Page 46 of Fade Out

“So, who are you?” I asked.

“Tommy Carney,” he said, sitting down behind his large mahogany desk. At the edge of his desk, right in front of me was a collection of autographed golf balls. That meant something to me, but I couldn’t think what just then. I shook the thought off—

“So, you’re a partner? Here on a Saturday?”

“It’s my father’s name on the door. I’m a junior. And a junior partner. I have to try harder, no matter what. The better question is who are you?”

“Nick Nowak. I’m the man accused of murdering Rita.”

“You want us to defend you?”

“I have a lawyer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“618 North Wells.”

He took a clean, pressed handkerchief out of his desk drawer and mopped his forehead. It needed it.

“Anything I know about that property is privileged.”

“That’s not entirely true. You’re required to report crimes if you know of them.”

“If I know of them in advance. I can assure you I don’t know of any upcoming crimes.”

“So you knew nothing of Gunner Lindquist’s death in advance of its happening?”

“No.”

I had the feeling that was a lie. Or at least a half-truth.

“How did Rita Lindquist come to work for you?”

“We had a contract with Gunner’s firm. When he died, Rita was basically the firm. We really had no choice in the matter.”

“And you couldn’t find a legal loophole?”

“You’re a private investigator, aren’t you? Are you trying to get our account? That’s pretty bold since you might be in prison soon.”

I sat very still. My gut said he knew something about Gunner Lindquist’s death, but then they took on his daughter as his replacement. Was that to deter suspicion? Or did they really have no choice?

“Rita’s not dead,” I said.

Tommy’s face turned a putty color and looked like it might slide off the bone. “What does that mean? It was in the paper—”

“It’s another girl in the box. Think about it. The only real reason to cut off someone’s head and hands is to prevent identification. It’s not Rita.”

“Shit,” he said. It was a very small sound.

“The murdered woman is between twenty-five and thirty, medium-sized, dishwater blonde hair—possibly dyed, small breasts. Do you know anyone fitting that description connected to Rita?”

He shook his head.

“Do you know who Mike Mazur is? Nickname Possum.”

“Yeah, I know who he is. A friend of Rita’s boyfriend. We got him out of a little scrape.”

“Rape? You mean rape, don’t you?”