Crush - Alan Jacobson [81]
“You sure about that?”
Silva shrugged again. “Yeah.” He looked at Vail and said, “I thought you’re not supposed to use cell phones in this building.”
Before Vail could answer, a musical ring tone sounded: the unmistakable strains of “Stairway to Heaven.” Silva’s eyes widened. Vail produced a thin-form Sanyo from her front pocket and held it up. A small red LED flashed on the top of the device.
Silva rose from his seat. “Hey, that’s my phone—”
“Is it?” Vail pressed a button on her BlackBerry and seconds later the Sanyo went quiet. “See, I just dialed 555-4981—”
“Okay,” Silva said. “I get what you’re doing.”
Dixon hiked her brow. “Really. What were we doing?”
Silva sat down slowly. “She—well, she called my number.”
“That’s funny,” Dixon said. She slid the papers in front of her and placed an index finger in a specific spot. “That number, 555-4981, appears on Scott’s phone logs. Every day, in fact.”
“Yeah, so what?”
Dixon leaned forward on her forearms. “Well, you looked at this phone log not a minute ago and said you didn’t recognize any of the numbers. And a minute before that, you said you weren’t that close with Scott anymore, yet according to these logs, you talked to him pretty regularly.”
“Obviously, I misspoke. It’s really early. It’s not even—”
“Not even light out, yeah, you told us.”
Come on, Brix, Vail thought. What’d you do, fall asleep out there? Then the door opened. Finally. Vail leaned over and listened while Brix spoke softly into her ear. She nodded, made a point of raising her eyebrows, then thanked Brix. She glanced at Silva, just enough to get his blood pressure moving north, then stepped toward Dixon and whispered something to her. Dixon, too, nodded.
Silva looked from Dixon to Vail before settling back on Dixon. “Am I in some kind of trouble? Do I need a lawyer?”
“Nah,” Dixon said with a wave of her hand. “We’re just looking for answers and we could use all the help we can get. We like it when things fit together, and some things just aren’t fitting together.” Dixon let her fingers rest on Silva’s forearm. His gaze moved down to her hand. “Walton, there’s something else you can help us with. There was some scorched dirt mixed with a chemical residue near the cottage behind your house. We brought it to the lab for analysis and found that it contains a very specific substance called Class A foam.”
“Thanks for the chemistry lesson,” Silva said. “Can I go now? I’m really tired and I’ve got a full day ahead of me.”
Cool under pressure. Interesting. But he realizes we’re heading in a direction he doesn’t want to go. “Yeah,” Vail said, “I think you can go.” Not just yet, however . . .
Dixon tightened her hand on Silva’s forearm in case he was going to make a move to get up. “I’ve just got a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”
Silva tilted his head in annoyance. “What?”
“Well, here’s that thing I mentioned earlier, the thing I said you could help us with. That same Class A foam found around your cottage is only used in fire extinguishers. And, see, manufactures put specific markers in their branded chemicals so they can be forensically distinguished among one another. And that exact foam was the one found at the arson scene where a woman was nearly burned alive.”
“I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“I’m sorry,” Dixon said, sitting back. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. What did you think I was implying?”
Silva looked from Dixon to Vail. “I think it’s time for me to call my lawyer.”
“Did you do something wrong, Walton? Do you need an attorney?”
“You tell me.”
Dixon turned to Vail. “Do you think he needs an attorney?”
Vail unfolded her arms, pleadingly holding out her hands. “We’re just looking for help, trying to figure out who killed Scott. Did you kill Scott, Walton?”
He sat back in his chair. “Are you out of your minds? Scott was my friend.”
Dixon nodded sympathetically. “Judging by how often you talked on the phone, I can see that. What did you talk about when he called you?”