Santos slid him a look. “I’ve seen Klonopin used to combat insomnia too. Not what it was intended for, but that never stops anyone, ever. It’s like Ambien or similar type drugs. But I couldn’t find any reason why he’d need to take anything. Like I said, he’s A-one. All tests negative for anything else.” He punched the iPad, his bit done. “That’s what we got. He’s awake. He’s coming out of his brain fog. He’s all yours.”
“Now was that so hard?” Lonergan poked.
Foster looked down at her shoes, at the thin layer of mud around the toes and heels, and then leveled her gaze. “Doctor, when they collected his clothes, did you notice if there was mud on his shoes?”
“I didn’t see any mud.”
Lonergan’s eyes narrowed. “You answered pretty quick. You sure?”
“I’d remember mud if there’d been any.”
She’d squatted next to Birch’s body, her heels sinking into the damp earth. There was mud on her shoes now. She glanced over. And on Lonergan’s. She quickly ducked back into Ainsley’s bay, Lonergan right behind her. The kid’s eyes were puffy. He’d been crying.
“One more question,” Foster said. “Were you prescribed Klonopin, or did you take it on your own?” For a moment, it looked like he wouldn’t answer, but Foster moved closer to the bed, waiting. “Keith?”
He turned his head away from her. “I don’t do drugs.”
“When they brought you in, there was alcohol and Klonopin in your system. How do you explain that?”
He laid his head back against the pillow, utter despair clouding his face. “I think I had a beer? I think I was at a place?” He lifted up forcefully. “But I don’t do drugs. And I’m not saying anything else until I talk to my parents.”
The two stepped out of the bay again, moving away from the curtain. Santos was still standing there.
“He coulda knocked the mud off his shoes,” Lonergan said. “He coulda wiped them on the grass or rinsed ’em off in the river.”
Foster put her notebook away. “Or he was nowhere near Birch’s body.”
“We’ll settle it in an interview room. He’s conscious; he’s ours.” Lonergan cocked a thumb toward Santos. “Unless the good doc here would like to run him a nice, hot shower? Bring him a cookie?”
“Unbelievable,” Santos muttered as he stormed off. “Cops.”
“What’s his problem?”
Assuming the question was rhetorical, Foster ignored it and instead asked one of her own. “Can we help Peggy Birch now?”
CHAPTER 7
She plopped down into her desk chair, not liking the setup any more than she had several hours ago when she’d first laid eyes on it. The chair squeaked and was set a bit too high, so her knees bumped the underside. Not a big deal but a deal she didn’t have time for now. Keith Ainsley was in an interview room waiting for them to come in, but she’d needed a moment to decompress. He’d called his parents. They were on their way in. The blood on his jacket and the lack of mud on his shoes didn’t go together. Unless he’d wet the shoes? If so, maybe Lonergan, as ham fisted as he was, had pegged it right. But could Ainsley, under the influence, have had the time and wherewithal to rinse his muddy soles in the river?
She glanced around the office but didn’t see Lonergan. It had been a frosty ride back from the hospital. They still hadn’t found a way to connect even enough to make polite conversation, but she held a glimmer of hope that she’d find something in the man she could come to appreciate . . . or tolerate. The rest of the detectives seemed okay. She’d met Detectives Kelley and Symansky, as well as Tony Bigelow and Vera Li. All good, all fine. Bigelow, a sturdy Black man with dark hooded eyes that missed nothing, appeared to be the jokester of the group. They called him Bigs. Li looked about Foster’s age and moved fast, darting around the office purposefully, like she had one hundred things to do and only five minutes to get them all done. Sharp eyes, too, Foster noted. She didn’t imagine much got past Li. It wasn’t her old team, but it was a solid team she was sure she could blend into. Then she thought of Lonergan.
Foster rolled her chair away from the desk and rubbed her eyes, taking a moment to focus. She had a young Black man in custody for a heinous crime, a young Black man who reminded her of her lost boy. Ainsley hadn’t so much as a parking ticket and had never been in any kind of trouble before. That wasn’t proof of innocence, but it was a pretty good indication of character. What was the prevailing wisdom? Past behavior was a useful marker for future behavior. But something had placed both Ainsley and Birch on that Riverwalk.
Lonergan’s snap-to voice broke in. He pointed down the hall toward the interview rooms. “He’s in three. You coming?”
She stood, straightening her blazer. “Can we talk first?”
He looked wary, like he expected a trick. “About?”
“Somewhere with a door?”
They ducked into a small room with boxes of office supplies and reams of paper lined up against the wall. It was as good a place as any. He stood there, poised for confrontation.
“We don’t see this the same way,” she began. “But I think it would be better if we at least didn’t work at cross purposes in there.” She kept her distance, a small, scarred table between them. She leaned her hands on the back of a folding chair tucked under it. “We need his statement, first and foremost. He’ll be more willing to give us that, I think, if we don’t go charging in there hot and heavy, accusing him of butchery, especially when there are still so many unknown variables . . .” Lonergan watched her but didn’t speak. “I think I understand your feeling on that, but I’d like to hear it again. We should run it through and find some common ground.” Lonergan said nothing. “Or if there’s anything else you think we need to say to each other?”
“Seems you’ve been making judgments about what kind of cop you think I am,” Lonergan said. “That ain’t sitting well. I chalk it up to you being raw about your . . .” He stopped himself, noting the warning look on her face. “I give you some slack on that being the case.” He slipped his hands into his front pockets. “I think he’s good for this, for obvious reasons, and you got a differing opinion. We’ll see on that. Meanwhile, we go at him and see what he gives us. We wait for the techs to give us the definitive. I know the drill, Foster. This ain’t my first rodeo. And I never once met a smart killer. This kid’s half out of his head, kills her, then doesn’t have enough brain cells functionin’ to get himself outta there, so he plops right there at the bridge with evidence all over him. Now he’s making like he can’t remember nothin’。 He’s runnin’ a game. That’s how I see it, and that’s how you’ll see it when the blood comes back a match to Birch.”
She lifted off the chair. “You’re right. If the blood matches, that’ll put me in a different place. But right now, we aren’t there yet. Right now, we need to go in as a team and see if we can get more out of him. Right?”