By Familiar Means (11 page)

12

Grandma and I were still contemplating the possibility of Jimmy Upton's being dead before someone stashed his body in the tunnel when the phone rang, but at a distance. This wasn't my cell, for a change, but the landline back in the kitchen. I started to my feet, surprised for a second. Then I hurried in to answer it, with Grandma B.B. right behind me.

This was not a surprise.

Alistair snaked nervously around my ankles as I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Anna?” whispered the woman's voice on the end.

“Kenisha,” I whispered back. “What's going on?”

“Frank Hawthorne was hanging around the station asking questions last night—”

“That's his job.”

“Yeah, thank you, I know that, and I haven't got much time, so listen up, Anna. I'm assuming he told you it was Jimmy Upton you found in the tunnel?”

“Yeah, he did. What—?”

“Did he tell you Pete Simmons has started asking questions about you and Jake and Miranda?”

“No. He didn't get that far.” Something I was going to have to take up with Frank later. Grandma was hovering next to me. I smiled at her with as much reassurance as I could muster. I don't think she believed me. I know Alistair didn't.

“Merow?” he told Grandma as he sat on my sneaker toes. “Merp.”

“Yes, dear,” murmured Grandma. “She always does.”

I tried to ignore them.

“Pete's not happy you had holes in your story, Anna,” Kenisha was saying. “You've got no good explanation why you were down in that tunnel or how you knew there was even a tunnel to be in.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, uh-oh,” Kenisha agreed. “He's not really happy about Jake and Miranda either.”

“But he must have seen how upset they were.”

“Yeah, he saw it and he was not impressed.”

I swallowed. “Detective Simmons is a good guy,” I said, mostly because I needed to reassure myself. “He won't jump to conclusions.”

“He might not,” said Kenisha darkly. “But he's not in charge of this one anymore.”

“What? Who is?”

“Lieutenant Blanchard.”

I felt the blood drain out of my face. Alistair rubbed himself reassuringly against my shins.

“Maow,” he told Grandma.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured back.

I really was not going to think about this Grandma-to-feline conversation. I had other things to worry about. Kenisha did not talk about her lieutenant much, but when she did, it was with the kind of enthusiasm people normally reserved for tetanus shots or the stomach flu.

Kenisha's voice dropped to a whisper. “He is personally very interested in this case.”

“Why?”

“Because he is,” she said flatly. “That's why I'm calling.” Her voice lifted to more normal tones. “I'm sorry to have to tell you, but this is official business. We'd like you to come down to the station to answer some questions about the incident.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“That means now, doesn't it?”

“Yes, it does,” agreed Kenisha.

“All right. I'm on my way. Bye.” I hung up the phone.

“What's the matter, Anna?” asked Grandma.

“The cat didn't tell you?” I was staring at the phone.

“I'm not quite that fluent, dear.”

“Merow,” agreed Alistair.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to stay focused on the important things. “I've been asked to come down to the police station.”

“Well, that's not surprising. We knew that nice detective was going to have some more questions.”

Except this isn't the nice detective.
I didn't say that. I just bit my lip, picked up the receiver and dialed another number.

*   *   *

Before I walked into the station, I made extra sure my mental shields were up and as bright and solid as I could make them. If there was a place where I was going to be picking up stray Vibes, it was going to be in police headquarters.

Kenisha was in the lobby to meet us when Frank and I walked in.

“You brought the media?” said Kenisha.

“I wanted to bring Enoch Gravesend, but Frank will come for free.” Enoch's my lawyer. Actually, he probably would have come for free, too, but Frank was working on the story, and I could tell myself that being my moral support and my witness would help him out. That made this an even exchange instead of freeloading.

Kenisha looked like she wanted to argue my decision but couldn't quite find the right angle. What I didn't say was that Grandma B.B. had wanted to come, too.

“No, Grandma,” I'd told her firmly. “I can't show up at the police station with my white-haired grandmother in tow.”

“I'll wear a hat,” she'd said. “Then no one will see the white hair.”

“
No
, Grandma.”

“Well, whatever you think best, Anna.” She'd sighed. “Besides, I have
plenty
to do with my morning.”

As if I didn't already have enough to worry about.

Kenisha opened the door and led us through the interior of the station, past the desks with their computers and their busy occupants. From the looks on the faces, everybody seemed to know where we were headed and why. Everybody in uniform anyway.

“Just remember, you're not under arrest,” Frank murmured to me as Kenisha punched the entry code on another door. “You don't have to answer anything you don't want to. If you do answer, answer only what you're actually being asked. Don't volunteer anything extra.”

“I don't want to look hostile,” I said as we followed Kenisha down a bland, scuffed hallway.

“Trust me, Anna, Blanchard already thinks you look hostile.”

This did not make me feel any better.

Kenisha opened a door and stood aside to let us walk in. As I passed, she squeezed my hand, very briefly.

It was an interrogation room. It looked a lot like the ones on the cop shows on TV, only it was a lot smaller. It was painted the same dismal shade of oatmeal off-white as the hallway and smelled of old coffee. A big man sat on the far side of a metal table with a series of manila folders lined up in front of him. There was only one plastic chair on the other side.

My first impression of Lieutenant Blanchard was that this was a man who had not only bought his gym membership but used it religiously. His arms and shoulders strained
the seams of his immaculate white dress shirt. His neck was thick and his eyes were dark and round and set deep in his square face. His graying hair was cut short and bristly.

He did not offer to shake my hand, and to tell you the truth, I was kind of glad. He also wasn't paying a lot of attention to me. He had zeroed in on Frank.

“What's the media doing here, Freeman?” Lieutenant Blanchard demanded. His voice was thick with authority and contempt.

“Miss Britton asked me to accompany her,” Frank answered before Kenisha had to. “And of course, readers of the
Seacoast News
and its associated Web sites will be interested to hear how thoroughly and professionally the Portsmouth police are conducting their investigation of this tragedy. We had a call from the
Boston Globe
just this morning,” he added.

“You didn't tell me that,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Frank answered. “We're pretty excited.”

“You're also finished here,” snapped Blanchard. “No media during an ongoing investigation. You can wait in the lobby.” Blanchard jerked his head toward the door.

“You can't . . .” Frank began, but Blanchard just folded those bulging arms so his elbows rested on the table.

“Yeah, I kinda can. This is an interrogation, not a tea party.” He looked right at me to see what effect that word, “interrogation,” had. I made myself look back steadily and not shrink away or show how badly I wished I had my cat or my grandmother to hang on to. I had my wand to help keep my focus, but digging around nervously in my purse in front of Lieutenant Blanchard did not seem like a great idea. “Officer Freeman, you will show Mr. Hawthorne to the lobby and the coffee machine. Now.”

“Yes, sir.” Kenisha opened the door back up. I got ready to protest, but Frank gave me a small shake of his head and followed her out.

Lieutenant Blanchard made sure the door was shut behind them. I didn't see him do it, but I was pretty sure I heard the sound of a lock snapping closed.

“Sit down.” He pointed to the chair.

I sat. He sat on the other side of the table and dragged the first folder in his tidy lineup toward him.

“You are Annabelle Amelia Blessingsound Britton,” he informed me as he pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and opened the folder.

I nodded my agreement, suppressing the urge to “yes, sir” him. Not many people can loom while sitting down. That takes special talent.

Lieutenant Blanchard asked my address. He confirmed that the house was owned by Frank Hawthorne. He glanced toward the door with a little smile.

“Now, Miss Britton.” Lieutenant Blanchard squared off the file in front of him. He also leveled his glare at me. “Just what in the hell were you doing down in the basement with the coffee hippies?”

I hadn't liked Lieutenant Blanchard before. I definitely did not like him now. I reminded myself that he was the police (and Kenisha's boss), and I was in a police station and talking back was not going to do anybody any good, starting with me.

It sort of worked.

“Jake and Miranda wanted me to paint some murals for them in their new space.” I tried very hard to meet Lieutenant Blanchard's glower and just about managed it. “They were showing me around so I could work up an initial design for the project.”

“You were going to paint the kitchen? Maybe a couple of bedrooms and throw in the doghouse for free?”

I didn't answer that. I did press my own hands flat against my purse. I really, really wished I could reach for my wand. Not that I actually wanted to work any unauthorized magic. I just wanted the help to stay focused. Being in a police interrogation room, with this man across from me, was really messing up my concentration. If my mental shields went down and I started picking up on the Vibes in the station around me, I had no idea what I'd do or say. I could, however, safely bet that it would not look good. At all.

“You know, I've heard a lot about you, Miss Britton,” Lieutenant Blanchard was saying. “And what I've heard tells me you got a serious case of Nosey Parker syndrome. In fact,” Blanchard went on, turning another page, “you've hooked up with Julia Parris and her whole Nosey Parker gang.”

“Is it tough to be a cop in a town where the worst gang is the Nosey Parkers?” I muttered.

To my surprise, that actually made him snicker. The sound was about as pleasant as his smile. “Nice one, Miss Britton. Yeah, I admit, I got worse problems. They come up from Boston and they come over from Vermont and down from Canada, but those problems”—he waved one meaty hand—“they come, and they go. What really gets under my skin are problems that are determined to stick around. So when I see a Nosey Parker teaming up with a couple of hippie types with FBI files that could choke a horse—”