Body Copy - Michael Craven [41]
Tremaine looked up, Bill Peterson stood in front of him in a brown suit with a vest. Must be hot when he’s outside.
Tremaine had an idea how he was going to handle this, but he wasn’t sure if Peterson would take the bait. We’ll see.
“Bill, my name’s Donald Tremaine. I’m a private investigator.”
Peterson, playing the role of the cop, just looked at Tremaine. He was stone-faced. Not upset, not anything. He was just waiting for Tremaine to continue, so Tremaine did.
“I’m investigating a case you worked on, the murder of an advertising guy named Roger Gale.”
Peterson spoke. “Are you here from L.A.?”
A great cop question—direct, with some implications.
But Peterson seemed a little surprised. He couldn’t quite keep his cop stare. He looked, just in that instant, rumpled as opposed to worn. Not quite the veteran cop. He looked worried.
Tremaine continued. “Yes, I’m here from L.A. I’m actually a friend of one of your old coworkers on the force.”
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“Who?”
“John Lopez.”
“Good cop,” Peterson said.
Tremaine knew his next comment would calm Peterson down, if he bought it. “Listen,” Tremaine said. “This is a tough case. I’m sure you remember, there’s no . . . what’s the word I’m looking for . . . evidence.”
Peterson smiled, but he wasn’t totally calm. Not yet.
Tremaine said, “I’m here because I heard you were good.
I wanted to bounce some of my theories off you, see what you think. I’m working on conjecture here, and I need a sounding board, but I need a good sounding board, someone who not only knows the case but knows what they’re talking about.”
“You came all the way here to ask me if I think you’re on the right track?”
“There’s a steak dinner in it for you. Ruth’s Chris.”
Peterson said, “I remember the case well; it’s a tough one. If you want me to tell you what I think, well, I’m happy to help a fellow investigator, private or otherwise.”
Praise, Tremaine thought—nobody ever gets sick of it.
Well, that was that, he had Peterson coming to dinner. And he was indeed going to tell him some of his ideas.
Ruth’s Chris, Buckhead, big red booth in the heart of the joint. Bustling, but not really that loud. But not too quiet either. Just right, nice for his purpose, and a nice feel in general. Nothing like a nice restaurant to get a cop talking. That’s what Tremaine was thinking, half-joking to himself. They both had a couple beers and Tremaine assumed they would engage in some small talk, life in L.A., life in Atlanta, the Dodgers, the Braves, whatever. Tre-128
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maine realized quickly, however, that he was principally going to do a lot of listening. Bill Peterson being one of those guys who’s not afraid to talk about himself. The beer helping him, even though he didn’t need any help.
“Atlanta’s a nice town, but I gotta admit, I’m a little lonely,” Peterson said.
Tremaine nodded.
“I took the job because I had a friend down here. The captain, actually. I knew he was planning on leaving the force. He didn’t tell anyone else that, but I knew. Anyway, after he did leave, man, getting to know a new town takes time. I’m bored as shit. Maybe even depressed.”
Tremaine thought, tell it to Dr. Phil, but he listened politely. Thankfully the steaks arrived and Bill Peterson began to dig in, forgetting for a moment about his social situation in Atlanta. Now he was eating as opposed to talking.
Peterson started talking again, this time about something Tremaine was interested in. “So, what’s new with the Roger Gale case?” he said. “Why are you looking into it?
Who hired you?”
“Family member,” Tremaine said, a little surprised to hear his own voice. “Niece.”
“The one from Connecticut.”
“She lives in L.A. now.”
“We never talked to her,” Peterson said. “She was thousands of miles away, married and all, living her life.”
Peterson took a big bite of his steak and said, still chew-ing, “So what’s up? What did you want to bounce off me?”
“I’m working a few angles,