Body Copy - Michael Craven [82]
Tremaine grabbed the phone away from him and said,
“I don’t buy your bluff, Latham.”
And did he buy his own bluff? Or was he about to do something violent with that phone? He sure had the feeling, the adrenaline shot, the one he’d always had sliding down the face of a monster wave.
Tremaine held the phone in his hand. “The fucking girl was in one of your movies, Latham. Any idiot could have found that out.”
Latham said, “I never went on the set of that movie.
I got a producer’s credit and was banned from the set. It happens all the time. I had nothing to do with the movie.
Much less the goddamn extras.”
Tremaine could see himself striking Latham. The bluff was fading, going away—gone?
He was about to do it.
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Michael Craven
He said, “Tell me you knew her or I’m going to put this phone through your head.”
“Hold on a second,” Latham said.
Latham reached in his pocket and pulled out some plane tickets.
Tremaine grabbed them, looked at them. They were old. They looked real. They indicated that Latham was in Seattle at the time of the killings. Tremaine was confused now—still mad, but about what? The case, the fact that Latham had some proof? Doesn’t mean Latham didn’t know Kelly, but it was evidence. It was something real to support what he was saying. Tremaine knew he could find out if Latham knew Kelly, one way or another, on his own.
But he’d never have this chance again. To make him say something he didn’t want to. But Tremaine now had lost a bit of his bluff. The tickets had taken some wind out of his sails. And his chance of pulling something out of Latham was almost over. Was almost dead. Like Kelly Burch and Roger Gale.
“Plane tickets are easy to fake,” Tremaine said.
“Those aren’t fake. You could call my mom and ask her, if she weren’t dead. Call the airline, whatever.”
Tremaine stepped closer to Latham.
Latham backed up, backed up more, until he was against the wall, next to the door in the front room. Tremaine was in his face, his eyes inches from Latham’s eyes. Tremaine held the phone up to strike Latham, but his rage was dying, as was his bluff. Maybe Latham knew it.
Tremaine said, “I don’t care if you were out of town when she was killed. Admit that you knew her, Latham.
Tell me about your relationship to Kelly Burch.”
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Latham looked at Tremaine and said, “You’re in my house and you’re threatening me. Get the fuck out.”
Tremaine grabbed Latham by the throat. One last try.
Tremaine wanting to follow through on the bluff—and it was a bluff now. The real rage that had crept in was damn near gone. But the bluff? Tremaine knew this shit wasn’t working. He squeezed, hard, simultaneously pushing Latham against the wall, pinning him against the wall.
Tremaine stared at Latham. He couldn’t read his expression, he couldn’t. Tremaine let go and backed up. Latham stood against the wall. Tremaine looked at him, tried to pull something out of Latham’s face. Nothing.
He took his eyes away from Latham and looked at the plane tickets he’d thrown on the floor. He leaned down, grabbed them. Then, he looked over toward the kitchen and saw the cradle for the cordless phone. Tremaine walked over to it, placed the phone in its cradle and placed the tickets on the kitchen table.
Tremaine walked back, looked down at the floor again, where the tickets had been before he’d picked them up.
Then, he looked at Latham, standing against the wall, but no longer pinned against it. Latham tilted his head, furrowed his brow a bit, a mixture of confusion and defiance in his face.
Tremaine walked out the door.
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C H A P T E R 3 6
Tremaine got home. Exhausted. Confused. Angry. Now was the time, Tremaine knew, that he was going to have to let go and think. Think, Tremaine, think. What are you missing? Of all the pieces of the puzzle, which two or three or four fit together?
Tremaine had to close his eyes and look at the clues, examine the people, the circumstances, the subtle nuances of everything he’d learned this far, and do everything in his power