“Did he have a change of clothes with him? Money to live off of?”
KT’s eyes narrowed. “If he did, he didn’t tell me nothing about it. He uses his momma’s credit card. That boy never has no paper.”
“He also doesn’t have any other family that we know of,” Mayfield said. “Meaning he has no one to stay with.”
KT glanced over his shoulder, lowered his voice. “You want my opinion, Dylan’s got some girl on the side somewhere. You find her and you’ll find him with a finger in her.”
Mayfield, sounding as if he hadn’t heard any of this, said, “Did Dylan mention his brother at all?”
“The queer one?”
“Does he have another?” Clark said.
“You’re the detective, lady. Dylan maybe said something to Jamal about him, but to me—”
“How exactly did the three of you get to Galveston on Friday night?” Clark said. “Did you all take your own cars?”
“Nah, lady.” KT scratched at the strap of stubble along his chin. The condescension in his voice was starting to rankle her. “Jamal’s ride been fucked all semester. Alternator shit, you know. If he takes it more than a few miles a day it’ll be dead in the morning.”
Clark and Mayfield said nothing. The boy looked between the two of them, frowned.
“So what you wanna know? Dylan took his ride, Jamal and me rode in mine’s. It weren’t no thing.”
Something occurred to Clark. “You and Jamal drove in your green Tacoma truck, yes?”
“That’s me, yeah.”
“Do you make a habit of leaving your car door unlocked, Mr. Staler?”
“What? No. Never.” Then, after a pause, “I mean, maybe once or twice, but—”
“A man named Jason Ovelle was arrested on Friday night for breaking into a player’s truck. Are you familiar with him?”
KT’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“It wasyourtruck he broke into. Jason was stopped before he could get into your belongings. This looks like news to you.” Clark shrugged. “Well, how could anyone tell you—you were gone the minute you were out of your pads. But didn’t your sister date Jason Ovelle in high school? Weren’t they arrested together back in the day?”
A muscle in KT’s jaw was throbbing. The room smelled of dust and sweat and hot metal from the window blinds beaten by the sun.
“I never heard of that Jason guy.”
“You said it was your brother, Floyd, you stayed with in Galveston,” Mayfield said smoothly. “I’ve worked in this town my whole life and I never met a Staler by that name, son.”
“He ain’t a Staler. He’s my half brother.”
“Last name?” Clark said.
“Tillery.” KT spelled it.
“Phone number?”
KT pulled out his phone, read her a number, gave an address.
Clark jotted all this down. She noted that his story about the trip, at least, more or less aligned with what she knew so far. Before they began the interview Mayfield had brought her up to speed on the work he’d done to track down Dylan over the weekend. Paulette Whitley had given Mayfield the same name for this mysterious half brother during the investigator’s interview with Joel’s family on Saturday, had given the same phone number. There was, Clark knew, just one problem.
“Well, that is unusual,” said Mayfield. “I spent all weekend calling that number. Never once did it answer.”
KT’s face darkened. “We must of been on the water.”
