Rick leaves it a couple of minutes, then puts his sweet tea down on the side table and tells Philip and Miss Betty he’s going to check on the kid. He heads to the backyard. The yard space is bigger than any other he’s seen in Ocean Mist; there’s a kidney-shaped pool with a line of white sunloungers along one side, a large patio with an outdoor kitchen and grill, and a huge stretch of lawn that runs all the way to a line of tall oaks at the back. It’s real pretty.
It takes him a moment to spot Mikey. He’s a way across the yard on the other side of the pool, sitting on the bench seat inside a cute little summerhouse built in the same white weatherboarded style of the main house. Hunched over, Mikey’s head is in his hands. Even from this distance, it looks as if his shoulders are shaking.
Rick feels real bad about showing him the photo. It was a scare tactic is all. Go in hard with the picture of the dead woman – shock him into complying. But he’d misjudged the play. Mikey is no tough guy. All it did was freak him out.
He walks around the pool to the summerhouse, stopping on the threshold to the building. ‘How’re you doing?’
Mikey flinches when he hears Rick’s words. Doesn’t look up. ‘I’m okay. You can go back to the house.’
‘You sure about that?’ Rick steps inside. He stops a few paces from the kid. He still can’t see his face, but he can tell from the way he’s breathing, and moving, that he’s fighting back tears – trying to get control of himself.
‘I . . .’ Mikey straightens up. Rubs his eyes with his hands. His face is red and blotchy from crying, and his eyes are real bloodshot. ‘I didn’t kill her.’
Rick holds the kid’s gaze. All he sees is sadness. Sure it could be for himself rather than Kristen Altman, but Rick’s always been a good judge of character; he usually calls these things the right way. ‘I know.’
‘Then why are you out here?’
‘There’s stuff you know that might help us find the person who did kill her, stuff you might not even think of as important. I need you to tell me about her, about what you did and what she liked and really, everything.’
Mikey frowns. ‘But you’re not police, Gram said. So what are you? A PI or something?’
‘Or something.’ Rick can see the kid’s reluctant to talk. Lots of folks are like that. Oftentimes it just takes a little patience. Rick glances back towards the house. Patience is something it seems Philip doesn’t have much of. He shakes his head. He’s glad he’s got Mikey on his own; between Miss Betty’s obvious irritation with her grandson and Philip’s misjudged pushiness, being inside is unlikely to help get the kid to open up.
Sitting down on the bench seat a little ways along from Mikey, he gestures towards the kid’s smoke. ‘You got another?’
The kid looks surprised, but pulls a soft pack of Marlboro Reds from his pocket and holds it out to Rick.
Rick takes one. ‘Can I get a light?’
Mikey hands Rick a silver Zippo. Rick takes it and lights the cigarette. Hands the Zippo back and inhales. He feels the heat as the smoke fills his mouth and hits the back of his throat. Stifles a cough. Jesus, he hates these son-of-a-bitches, but he’s learnt that making a shared connection with the person you need information from pays dividends, and oftentimes doing what the informant is doing is the best way to fast-track building trust. He breathes out the smoke and leans against the side of the building. ‘You think you can tell me about Kristen?’
‘I’ll try.’ Mikey swallows hard. Takes a breath. ‘I wasn’t looking to meet anyone. I only intended staying here a week or so, to get my head together. Gram’s great and all, but she’s . . . she’s a lot, you know?’
Rick nods. The house might be luxurious, but it has a rigid, static feeling to it, like a museum. And he’d seen the way Miss Betty treated the kid. It couldn’t be easy living under her roof for long. ‘Sure.’