ellen, but she couldn’t look me in the eye.

THIRTY-FIVE

Once we were out in the parking lot, I grabbed Ellen by the arm and forced her to look at me. “What the fuck just happened in there?”

Darkness had fallen in the time we’d been in the police station, but I could see, by the glow of the parking lot lights, the tears on Ellen’s cheeks. She was struggling to free herself from my grip. “Leave me alone!”

“The fuck I will! You let that guy walk! He and his buddy nearly took off my fucking fingers! They probably were going to kill us!”

“Stop it!”

“You have any idea who that was?” I couldn’t stop myself from shouting. “I do. My guess is that was Lester Tiffin. And you know who the fuck Lester Tiffin is? He’s related to Illeana. A brother, maybe. A hood from New York. She didn’t exactly come from the best of families before she landed in Hollywood and finally ended up with your Conrad.”

“Don’t call him that. He’s not my Conrad.”

“Who called tonight when I was taking a shower? Illeana? Conrad?”

“It was a mistake!” Ellen shouted. “The whole thing was a mistake!”

“What?” I said. “What was a mistake?”

“Them coming to the house. Coming for the disc. It was all a stupid mistake.”

“Is that what you call it? When someone tapes your hand to a hedge trimmer? A fucking boo-boo?”

“You okay over there?” It was a cop, approaching us across the tarmac. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

I released my grip, dropped my arm to my side.

“It’s okay,” Ellen said. “Everything’s okay, Officer.”

He stood there a moment, making sure, then turned and walked over to a patrol car.

“I want to know what the hell’s going on,” I said.

“It was him,” she said quietly.

“In there? In that lineup? That was the guy? You recognized him?”

“At least his arm. And it sure sounded like him.”