Wooderson’s smile was patronizing. Jericho’s silly games were beneath him. “Sometimes I don’t need to do anything. Sometimes the Lord provides.”
“Oh, the Lord’s getting involved, now? Not luck. So, can you clarify for me? How did the Lord provide in this case?”
“I’m not saying He did, Mr. Crewe. I’m just saying Hesometimesdoes.”
And now Jericho saw what might be his chance. Fernandez had been a woman, and someone like Wooderson? Someone who killed female prostitutes for convenience? He’d react differently to female authority than he would to male authority. He’d have reacted one way to Fernandez, a totally different way to Jericho now. So Jericho made himself smirk.
“Sounds like you’re not saying anything at all,” he said. “Lots of noise, but not any actual content.” Then he shrugged, trying to make his broad shoulders even wider, trying to project whatever dismissive macho vibe would be most enraging to a man like Wooderson. “Let me know when you’ve got the balls to actually say something.” And he headed for the hardware store door, deliberately stepping into Wooderson’s space a little as he moved.
“Theballs?” Wooderson squeaked as Jericho pulled the door open. “You think I don’t have the balls?”
Jericho looked over his shoulder. “Maybe they haven’t dropped yet?” he suggested, and let the door swing shut behind him.
He kept his pace steady as he strolled up the aisle to the counter, but his heart was racing, adrenaline pumping through his veins. The man was a killer, a murderer, and he wanted to confess. He wanted Jericho to know what he’d done. Maybe heneededit. How hard could he be pushed?
“Jericho,” Mr. Appleby said from an aisle near the counter. “What can I get for you?”
“Nothing, thanks.” He tried to keep at least the surface of his attention focused on the conversation. “I just wanted to check in. You’ve been going to visit Will, right? How does he seem, to you?”
Mr. Appleby’s face was impassive. “He seems very, very upset, Jericho. How would you expect him to feel?”
Well, okay, that was a fair answer to a stupid question. Why the hell had he come here? What had he intended, before he was distracted by the murdering bastard in the doorway? “I’d expect him to feel that way,” he tried. “But we’re hoping—I’m hoping—to get him out of there pretty soon.” And in order for that to happen, Jericho needed to prove to the county attorney that Will wasn’t a reasonable suspect. He cast his eyes around the store. “You don’t sell any sort of electronic stuff, do you? Recording equipment? Microphones, micro-recorders—anything at all micro?”
“We have a couple microwavesin the housewares department,” Mr. Appleby said. “But I don’t think you could count on them to record much.”
“No, probably not.” Jericho stepped into an aisle, far enough that he was shielded from view of the street, and pulled out his cell phone. It had a voice recorder, but not a great one. It was something, though. If he could get Wooderson riled enough to spill anything useful, there’d be a record of it.
He tried to find a view of the street, but it was blocked by the center barrier of the aisle, a display of flashlights, lanterns, and radios on his side of the display. Mr. Appleby, however, was standing by the counter, out in the open.
“Sir,” Jericho said. “Would it be possible for you to be very casual about something? It needs to not seem obvious. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“If you’re about to ask me to check if that asshole Keith Wooderson is still lurking around in my doorway? Then, yes, I understand completely, and, yes, he is. The bastard’s been in here every day, sometimes twice a day, ever since Will was arrested.”
“Does he buy anything?”
“Small items, sometimes. But mostly? Mostly, I’d swear he was here for the suffering. He wants to talk about Will to me, to Mary, to anyone who’ll listen. And the things he says are far from kind.”
“Do you remember him coming in before Will was arrested?”Do you remember him buying a two-by-four and some grass seed? He’d have paid cash so we’d trace it back to Will’s workplace, but without a paper trail leading to the real killer.
“I don’t recall that, no. He may have, of course. But I don’t remember it.”
“Yeah—just a long shot.” Jericho made sure the recording function on his phone was turned on. “Do you think you could watch what’s about to happen outside? It’ll probably be nothing, but just in case, could you jot down what’s going on, as you see it happening?”
“Jot it down?” Mr. Appleby asked. Then he pulled out his own phone. “Or film it?”
“Well, yeah, that would be much better.” Good reminder to not assume the elderly were completely unable to handle modern technology. “Okay, is it recording now?”
Mr. Appleby tapped the screen a few times, then nodded. “All systems go.”
“Try to be as discreet as you can. But if I do my job right, he won’t be looking in here, anyway.”
Jericho started for the door, but Mr. Appleby’s voice stopped him halfway. “Jericho? Is this about Will? Whatever you’re doing, is it part of helping Will?”
“It’s about catching a serial killer, Mr. Appleby.” It felt good to know the words were being recorded by two separate devices, as if that somehow gave them the gravitas they otherwise lacked. “And, yes, if we can do that, it will help Will. Absolutely.”
“Okay, then,” Mr. Appleby said, and as Jericho glanced back he saw the old man angling himself behind a display of flower seeds, setting up a clear sight line that wouldn’t be obvious from outside the store.
“Thank you,” Jericho said, and he took the last steps toward the door.
