Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [61]
Jeremiah shook his head.
“You ever hear of an Uncle Charlie?”
“Only Angel’s.”
“Does he belong to Faith Tabernacle? Is he a member?”
“No. I never saw him. Angel said he lived far away from here. She said he was nice, that he promised sometime he’d take her for a ride in his van. Some of the other kids thought she made him up.”
We asked Jeremiah for more details, but he clammed up. He kept watching the street nervously, as though afraid his folks might drive up any minute. We beat a hasty retreat so they wouldn’t see us talking to him. I didn’t want them to know we had been there. I didn’t want Jeremiah to have to suffer any consequences.
When we got in the car, Peters asked, “Where to?”
“I guess we go pick up Carstogi.”
Peters started the motor. “You think Benjamin’s voice is the one we heard, not Carstogi’s?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I replied.
Carstogi wasn’t surprised to see us. I think he knew it was inevitable. When we came into the room he was sitting on the side of the bed, shoulders hunched, face buried in his hands.
“You’ll have to come with us,” I said.
Peters brought out the cuffs. Carstogi stood up and pulled away. It was reflex. I caught him by the shoulder and swung him around. “Don’t do anything stupid,” I warned him. “Things are bad enough for you already.”
Carstogi came with us quietly. Peters read him his rights. I didn’t have the stomach for it. The public wanted a fall guy, and it was Peters’ and my job to provide them with one. We herded him through the booking process. He reminded me of a steer being driven to slaughter, numb with fear and unable or unwilling to help himself. He didn’t ask for an attorney.
Once he was dressed in the bright orange jail coveralls, we began to question him. First Peters would grill him and then I would. He sat at the table in the tiny interview room, gazing at the floor while we asked him our questions. His story never varied, but it didn’t improve, either. He stuck to it like glue. The questioning process went on for hours. We finally sent him to his cell about nine o’clock. I left right after he did, without saying good night to anyone, including Peters. There was nothing good about it.
I walked my usual path down Fourth. I needed to think, to separate myself from the stifling closeness of the interview room. I didn’t like the feeling that I was part of a railroading gang. What we had on Carstogi was totally circumstantial, but I was afraid it might stick. After all, any port in a storm, and Carstogi didn’t have much of a cheering section in this part of the world.
What about Brother Benjamin? According to Jeremiah, he wasn’t the mysterious Uncle Charlie, but he was certainly a likely suspect with Brodie and Suzanne. The questions circled in my head, but I was too tired to draw any conclusions.
I opened the door to my apartment hoping Anne would be there. I more than half expected that she would be, but she wasn’t. I tried calling the Four Seasons and was told Mrs. Corley wasn’t taking any calls. That pissed me off. I poured myself a MacNaughton’s and settled down to wait. And sulk.
It must have been three drinks later before she called me back. By then I was pretty crabby. “I just now got your message,” she said. “Would you like me to come over?”
I felt like saying, Suit yourself. What actually came out of my mouth was, “Sure.”
She was there within minutes, greeting me with a quick kiss. I had drunk enough that I resented her lighthearted manner. “What are you so chipper about?” I groused.
“I got a lot done today, that’s all. How about you?”
“Same old grind.”
We were standing in the entryway. She took the glass from my hand, reached around the corner, and set it on the kitchen counter. Then she took both my hands in hers and placed them behind her back. “Kiss me,” she demanded.
I did, reluctantly at first, still trying to hang on to being mad at her. It didn’t work. My hunger for her reawakened. I crushed her to my chest as the touch of her lips sent me reeling.
“Marry me,”