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“A jogger found him this morning,” Hernandez continues. “He was unconscious. A complete, bloody mess. God knows what would have happened if he hadn’t been discovered in time.”
“That’s terrible,” I say again.
“Since Miss Stone’s purse was found near the scene, I was wondering if she saw anything last night. Or you, for that matter, since you were apparently with her.”
“I was,” I say.
“And what time was this?”
“About one. Maybe a little after.”
Hernandez leans back in her chair, steepling her well-manicured fingers. “A bit late to be roaming the park, no?”
“It was,” I say. “But we had been drinking. You know, girls’ night out. And since I live near the park, we thought it would be quicker to cross it on foot instead of taking a cab.”
It’s the alibi Sam and I had concocted on the way here. I worried that I might not be able to tell it, yet the lie comes without hesitation, slipping from my mouth with such ease it surprises even me.
“And that’s when Miss Stone—”
“Boyd,” I say. “Her real name is Samantha Boyd.”
“That’s when Miss Boyd lost the purse?”
“It was taken, actually.”
Hernandez arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “Taken?”
“We stopped at a park bench so Sam could have a smoke.” A pebble of truth, tossed into the churning river of falsehood. “While we were there, a guy ran by, grabbed the purse, and took off. We didn’t report it stolen because, as you can see, there’s nothing valuable in it.”
“Why was she carrying it in the first place?”
“Sam’s a little paranoid about things,” I say, furthering the lie. “Ican’t blame her, considering what happened to her. To us, really. She told me she carries the purse for protection.”
A nod from Detective Hernandez. “Like a decoy?”
A nod from me. “Exactly. A mugger aims for the big stuff, like that purse, while neglecting the items of true value, such as her wallet.”
Hernandez studies me from across the desk, parsing the information, taking time to respond. It looks as if she’s counting the seconds, waiting until a suitably intimidating length of time has passed. Finally, she says, “Did you get a good look at the man who stole the purse?”
“Not really.”
“Nothing at all?”
“It was dark,” I say. “And he was wearing dark clothes. A puffy jacket, I think. I don’t really know. It all happened so fast.”
I lean back in my chair, relieved and, I’ll admit, exceedingly proud of myself. I had given our false alibi without a hitch. It was so convincing that evenIalmost believe it. But then Hernandez reaches into a drawer, removes a photograph, slides it across the desk.
“Could this be the man you saw?”
It’s a mug shot of a young punk of a man. Wild eyes. Neck tattoo. The papery skin of a junkie. The very same junkie whose nose collapsed beneath my forehead. Seeing his face makes my heart momentarily stop.
“Yes,” I say with a gulp. “That’s him.”
“This is the same guy who was found almost beaten to death this morning,” Hernandez says, although I already know this. “His name is Ricardo Ruiz. Rocky, for short. He’s homeless. An addict. The usual sad story. Cops patrolling the park know him pretty well. They say he didn’t seem like the type of guy to get into much trouble. Only wanted a place to sleep and his next fix.”
I continue to stare at the photo. Knowing the man’s name and what he’s like makes my heart crack with guilt and remorse. I don’t think about the fear I felt in the park. I don’t think about the knife he carried and that Sam scooped up. All I can focus on is the fact that I hurt him. Badly. So bad that he might never recover.
“That’s awful,” I manage to mutter. “Will he be okay?”