Truth and Lies (12 page)

I didn't know. Not exactly.

“He cleans those big office buildings,” Sal said. “All night he's in those big high-rises. He has to ride in an elevator. Then when he gets to the offices, the windows don't open. He can't stand that. When he gets upset, he has to be outside. And if he can't get outside, then he has to have the windows open.”

We stood there for a moment, not saying anything. I couldn't think of anything that would make Sal feel better. Sal just plain didn't speak.

“I'll come by after school,” I said at last. “If there's any homework you need to know about, I'll let you know.”

“Yeah,” Sal said. His tone said it all:
Who cares about homework? What's homework going to accomplish?
“Thanks.”

I dropped by Sal's after school, like I had promised, but no one answered the door. So I took out the list of homework assignments that I had collected, scribbled a note on the top of it, and shoved it through the mail slot. On the way home from Sal's place, I stopped by Blockbuster to return a video that was already a couple of days overdue. When I came out again, a car horn tooted. Riel was sitting in his car at the curb. He waved me over.

“How did you know I was here?” I said.

“I didn't,” Riel said. “Get in.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Get in, Mike.”

Yes, sir. Jeez. “Seriously,” I said after I buckled up, “how did you know where I was?”

Riel put the car into gear and flipped on his turn signal before pulling out into traffic. “I was looking for you.”

Looking for me? That didn't sound good.

“We have to go downtown,” Riel said.

“What for?”

“Detective Jones called. He wants to talk to you again.”

A lump of ice formed in my stomach, its chill spreading through my whole body.

“Why?” I tried to make the word sound casual, tried to give the impression that I couldn't imagine why Detective Jones would want to talk to me again. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he just wanted to go over my story again, maybe try to trip me up. Cop games. After all, as far as I knew, I was the only lead they had, the only kid who had been identified around the park that night. But that didn't mean anything, not if someone had only seen me walk by the park.

“He said he needed to clarify a few things,” Riel said. He sounded casual enough himself, but there was a tightness around his eyes that told me that he had probably asked the same question. Any guy who used to be a detective must know what it meant when the cops wanted to talk to a person a second time.

We drove the short distance without talking. Riel parked as close as he could to police headquarters, and we went inside. He told the police officer at the front desk why we were there, then we waited for Detective Jones to come down and meet us and show us to an interview room.

“We're going to videotape this, okay, Mike?” he said.

I glanced at Riel, who nodded. I was in for it now. I
wished a bunch of things all at the same time. I wished I had never left the house that night. I wished I had never lied to Riel. The thing with lying: once you start, things can get complicated. And, boy, did I ever wish that man hadn't turned on his TV when he got back to town.

Detective Jones cautioned me again, just like he had the other day at Riel's house. And he asked me again if I understood what he had just said to me.

I nodded. I felt like an insect caught in a whirlpool. The whole room seemed to be spinning around me. Any minute now I was going to get sucked down the drain.

“Can you tell me what it means?” Detective Jones said.

My mouth was so dry that I almost choked on my answer. “It means that anything I say can be used against me,” I said.

“Do you want a lawyer?” Detective Jones said. He looked at Riel.

“Let's see where you're going first,” Riel said.

Detective Jones looked at me.

“Okay, Mike?”

“Okay,” I said. But, boy, it was so
not
okay.

“Mike, can you tell me again where you were on the night that Robbie Ducharme was killed?”

“I already told you that.” I'd told him twice. And anyway, it wasn't such a big deal.

“I know.” Detective Jones's voice was calm, almost soothing. He sounded sorry to be asking the question again. But he didn't fool me. He wasn't sorry at all. He
was doing his job, and his job was to find out what had happened to Robbie Ducharme. “I know we went over this already,” he said, “but I need to make sure I have everything straight. Can you tell me again, Mike? Just run through it the way you remember it.”

I fought down the panic that was churning up my belly the way a gale-force wind churns up lake water. Okay. No problem. I could do this. I drew in a deep breath and began. I had left the house. I had walked over to my old house. I had stood out on the street for a while, looking at the old place, thinking about Billy. Then I had taken a long walk. What had I told Detective Jones before? Oh yeah, over to Greenwood, down to Queen, east to Coxwell.

“And what time did you leave John's house?” He indicated Riel with a nod of his head.

“Around eleven,” I said.

“Any idea what time you were at your old house?”

I shrugged. So far so good. I started to relax as I tried to make the calculation. It wouldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes to walk there. “Maybe quarter after,” I said.

“And you stayed there how long?”

“Ten minutes. Maybe longer.”

“Did you see anyone?”

I shook my head. It had always been a boring street. A street where you could count on people being safely inside at that time of night. A street where nothing much happened.

“So it was pretty quiet out there, I guess,” Detective Jones said.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Detective Jones sat back in his chair. If I'd had to name the expression on his face as he looked over at Riel, I would have said it was regret.

“What's your old address, Mike?”

I told him. Thirty-eight.

“Do you know what happened at thirty-four that night, Mike?”

Thirty-four? That was two houses down from where Billy and I had lived. An older couple lived there. Portuguese, I think. I didn't know their names, but the woman always used to smile at me when I went by their house and on Sundays their kids used to show up with their grandchildren, a whole pile of them.

“Mr. Cardoso,” Detective Jones said. “He and his wife live at thirty-four. You know him?”

I'd seen him around. Mr. Cardoso didn't smile like his wife did. In fact, I couldn't remember ever seeing the old man smile.

“He has Alzheimer's,” Detective Jones said. “You know what that is?”

Sure, I knew. “It's a disease. When you get it, you can't remember stuff.”

Detective Jones nodded. “It's a degenerative brain disease. You forget all kinds of things—your past, the names of your loved ones, the streets in your own neighborhood. People who have Alzheimer's tend to wander.
They have to be watched because they can hurt themselves. They might run a bath that's all hot water, no cold, and then burn themselves badly when they get into the tub. Or they might turn on a burner on the stove and then forget all about it and burn whatever's on the stove. It can be a real fire hazard.”

I got a sick feeling in my stomach. Something had happened at the Cardosos' house that night. I knew it without Detective Jones saying it. I felt like I was fighting for my life now—me against my nerves. I was fighting to stay calm, to keep my face from showing the sick feeling that was washing over me.

“Just after eleven p.m. on the night that Robbie Ducharme died, Mrs. Cardoso made a 911 call,” Detective Jones said. “It seems Mr. Cardoso got out of bed sometime before that and turned on one of the gas burners on the stove. Mrs. Cardoso had made fried chicken for supper that night and she left a pan of cooking oil on the stove. You know what happens to cooking oil when it gets really hot, Mike?”

I had a pretty good idea.

“It bursts into flame,” Detective Jones said. “It's a good thing Mrs. Cardoso is a light sleeper. She said she got into the habit after her husband was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Because, let me tell you, if she hadn't woken up when she did … ” He shrugged.

I didn't dare look at Riel, but I felt him right there at my elbow.

“What I don't understand,” Detective Jones said, “is
how you could have been on your street, in front of your house, at the time you said you were, and how you didn't see the fire truck that was there. You want to tell me how that can be, Mike?”

Riel stood up abruptly. “I think I need some time with Mike,” he said.

Detective Jones held his eyes on me for a moment longer. I looked at the floor. I swallowed hard and kept swallowing hard. I knew if I stopped, I'd throw up. Then Detective Jones got up and left the room.

“You let me know when you're ready,” he said. I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me or Riel.

Nothing happened in the seconds after the door closed behind him. Riel was standing a little behind me and I couldn't make myself turn around to face him. I kept staring at the floor and swallowing hard. After a little while, I saw Riel's feet circle around in front of me. He pulled out a chair, positioned it directly opposite me and sat down in it.

“What's going on, Mike?” he said.

He didn't accuse me of anything. He hadn't accused me of anything the first time Detective Jones had questioned me either. What did that mean? What was Riel thinking? Jeez, what was Detective Jones thinking?

“I asked you a question, Mike,” Riel said.

“I didn't have anything to do with what happened to Robbie Ducharme,” I said.

“If I had to put money on it, I'd have to bet that Detective Jones thinks you did,” Riel said. “He's catching
you in an awful lot of lies, Mike. You lied to me about where you were that night. And then you lied to him. Lying to me, well, that's only going to make it hard for you and me to get along. But lying to the police when they're conducting a homicide investigation? That's pretty serious.”

I didn't say anything. I couldn't even make myself look at Riel. I was too embarrassed, because not only had I been caught again, but now I was crying. I couldn't believe it. I was acting like a girl and I couldn't stop. I wiped angrily at the tears that were leaking out of my eyes.

“Look at me, Mike,” Riel said, still in that quiet voice. It was so calm, so controlled that I almost wished he would yell. Riel reached back for something. He pressed a couple of tissues into my hand. “Blow your nose,” he said. “You'll feel better.”

Fat chance, but I blew anyway.

“Now look at me,” Riel said.

I raised my head slowly. Riel's gray eyes were fixed on me. I didn't see anger this time. I didn't even see suspicion and disappointment. No, what I saw this time was concern. Deep concern. And it scared me more than anything else.

“If anyone asks me,” Riel said, “I'm going to have to say something about what your hands looked like the next day. I'm going to have to tell them what you told me, about how you were horsing around with Sal. Then they're going to want to talk to Sal. Maybe that's not a
problem. Maybe that's really what you were doing. Maybe that's exactly how it happened. But if it isn't … Well, if it isn't, Mike, I think the best thing is for you to tell the truth now. You lie anymore and you're only going to get yourself tangled up. You know that, right?”

I nodded.

“You think we need a lawyer here, Mike?”

We
. At least he'd said
we
.

“I didn't have anything to do with Robbie Ducharme,” I said. “I don't know anything about that. I swear.”

“So you'll tell Detective Jones everything? Straight this time?”

I nodded again. “Yeah.”

Detective Jones came back into the room. He started the video camera again. Then I told the whole story.