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I HEARD RAISED VOICES IN THE ROSEWOOD OFFICE IN BACK. The tenor of argument. The slap of a palm on a desk. The door opened and Stevenson walked out with Chief Morrison. Stevenson looked mad. He strode down the side of the open area. His neck was rigid with fury. His eyes were fixed on the front doors. He was ignoring the fat police chief. He walked straight past the reception counter and out through the heavy door into the bright afternoon. Morrison followed him.
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I could understand his fear. But he also looked defeated. Like he’d just rolled the dice and lost. Like he’d been counting on something to happen, and it hadn’t happened, so now he was back in despair.
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“So what was his exact role?” I asked him.
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“You’re sorry?” I said. “You’re sending two guys who couldn’t have done it to jail and you’re sorry?”
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“Yes, Hubble,” I said again. “Go for it, it’s the best you can do.”
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I COULDN’T UNDERSTAND THE CONFESSION. HE SHOULD have kept his mouth shut. He should have denied any involvement with the dead guy. Should have said he had no idea why his phone number was written down in the guy’s shoe. Should have said he had no idea what Pluribus was. Then he could have just gone home.
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