Page 13 of Fish in a Barrel

“By the toys?” Jackson asked, because he’d looked at maps of the park with Effie during prep.

“Yes. I was standing there when I saw a couple of guys talking.”

“What did they look like?” Jackson asked, knowing this was critical.

“Well, they looked likecopsis what they looked like,” Annette said, sounding unhappy about it. “But they weren’t dressed like it. One was tall and rangy. He had the haircut and the posture, right? Dark hair, dark eyes, white skin. In his late thirties, I’d guess. I… I’ve seen the cops who come to the park during the week to roust the homeless. I’m almost positive this man was one of those policemen, but I’m not sure of it. I’d need to see pictures.”

Jackson slow-blinked. Well, wasn’t often clues like that fell into your lap, was it? He leaned over to Henry and murmured, “Have Ellery send ID shots of the arresting officers to my phone.”

Henry nodded, and Jackson returned his full attention to Annette Frazier. “That’s fascinating,” he said, sincere as hell. “Keep going.”

“Well, the other man had longer hair, and it was weird. He started out upright, and as Roger Ramjet as the other guy. But as I was watching, his shoulders seemed to stoop. He started to bounce on his toes. It was like watching an actor, you know? Backstage? Like that filmGet Shorty,where Danny DeVito becomes a mobster right in front of your eyes?”

Jackson knewhiseyes were getting big. “Like getting into character,” he said, making sure.

“Yes!” She smiled, her round, lined face becoming younger, animated. Jackson bet she was an amazing teacher—he’d learned that the best ones had smile lines and looked like your favorite sweater. “I remember thinking I had to tell Larry, you know, because it was so fascinating. I thought he might be trying out for a play or something.”

Jackson nodded, laughing a little. “What play was he trying out for?” he asked.

“Basketball Diaries,” she said promptly, her laughter fading. “Or a new biography on Lenny Bruce. Or Kurt Cobain.”

He heard Henry make a suspicious noise next to him and didn’t dare look his partner in the eye. “So, uhm, drug addict.”

She nodded emphatically. “I know what it looks like when someone’s jonesing, sadly enough,” she added. “And this guy did too. He started doing the junkie tap on his thigh with his thumb, started to bounce on his toes, started to look around furtively. I mean, he wasn’t doing that when I first saw them talking. It was just two guys, shooting the breeze.”

“Hunh,” Jackson said, completely lost in thought. “That’s… that’s something that didn’t come up in court today. Keep going.”

“Well, the one guy gave a nod—”

“Which guy?” Jackson asked. “The actor guy? And what did he look like?”

“Oh! Yes! The actor guy gave a nod. And he had long hair, like stringy, to his shoulder blades, under a ball cap. He was wearing a T-shirt under a plaid shirt. You know, with the plaid shirt unbuttoned and untucked. But his face was surprisingly young—narrow, high cheekbones. Like if he’d only gotten a haircut and a good shave he would have been a Boy Scout. Like the long hair and the beard were sort of schwacked on.”

Jackson felt his lips quirk. “Schwacked on?” he asked.

“Yeah.” She stroked the cat on her lap a little faster, as though seeking comfort. “Like when your worst kid comes in with a completely insincere smile on his face and you wonder where the little bugger stowed the bullied kid this time. Is it a trash can? The bathroom? You start calling the janitor and asking for a search before you even know who’s missing. Because that smile isn’t real. It’s schwacked on. That was this guy’s hair and beard. I mean, I know they were real, but they weren’t really him.”

“Understood,” Jackson said, thinkingundercover police officerbut not wanting to say it out loud. “So he went to the bathroom. What did the other guy do?”

“He took off.”

“What was he driving?”

She grunted in disgust. “One of those big-dick trucks? You know, not the serviceable ones, the F-150 or whatever, but the truck one bigger than that so everybody has to look at it and it doesn’t fit in the lanes or the parking spaces.”

“F-250,” Jackson said, liking this woman more and more.

“Yeah. What’d you call ’em, Larry?”

“Aw, Annie—”

“No, it was funny!”

Larry grimaced apologetically at both of them. “A cock sleeve with an extra cab,” he said.

Jackson had to cover his mouth with his hand, and he didn’t dare meet Henry’s eyes.

“I’m pretty sure we know which model you’re talking about,” Henry said, his voice strangled. “Color?”