“Yeah. Thought if I stood up I might puke, but, or get dizzy. So I stayed put. Kept my eyes shut.”
“Did you touch the man at all?”
He asked that already, but if Trey notices, she doesn’t show it. “Nah. Fuc— Sorry. No way.”
“I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t fancy touching him myself.” Nealon gives Trey another smile. She manages a half-smile back. “So you took a little break to get your head together, and once you were all right, you came straight here.”
“Yeah.”
Nealon takes another cookie and mulls that over. “That fella Rushborough,” he says, “he was only, what is it, a few minutes from your own gate. Why didn’t you go tell your mammy and daddy?”
“He usedta be a detective,” Trey says, nodding at Cal. “I reckoned he’d know what to do, better’n they would.”
It only takes Nealon a fraction of a second to come back from that and change the surprise to a big grin. “Jaysus,” he says. “They say it takes one to know one, but I hadn’t a notion. A colleague, hah?”
“Chicago PD,” Cal says. His heart is still slamming, but he keeps his voice easy. “Back in the day. I’m retired.”
Nealon laughs. “My God, what are the odds? You come halfway across the world to get away from the job, and you trip over a murder case.” He glances over his shoulder at the uniform, who has stopped scribbling and is looking up at them open-mouthed, unsure what to make of this development. “We got lucky today, hah? A detective for a witness; Jaysus, you couldn’t ask for better.”
“I’m no detective here,” Cal says. He can’t tell whether there was a fine needle under the words—he’s still waiting to find out how long you have to live in Ireland before you can reliably identify when people are giving you shit—but he’s seen enough turf wars to make this much clear straightaway. “And I never worked Homicide anyway. About all’s I know is to secure the scene and wait for the experts to get there, so that’s what I did.”
“And I appreciate it, man,” Nealon says heartily. “Go on, give us the rundown: what’d you do?” He leans back in his chair to leave Cal the floor, and gets to work on his cookie.
“When I got to the scene I recognized the man as Cillian Rushborough, I’ve met him a couple of times. I gloved up”—Cal pulls the gloves out of his pocket and lays them on the table—“and I confirmed that he was dead. His cheek was cold. His jaw and his elbow were in rigor, but his fingers still moved, so did his knee. I didn’t touch him anywhere else. I backed off and called you guys.”
He figures he got a decent balance between subordinate and civilian. He also figures Nealon is noting and analyzing that.
“Great,” Nealon says, giving him a colleague’s nod. “Fair play. And then you stayed on the scene till the uniforms got there?”
“Yeah. Stayed a few yards back, at my car.”
“Did you see anyone else while yous were up there?”
“Trey’s dad came past. Johnny Reddy.”
Nealon raises his eyebrows. “Ah, man, that’s some way to find out your friend’s dead. Was he all right?”
“He looked pretty shocked,” Cal says. Trey nods.
“He didn’t hang on with yous?”
“He headed off up the mountain.”
“We’ll be needing to talk to him,” Nealon says. “Did he say where he was off to?”
“He didn’t mention it,” Cal says.
“Ah, sure, in a place this size, we’ll run into him one way or t’other,” Nealon says comfortably. He drains the last of his tea and pushes his chair back from the table, glancing at the uniform to signal that they’re done. “Right; we might have a few more questions down the line, and you’ll need to come into the station in town and sign statements for me, but I’d say that’ll keep us going for now. Thanks for the tea, and for your time.” He hitches his suit trousers to a comfortable arc under his belly. “Would you walk out to the car with me, Mr. Hooper, just in case I think of anything else I meant to ask you?”
Cal doesn’t want a one-on-one with Nealon right now, before he’s had a chance to rearrange his thoughts. “Pleasure,” he says, getting up. Trey starts clearing the cups, prompt and deft as a waitress.
Outside, the heat has thickened. “Go on up to the car,” Nealon tells the uniform. “I’m gasping for a smoke.” The uniform strides off. His back looks self-conscious.
Nealon pulls out a packet of Marlboros and tilts it at Cal, who shakes his head. “Good man,” Nealon says. “I oughta quit, the missus is always on at me, but you know yourself.” He lights up and takes a deep, grateful drag. “D’you know that young one well?”
“Pretty well,” Cal says. “I’ve been here two years last spring; I do some carpentering, and she’s been helping me out most of that time, when school allows. Kid’s got a knack for it, figures she might go into it full-time when she finishes school.”
“Would you say she’s reliable?”
“I’ve always found her to be,” Cal says, considering this. “She’s a good kid. Steady-like, works hard, good head on her shoulders.”
