Page 64 of Fish in a Barrel
As Jackson padded through the front room, bare-chested, the stitches on his back finally not aching like he’d been skinned alive, he had to admit he wasn’t up to much more than what he was doing right now. But Ellery planned to wake up and conquer planets, so if Jackson could answer the goddamned door at fuck-you in the morning, he was going to do it.
He was not prepared to see Detective Andre Christie and his interim partner, Leslie de Souza, standing at the door. Behind them stood four police officers that Jackson didn’t recognize—but who didn’t look particularly friendly.
Jackson blinked rapidly, trying to assimilate this new threat. “Detective Christie?” he asked tentatively. Andre Christie was a dapper, spit-polished Latino man, usually partnered with Sean Kryzynski, who was currently out on injury leave and whom Jackson and Ellery considered a friend. In fact, they considered Christie a friend as well. The weekend before, Jackson and Henry had spent a few hours at Kryzynski’s place along with Christie and Billy Barnes, one of the Johnnies kids who’d offered to help Kryzynski out while he was healing.
In response to Jackson’s sally, Christie shook his head, looking furious—but not at Jackson. “This. Is not. My idea.”
Jackson’s eyes widened, and he looked to Leslie for clarification. “Was ityouridea?” he asked, and she shook her head grimly.
Leslie was a smart, tough woman, scary fit, with wildly curly brown hair pulled back at her nape and a sunburned pink nose. “No. No it’s not. And given how shitty you look, I’d wager it’s about to blow up in Trey Cartman’s face.”
Jackson suddenly saw where this was going. “What is it I was supposed to have done while I was laid up with fever and a fucking river of stitches down my back?”
She and Christie shared a look that was part anger and part triumph.
“I don’t suppose you could prove tha—” Christie began, and Jackson turned around before he could finish. If he guessed right, his dressing needed changing. It must have, because Christie and de Souza both sucked air in through their teeth.
“I’m going to take a picture of that,” de Souza said.
“Sure. You do that. Be sure to send it to Cartman, blown up with a diagram since half of Sacramento’s already seen it. What else do you need?”
“Do you have any proof you were here last night?” de Souza asked.
“Besides my boyfriend to alibi me?” Jackson parried. “That depends. From when to when?”
“From ten p.m. to two a.m.,” she responded, and Jackson thought for a moment, and then brightened.
“In fact, I do!” he said. Then, “But do me a favor and give me some of those evidence bags. I need to preserve the prints on the remote control.”
He led them into the living room, after making sure only two of the officers were allowed in and they’d agreed to keep the front door shut. To make extra double sure the cats didn’t get out, he tiptoed to the bedroom and shut the door, not surprised that Ellery had barely stirred.
“Here,” he said, after bagging the remote control, showing everybody that he was being careful to preserve prints. “This is my own special remote. Ellery got it for me for Flag Day or something. Nobody touches it but me, and sometimes Ellery to get it out of the way. You should find those prints on it and nobody else’s, and if you do find someone else’s prints on it, let me know, ’cause there’s gonna be a beatdown, you all feel me?”
Christie and de Souza nodded, but the other cops scowled, because apparently they had no sense of humor. “Okay—so what I’m doing here is calling up my play log on the game—see that?” He made the figure on the screen dance. “That’s my guy. I’ve built him up plenty. See that?” He scrolled to the play log. “What’s that say?”
Christie let out a low whistle. “Three hours last night? You played video games from ten to one in the morning?”
Jackson didn’t tell him why. “Yeah. Felt like shit because fucking duh! Got up, played until my back stopped aching enough for me to sleep. Do you need to bag and tag the video game?”
“Uhm, we saw a video security system for the front porch—” Leslie began.
“Ellery will send you our footage, time stamped, as soon as he wakes up.”
Christie frowned. “Uhm, Jackson, why aren’t you waking him up now?”
Jackson scowled at him. “Guys, I’ve been running a fever all fucking weekend, and he’s been nursing me through it. How much sleep do you thinkhe’sgotten in the last three days?”
Christie and de Souza met eyes. “Thank you for your time,” de Souza said. “We’re sorry for the early hour.”
Jackson nodded. He got it. They were following orders. “What, exactly, was Trey Cartman trying to pin on me?”
They met eyes again. “It’s probably already hit the feeds,” Christie murmured, and de Souza nodded.
“Charlie Boehner was shot to death in his home last night,” she said. “No forced entry. He was standing in his front room with a drink in his hand, and somebody blew him away.”
Jackson stared at them. “Oh, you guys. Not only was thissonot me, but this city is in big, big trouble.”
Christie’s jaw clenched, and he swallowed. “We are aware. We’re sorry—so sorry—to have wasted your time.”