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“A rumbling sound?”
"Yeah, like an old diesel engine. You know, like on an old semi. My brother drove Kenworths for Amsoil back in the eighties. They used to rumble like a son of a bitch. Nowadays, they're all whisper quiet because of sound and emissions regulations. I kind of miss the way they used to sound."
“Did you happen to look out the window and see a truck?” Faith asked.
“Oh no, this was like miles away.” He tilted his head. “Well, maybe not miles. But it was far away. The rumble was quiet.”
Faith and Michael shared a look. That noise could mean absolutely nothing, or it could be the key to their case. Not knowing exactly what made the noise made it difficult to determine where it might have come from. “And you didn’t try to investigate?”
Cliff lifted his hands in a what do you want me to do gesture. “Well, it wasn’t that out of the ordinary. Hell, I only brought it up because you guys seem pretty sure that I must know something. I really don’t.”
“Did anyone else ever come to the studio?” Faith asked.
“Not that I ever saw,” Cliff replied. “You know how artists are. They’re real private types. They like to be alone with their art.”
“And Monica didn’t mention anyone new in her life?” Michael asked.
“I don’t think she’d tell me,” Cliff said.
“Did she seem different to you at all?” Ferris asked. “Any unusual moods?”
Cliff lifted his hands again. “I think you guys aren’t hearing me. I barely knew her, okay? I’m happy to help as much as possible, but if you’re looking for me to solve the case for you, I can’t do that.”
The agents shared a slightly irritated look. Faith looked at Turk, but nothing in his behavior suggested suspicion. She sighed and pulled out a card. “If you think of anything else, please call me,” she said.
"Yeah, I'll do that," Cliff replied. "I'm really sorry about what happened. I hope you don't think I'm an asshole."
“I don’t think that,” Faith reassured him. Just blind. Like most people.
The group headed downstairs. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Ferris asked, “Do you think he’s hiding something from us?”
Faith shook her head. “No, I think he’s telling us the truth.”
“How can you tell?”
She crossed her arms. “I think the person we’re looking for is going to be more introverted. I think he’ll be awkward and clumsy and uncomfortable around people.”
“He seemed pretty uncomfortable with us,” Ferris pointed out.
“He seemed irritated with us,” Faith corrected. “But not at first and not in a suspicious way. Keep an eye on him just in case, but I don’t think he’s our guy.”
Ferris sighed. “Well, phooey. I guess it was too much to ask for it to be easy.”
Faith gave him a tight smile. “It never is.”
He sighed again. “Well, I’m beat. I’m gonna head home and get some shuteye.”
“Sounds good. Before you go, can we get the address for James Porter? Michael and I are gonna go talk to his wife.”
“Sure.”
He wrote the address down on a notepad and tore the sheet off. “Good luck, agents.”
“You too, detective.”
They split up, and the FBI agents returned to their rental. As Michael drove away, Faith looked in the rearview mirror at the receding apartment. She wondered how long Cliff had lived next to Monica, only for her death to matter little more than a brief sigh of guilt. But then, how well did she know her own neighbors? In the city, your house was just where you lived, and your neighborhood was nothing more than a random collection of strangers pursuing random careers.
Monica Smith was dead, and that death was going to have almost no impact on anyone else. Faith hated that.