Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [53]
‘Chester Sinclair is full of shit,’ said Jack. ‘Four-year-olds know more than he does.’
‘Please don’t waste our time, Mr Susko.’
‘I work for myself. That’s why my name’s on the sign outside.’
Peterson looked at Glendenning. He pushed himself off the counter, stood up straight. ‘He wants to be difficult.’
Detective Sergeant Glendenning turned and walked around in a small circle, looking down at his shoes. ‘No, I’m sure Mr Susko wants to help us to the best of his abilities.’ He ran a finger along a bookshelf and then rolled the dust against his thumb. ‘There’s no reason to be difficult. Not any I can see.’
Glendenning walked back over, hands in his pockets. Unlike Peterson, he had the face of a man with huge reserves of patience, like some kind of police Zen master. Time is on my side because I am time.
‘I had a lot of enquiries about Kass,’ said Jack, clearing the newspapers from the counter. ‘School kids, mainly. I thought maybe he’d been selected for a high school English list. Then I found out he was no longer in print. Thought I might corner the market.’
Peterson laughed. ‘We got ourselves an entrepreneur!’
‘Yeah, another hundred thousand and I’ve cracked my first mill. If you guys ever need a loan.’
Glendenning eyed Jack like he was looking through a gun sight. ‘So you’re not working for any collector?’
‘No.’
Detective Sergeant Glendenning nodded, though not necessarily because he believed what he heard.
‘Funny that Kass was sitting at the kitchen table when he was shot. Just doing his work like that,’ said Jack.
‘Why?’ asked Peterson. His eyes flashed a little. Glendenning’s stayed blank.
‘Well, he obviously didn’t hear the intruder break in.’
The two detectives said nothing.
‘Implies the intruder snuck up on him.’ Jack pushed his point. ‘Shooting a man in the head that didn’t even know you were there is a pretty dramatic turn for a simple break and enter. Don’t you think?’
Now Peterson smirked, as though Jack had no idea what he was talking about. Glendenning breathed through his nostrils, slowly, and took his time blinking, as though he was holding a good hand but was unsure how much to bet.
Jack went on: ‘Broke in, tiptoed into the kitchen, found Kass wondering if his last two lines should rhyme and just let rip. Bang.’
A look slipped between the two cops like a whisper. A moment later, Peterson leaned an elbow against the counter and turned towards his partner. Whatever his eyes said had no impact on Glendenning’s poker face.
Jack moved the chair over from in front of his desk and leaned against the back of it. ‘Had he stolen anything? Did he leave his prints anywhere else in the house, looking for something of value?’
‘I thought it was psychological thrillers, Mr Susko.’ Glendenning’s voice was a monotone, but each word was tied to a lead sinker.
‘I forgot to mention the odd Maigret.’
‘What the hell’s that?’ asked Peterson, turning his head slightly in Jack’s direction. Nobody answered him.
‘I didn’t notice anything in the killer’s possession. No bag lying around anywhere,’ said Jack. ‘Everything in the living area looked untouched, the bedroom, too. Unless, of course, Kass worked for a terrorist organisation and there was a piece of paper with a secret code that could wreak havoc on the Dow Jones index slipped inside the intruder’s Nike track pants.’
Glendenning looked away, down an aisle of books. ‘Maybe there was. What else do you think, Mr Susko?’
‘You’re the experts.’ But ideas were starting to pop into Jack’s head. ‘Was there much time between Kass’s shooting and Durst’s arrival?’
Glendenning did not turn back. ‘Why?’
‘Because if there was