“Right,” he sounded fed up, so I changed the subject. “Any closer to finding more clues on your grandfather, or is it great-grandfather?”
“Nah,” he shrugged, “every book or website I come across either tells me something I already know or mystifies the man, turning him into some sort of ethereal being when he was, in reality, a tight-ass recluse.”
“Runs in the family,” I joked, but he wasn’t smiling, not that smiling was his thing anyway. He seemed to have a lot on hismind, and I wondered how many of those thoughts were about the Boleyn girl. “Loner, anti-social, peculiar, all you’re missing is the money.”
“I’m not that peculiar,” he argued, and I snorted in laughter as the sun hit faces stepping out into the busy street, and naturally, I gaze down the very end of the road where the campus police station is. It’s Sunday morning, so they’re probably busy dealing with drunk students recovering from hangovers.
I stalled when he stepped into Scholars to find that detective leading the case, dead guy on the train case, and his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing our body language as we walked in. My mouth suddenly went dry, made worse by Lev mumbling that he’ll wait outside. I had to act normal, but he was staring at me, which was pissing me off.
Then I heard, “Ezrah Warwick, is it?”
I nodded as I stepped up to the counter to place my order, “Yeah, and? Two large fraps, one caramel and the other chocolate, plus, give me two of those nut muesli slices.”
I gave the girl the money while ignoring the penetrating stare, then I started to wonder if he knew what was going on with Adina.
“Leon Warwick’s youngest son?” he added, and I bit my tongue. Get to ya point, brah.
“Yeah, it wasn’t me,” I joked, and he smiled appreciating the crim humor. “I saw nothin’.”
“I knew your old man,” he said in a friendly tone as if he did actually know him and wasn’t just trying to make conversation.
“Lots of people know him. He has one of those reputations, Gov. And you’re speaking in past tense. Last time I looked, the man was still alive.”
The girl handed me a paper bag with my nut muesli slices, but they hadn’t started making our Frappuccinos yet, so I stepped away from the detective, then changed my mind when it seemedcowardly or like I had something to hide. I had plenty to hide, but I didn’t want him to know that.
Instead, I dragged out the chair at his table and sat opposite him. His eyes immediately noticed my bulging arm muscles as I folded my arms across my chest.
“Work out, do you?” he stated the obvious. “Isn't your brother in the team?”
“Yeah, but team sports are not my style. I prefer gym training and motocross,” I told him honestly.
He grunted in surprise, “Plenty of dirt tracks around these parts, isn’t there?”
“Yeah, but we had to carve them out ourselves last season, so they’re probably overgrown by now,” I went along with the friendly convo for a while, waiting for him to mention my father again.
“Huh,” he rumbled again, nodding his head, playing that friendly copper game that lures you in, before they do the big slam dunk.
“We received news just this morning,” he began, and I had to suppress my smirk. I know the fucker had some great revelation. “From Richmond.”
“Yeah?” I shrugged indifferently, “And?” I knew exactly what he was going to say next, so I took out a muesli slice and bit into it.
“Your father’ssss,” he deliberately lengthened out the s, “greatest competitor, shall we say, was found deceased.”
I choked on the slice in my mouth, honestly, I faked it to show that the news was completely unexpected. I coughed, cleared my throat, “Seriously?”
Magone nodded and narrowed his eyes again, studying my body language, and I couldn't tell if he believed me. “Your father would be disappointed to lose such a great opponent, would he not?”
“I guess so,” I casually answered, taking another bite of the slice. “Maybe word would get out in prison.”
“When do you visit him next?” he pressed, and my patience was running out.
“No plans,” I lied. Nicolae was planning to see him next week; maybe we should push it forward. Mom should be pleased, too. I should probably call her to tell her the good news, but that can be painful at times, depending on how clingy she is.
“Got a class at eleven twenty tomorrow?” he asked, swiping on his phone, then looked up at me when I hadn’t answered and read my blank face. “The investigation. You were on the train when a body was found.”
“Ah, that. Um, yeah, I think I do have a class at eleven twenty. Can I get back to you after I look at my schedule?” The barista called my number for our Fraps, and I got up off the chair, relieved to be moving away from the detective. Then added, “I thought you were going in alphabetical order.”
“We are, but we have a space just opened up, and when you walked in, I thought, ah, the perfect person to fill that gap – the son of Leon Warwick,” he said, and shot me a sharp look that made me uneasy.
“I'll get back to you,” I told him, then he handed me his card. As I walked away with the fraps in my hands, he called after me, “Get it over and done with, Mr. Warwick.”
I had two options: run or face him. If I ran, I’d have to leave Castlehill and go into hiding, or I could lie to his face that I had nothing to do with the death of the man on the train.
