But it was almost certain that Detective Black and I had met twenty years ago, that he’d been one of the people to interview me and have me tell my story. It was certain that he knew my name, because I hadn’t changed it. Maybe he’d forgotten; it was a long time ago. But when I looked in his eyes, I knew he hadn’t forgotten at all.
“Shea Collins?” He held out his hand, and I shook it. “It’s nice to see you again.”
My throat was tight, my tongue clumsy and dry in my mouth. “I don’t remember you,” I said, the words spilling out of me. “Not specifically.”
“I didn’t think you would,” he said. Then he stepped back. “Come in.”
The inside of the houseboat was small and neat, a bachelor’s space. There was a sofa and a TV, a coffee table that likely served as a dining table. There was a galley kitchen to the left and a partition with, presumably, a bedroom behind it. From the window over the kitchen sink, I could see nothing but water.
“Have a seat,” Black said, indicating the sofa. I sat down, realizing that I was obeying because I thought of him as a cop. The cop who had worked—had solved—the Sherry Haines case. The man who, at some point, had interviewed me. I pressed my palms together between my knees.
“Can I get you anything?” Black asked, walking to the galley kitchen.
“No, thank you.”
“We’ll get something out of the way first,” he said in the easy manner of a man who has conducted hundreds of interviews with strangers, most of them hostile, as he poured water into his glass. “I remember you from the Sherry Haines case, but we’re not here to talk about that today.”
“No,” I managed.
“I understand. You want to talk about the Lady Killer case. You asked for an interview before, I think. A year or so ago.”
I nodded. “I’m a blogger. Not as my day job. As my hobby.” I stopped talking, realizing that for once I was with someone who didn’t need an explanation about why I liked true crime. If anyone would understand, it was Detective Joshua Black.
Black turned around, the glass in his hand. “I recognized your name when you made the first request,” he said frankly, “but I make it a policy never to talk about that case with anyone. This time, though, I got a personal request from Beth to meet with you, and I was too curious to turn it down.”
This part had me completely baffled. “You have a relationship with Beth,” I said, and it didn’t come out as a question.
Detective Black leaned against his tiny kitchen counter. “We live in the same town,” he said. “We’ve both lived here all our lives. Claire Lake isn’t a very big place.”
“So even though you investigated her and testified at her murder trial, the two of you are friends.”
He laughed, though the sound had little humor in it. Instead I heard layers of complexity I didn’t understand. “We aren’t friends.” He gestured at the view out the kitchen window. “Did you know that these houseboats were originally put here by Claire Lake’s homeless people?”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” He smiled. “In the early 1960s, the city wanted to put up single-family houses by the lake. They were going to tear down public housing in order to do it, and evict everyone in the neighborhood. No one stopped them, so the city evicted over two hundred people, all of whom had to find somewhere else to live. Some wise soul realized that he could buy a boat that was headed for the junkyard for much cheaper than a house, and also that the city’s zoning laws technically allowed for residential boats off the piers. So a lot of the evicted people, who were now homeless, bought up old boats, anchored them, and lived in them instead.”
“I’ll bet the city was pleased,” I said.