CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXThe tiny interrogation room needed a paint job. I sat in a straight-back chair on one side of a scarred wooden relic of a table that looked like it dated back to the Roosevelt administration—Teddy, not Franklin D.—trying to maintain a semblance of poise under the probing gaze of Detective James Willard. The detective’s light brown eyes were a startling contrast to his espresso-colored skin.
“Nice place you got here,” I said. “Ever try bouncing a Superball off these walls? Bet you could get the thing moving like a pinball.”
“Hmmph.” The detective arched an eyebrow. Tough audience.
Willard maintained his stoic pose as he peppered me with questions on everything from how I knew Simons to what my favorite color was. He had a tendency to leave the room now and then, letting
