juice. My sister got enthusiastic and pulped half the state's cash crop for breakfast."
"I know," he said, and gestured toward the monitor that showed the view through the patio door. Sarah was at the sink, washing dishes. Eamon was rinsing and drying. They were so much in each others' spaces it was like watching something a whole lot more intimate, with a whole lot fewer clothes.
"Remind me to pull the shades later," I said. He leaned over and took the OJ, but he didn't drink, just set it aside. "What? You think it's poisoned?"
"I'm careful," he said. "No offense."
"Fine. Your loss. Are you taping all of this? The video?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything embarrassing I can use on my sister?"
I got a very faint smile that didn't reach those impartial eyes. "Privileged."
Banter was over. Silence fell, hot and oppressive, and he studied me with wary eyes. Waiting.
I caved. "Look, Detective, what can I do? What is it going to take to make you, you know..."
"Go away?" he supplied, and eased down into a chair across from me. Not as comfy as mine, I noted. "Answers. I need you to tell me everything, start to finish. Nothing left out."
"That's why I'm here. I'll give you the whole story, but honestly, it won't do you any good. And there's not a shred of proof, one way or the other, so you'd better give up on having any peace of mind. All you'll have is my word, and I have the impression that isn't going to carry a lot of weight with you."
He sat back, watching me, and finally picked up the orange juice and sniffed it, then took a sip. "Actually, I revised my opinion a little," he said. "Last night. On the beach."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. He swiveled his chair instead and looked at the screen, where my sister and her new boyfriend were scrubbing dishes and laughing.
"What's his story?" he asked. "Your new friend."
"Sarah met him at the mall. Same day I met you, as a matter of fact. Though you and I haven't hit it off quite so well."
He sent me one of those looks. "You live an interesting life."
"You have no idea. What made you change your mind on the beach?"
He drank more of the OJ. "Two things. One of them has nothing to do with the beach itself: You were pissed off, not scared, when you confronted me the first time. Guilty people get scared, or they get smooth. You're different."
Well, that was a nice compliment. "And the other thing?"
"Guilty people don't save lives in the dark. Murderers can save lives, if it suits them. They can run into burning buildings and grab babies out of cribs at risk of their own skins. They can even feel sorry about it if it doesn't work out. But if there's a choice, and if there's no percentage and no witnesses, they won't put themselves out for it. If a guy's bleeding to death in an alley and all they have to do is make a 911 call, they won't unless there's a reason-unless somebody sees them and expects them to do it, or there's some profit in it. Get my point? It's all about the way it looks, not the life they're saving; they really don't give a shit about that." He shrugged and tilted the glass to drain the orange juice to a thin film of gold. "You do. All you had to do was walk away and let that hole collapse on those poor bastards, and nobody would have known."
"Nobody but me."
"Yes. That's my point."
Something he said rang a bell. "You said, a murderer can run into a burning building and grab a baby... you were thinking of Quinn, weren't you?"
He was silent for a moment, reluctant to say it out loud. "There was something about the way he did it. Standing there in the street, calculating the angles. There was a crowd, there was a mother begging him for help, but it was like some little computer inside of him was adding up benefits. Look, I wasn't lying to you. Quinn was a good guy. I liked him. But being a good guy doesn't mean you're not a bad man."
"Detective, if you're not careful, you might start sounding deep."
He gave me a faint, strange smile. "No chance of that. I'm a good