Suicide Run_ Three Harry Bosch Stories - Michael Connelly [14]
At 8 P.M., just as the light was leaving the sky, I knocked on the front door. Seguin answered in blue jeans and a T-shirt. No shoes. I saw his eyes go wide when he looked at me. He knew who I was before I held up the badge and said my name. I felt the cold finger of adrenaline slide down my backbone. I remembered what McCaleb had said about the killer tracking the police while they tracked him. I had been on TV talking about the case. I had been in the papers.
Giving nothing away, I calmly said, “Mr. Seguin, that’s your car in the driveway, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s mine. What about it? What’s going on?”
“We need to ask you about it, if you don’t mind. Can we come in for a few minutes?”
“Well, no, I’d first like to know what—”
“Thank you.”
I moved across the threshold, forcing him to step back. The others followed me in.
“Hey, wait a minute, what is this?”
We had worked it out before we’d arrived. The interview was mine to conduct. Frankie was second seat. McCaleb said he just wanted to observe. The living room was carpenter overkill. Built-in bookshelves on three walls. A wooden mantel that was too big for the room had been built around the small brick fireplace. A floor-to-ceiling television cabinet was built in place as a divider between the sitting area and what looked like a little office nook.
I nodded approvingly.
“Nice work. You get a lot of downtime with your work?”
Seguin reluctantly nodded.
“Did most of this when we had the strike a couple years ago.”
“What do you do?”
“Stage builder. Look, what is this about my car? You can’t just push your way in here like this. I have rights.”
“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Seguin. We believe your car was possibly used in the commission of a serious crime.”
Seguin dropped into a soft chair positioned for best viewing of the television. I noticed that McCaleb was moving about the outer edges of the room, studying the books on the shelves and the various knickknacks displayed on the mantel and other surfaces. Sheehan sat down on the couch to Seguin’s left. He stared at him coldly, wordlessly.
“What crime?”
“A murder.”
I let that sink in. But it appeared to me that Seguin had recovered from his initial shock and was hardening. I had seen this before. He was going to try to ride it out.
“Does anyone drive your car besides you, Mr. Seguin?”
“Sometimes. If I loan it to somebody.”
“What about three weeks ago, August fifteenth, did you lend it to anybody?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to check. I don’t think I want to answer any more questions and I think I want you people to leave now.”
McCaleb slid into the seat to Seguin’s right. I remained standing. I looked at McCaleb and he nodded slightly and only once. But I knew what he was telling me: he’s the guy.
I looked at my partner. Frankie had missed the sign from McCaleb because he had not taken his eyes off Seguin. I had to make a call. Go with McCaleb’s signal or back out. I looked at McCaleb again. He looked up at me, his eyes as intense as any I had ever seen.
I signaled Seguin to stand up.
“Mr. Seguin, I need you to stand up for me. I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder.”
Seguin slowly came to his feet and then made a sudden move toward the door. But Sheehan was ready for it and was all over him and had his face down in the carpet before he had gotten three feet. Frankie pulled his arms behind his back and cuffed them. I then helped him pull Seguin to his feet and we walked him out to the car, leaving McCaleb behind.
Frankie stayed with the suspect. As soon as I could, I came back inside. I found McCaleb still sitting in the chair.
“What was it?”
McCaleb reached out his arm to the nearest bookshelf.
“This is his reading chair,” he said.
He pulled a book off the shelf.
“And this is his favorite book.”
The book was badly worn, its spine cracked and its pages weathered by repeated readings. As McCaleb thumbed the pages, I could see paragraphs and sentences