“What is wrong with you?” He was annoyed. “Did you take your Ritalin this morning?”
McAdams looked chastened. “Sorry.”
Butterfield said, “Where’d you learn the moves?”
“I’ve been taking mixed martial arts classes in Boston.”
“Really?”
“No joke. I started with Brazilian jiujitsu. On the first day of class, I grappled with a five-foot, ninety-nine-pound girl and she took me down. After that, I switched to boxing.”
Decker smiled. “There’s got to be a lesson here somewhere.”
“Of course, there is. Don’t get hurt. However, if you do get hurt, you can always sue.”
AT ELEVEN THE next morning—after an hour of interviewing Riley Summers—Decker was having a hard time deciding if the kid was a deft psycho or if he was just another confused and/or stoned teen. The few coherent statements he did make seemed to jibe with the statements given by Dash Harden and Chris Gingold. Perhaps they all colluded, but it was hard to believe that these guys could keep a false story straight without tripping up. In the end, Decker released the kid, giving him the same stern warning that he gave Harden and Gingold yesterday: keep your nose clean and don’t go anywhere too far away.
“Does that mean I don’t have to go to work?” Riley was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and was scratching a pimple on his face.
Lennie looked at Decker for guidance. He said, “You can go to work, Riley. Just don’t go anywhere far. Where do you work?”
“Eddie’s Gas.”
Decker said, “On Milliken, off the highway?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you do?”
“Pump gas. Eddie don’t use automated machines.”
“Why not?” Lennie asked.
“’Cause that way he can charge for full service. That’s why I pump gas. I also wash windows and check oil.”
Maybe Harden was the smart one. “It’s okay for you to work, Riley.”
“Fine. Can I go now?”
“Yes.” To Lennie, Decker said, “Could you see him to the door, Officer Baccus?”
“Of course.”
After they left, Decker picked up his car keys. He met Lennie as she was coming back into the station. “I’m going to Brady Neil’s place of work, specifically to interview a guy nicknamed Boxer who works in the warehouse of Bigstore in Hamilton.”
“There are two Bigstores in Hamilton. Which one?” Decker showed her the address. “That’s near me in Claremont.”
“Where’s the other Bigstore?”
“Right outside Bitsby.”
“The Bitsby one is nearer to Brady Neil. I wonder why he didn’t work there?”
“The Bigstore in Claremont is bigger and has higher-end things.”
“Ah. Do you shop there?”
“I’ll buy food and household stuff. Sometimes I’ll get coffee and a muffin in the café. It’s cheap.”
“Are you there often?”
Lennie thought. “Once a week.”
“And you know some of the employees?”
“A few by name. Most by sight. Do you want me to come with you, boss?”
“Yes. While I interview this guy, Boxer, you ask around. I’m sure by now everyone has heard of Brady Neil’s murder. It made front-page news. There are bound to be some rumors floating around the place, some sotto voce. It’s your area store. It’s in your city. People will feel more natural around you. See what you can pick up.”
“Of course. What do I tell them if they ask me questions?”
“You tell them nothing, but you make it sound like you’re telling them something. You’re going back to Hamilton after this investigation is over. You’ve got to get along with the people you serve. So just dodge their questions. But be really nice about it.”
“HE’S NOT HERE.”
“Okay.” Decker looked around the warehouse. It was enormous, with enough supplies to outfit a third-world nation, and he hadn’t even made it to the food storage section. He was talking to a guy in his late twenties—beefy build with muscled arms. He had pierces in his thick lips and a shaved head that was tattooed except for a natural colored red/orange mohawk running down the middle. He was Phil G. Decker knew this because his green Bigstore name tag told him so. The kid was halfway up a ladder stocking some game systems, when Decker asked, “Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“No idea.” Phil pushed the three boxes he was carrying on an open shelf and climbed down. His forehead was beaded with sweat. No A/C in the place, just a bay with barn doors that were open. He faced Decker. “Boxer didn’t show up yesterday and he didn’t show up today. Tomorrow’s his day off … if he still has a job.”
“Has anyone tried to call him?”
“Wouldn’t know. I didn’t call him. He wasn’t a pal. Ask the manager.”
“And where would I find the manager?”
“In her office.”
“And where is her office?”
“All the way in back. When you get to the barn doors, hook a left, then go past the food warehouse, then hook a right and the offices are there. Her name is Barbara Heiger.”
“Okay. Thanks, Phil. Do you know Boxer’s real name? It’s obviously not Boxer.”
“Nah, it’s not Boxer, but that’s what everyone called him.”
“Did he box?”
“You’ve never seen him, huh?”
“No, I’ve never seen him.”
“Scrawny guy. Around five eight with stringy arms.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“Didn’t like him, didn’t hate him. We didn’t hang. He was Brady’s friend. They hit it off right away.” Phil looked down. “Poor Brady. I talked to him now and then when he came into the warehouse. Once in a while, he’d bring in pretzels and chips for us ghouls to snack on. He said they were leftovers from a party, but the bags were always unopened. What the hell happened to him?”
“That’s what we’re looking into. You thought Brady was a good guy?”
“Yeah, from the little contact I had with him. He worked resale. He’d come in to talk to Boxer but would always acknowledge me … the other guys. It goes a long way, you know.”
“What do you mean goes a long way?”
“To most people, we’re furniture. Brady made you feel human. But like I said, he mostly talked to Boxer.”
“And because Boxer was Brady’s friend, we just wanted to ask him a few questions. Any idea where he lives?”
The lightbulb went off in Phil’s head. “You think something happened to Boxer?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Oh Jesus! That would be …” Phil’s jaw was working hard. “Is there something going on with this store? I mean, two guys working here. That’s a little coincidental,