20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,64
into the truck. Dave waved and called out, “This is all going to auction,” he said.
“Can I give you a hand?”
“We’re good,” Dave said.
Joe shouted back, “I’ll make breakfast.”
Comfortable in any kitchen, Joe found the coffee, set up the pot, took eggs out of the fridge, and whipped them in a bowl. There was a loaf of bread in a basket, and he sliced it.
He lined a pan with bacon, then went outside and gave Dave a five-minute warning.
A few minutes later Dave came into the house with items on his lap: a paint box, a pair of men’s boots, and a rifle.
“Wow, it feels good to send all that stuff to auction,” he said. “Anything that doesn’t sell goes to Goodwill. I got cash for Mom’s paintings and Dad’s clock collection.”
“I put cheese and onions in the eggs,” Joe said.
“Take a look.”
Dave took an envelope from his shirt pocket, opened it, and showed a check to Joe. “I can pay you back and meet the payroll, too. Okay?”
“Sure. That’s great.”
Dave placed the boots on the floor, the paint box and the gun on the chair in front of the fireplace, before pulling his chair up to the table. It wasn’t long before he began rolling it back and forth. He appeared to Joe to be preoccupied and anxious.
“You need something?” Joe asked.
“I need to see Dr. Alex Murray in handcuffs.”
Dave backed up, made a sharp turn to the fridge, got his hands on a carton of juice—and it slipped from his fingers onto the floor.
Joe grabbed a dish towel, but the juice outran him. He turned his head so he could look up at Dave.
He said, “You’re the same guy who could throw the pigskin in a perfect spiral from the fifty-yard line to the end zone.”
“Yeah, well. That was a lifetime ago.”
While Joe mopped up, Dave went to the sideboard and pulled out dishes and coffee mugs and set the table. Joe watched him do it. His hands were shaking. Why?
Joe finished frying the bacon and cooking the eggs, and when the toast popped, he buttered four slices, set it all up on a pair of blue china plates, and brought breakfast to the table. Dave brought over the coffeepot, and as Joe would have predicted—it slipped from Dave’s hand, dropping from three inches above the tabletop.
Joe steadied the sloshing pot.
He said, “Dave, what the fuck is going on?”
“You mean besides watching a truck drive off with my parents’ stuff that I’ve grown up with my whole life? Besides my upcoming trial? Besides that I’ve lost my father, my best friend? And you, Joe, you look at me like you’d like me to get the electric chair.”
Joe sat down across from Dave and moved all of the plates out of the way. Dave was rolling the chair again, to and fro, to and fro, staring down at the table.
“Look at me,” Joe said.
Dave stared at the table.
Joe said it again, but this time not as a demand. Dave had every right to his feelings. And Joe had every right to his.
“Dave, I’m not the law. I work for you. You’re acting like a man with a bad conscience. I have to know the whole truth in order to help you. Did you have anything to do with Ray’s death?”
Joe braced himself for Dave to flip the table, knock the coffeepot to the floor, and then open his veins with a bread knife.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t do a damned thing to Ray but love him. Let me ask you, Joe. I’ve met your father. He’s a good guy. Could be a bit of a jerk. He had a lot on his hands, all you kids, afraid the money would run out. He said a few rough things to you in front of the coach. In front of me. Did you ever think of killing him?”
“No.”
“No. Under what circumstances would you have done it? If he was hurting someone? If he was a criminal? Not even then, right?”
“Right.”
“Even if he was sick and told you to put him down, you wouldn’t do it.”
The pause lengthened, and then Dave spoke again.
“I swear to you on the memories of my mother, my father, and the love of my life, Rebecca, that I had nothing to do with Dad’s death. Someone did, but it wasn’t me.”
Throughout this speech Dave had fixed a direct and unwavering look into Joe’s eyes.