“Fine.” I don’t offer more. It’s his way of reminding me that I scurried away under the pressure, that I’m no longer a cop. I don’t want small talk. We’re here for one purpose: to get this on the books in case this thing turns out to be more than some particularly twisted nightmare. I take solace in my chunky heels because they make me taller than him. I resurrect my old station stance. Shoulders back, spine straight.
Ewing points to the two visitor seats, sits down, and rests an elbow on his desk. “Sooo,” he says, drawing it out, his mouth in an O shape.
“The sketch,” Wallace blurts out. “Have you seen it?”
“The sketch? Oh,thesketch. The famous sketch. Yes, yes, I have.” Ewing types on his keyboard, studies his screen.
“Look,” I say. “You know I’d never step foot in here and create a hassle for anyone over something as loony as this.” I pinch my earlobe. I feel the stud I’m wearing press into my finger. I don’t want to tell him about the earrings right away. The earrings would make it too concrete, too real. “It’s just, it’s that—”
“It does look like you.”
“See?” says Wallace for an audience of one. Me.
“But that doesn’t mean itisme.”
“No, you’re absolutely right.” Ewing points his pen at me. “It doesn’t. We’ve already received other calls. Hell, every station in Americahas the phones ringing off the hook. It was the same the last time. And let’s face it, it looks like Jennifer Garner, too, and God knows who else.”
“Exactly.” Listen to me, agreeing with Ewing.
“Tell him.” Wallace turns to me. “Tell him about the earrings.”
I give Wallace anenough alreadylook.
“Earrings?” says Ewing.
“The earrings in the sketch,” I say. “They’re like a pair I have. They’re made locally by a friend of Wallace’s.” I explain about the feathers. “There are probably about a thousand of them out on the market.”
“Like, local market?”
“Montana local, and in very touristy places with tons of traffic,” I say.
“Well, mostly,” Wallace says. “But I think he’s even sold some of them on Amazon and Etsy at one point.”
I glance at Wallace, surprised he didn’t mention that part earlier to me, but I don’t want Ewing to think I’ve walked in here without all the details.
Ewing purses his lips and thinks for a moment. “What’s the jeweler’s name?” he asks.
“Bennetts,” Wallace says. “Kerry Bennetts.”
Ewing writes it down.
“Have you worn those earrings in photos that are public, on Facebook and such?”
“No, that’s the thing. I searched my phone last night in my hotel room in Dallas and I couldn’t find any photos of me wearing them. I don’t think he got them from a photo that’s been posted anywhere, but I don’t remember when I wore them last.”
“You were in Dallas last night?”
“Yes.” God, why did I bring that up? I have no intention of telling him I was at CrimeCon. He and the fellas would love that, me hanging out with a bunch of crime junkies and amateur sleuths. That would be joke fodder for weeks.
“For fun?”
None of your business.“Does it mean anything?” I redirect him. I wonder if he has details the public doesn’t know. And I’ve always wondered if he knowsthething. The big thing, if Billy Railes told anyone about how I played good soldier. Ewing is the kind of cop who would shake down Railes for the unofficial version of events, so it’s possible Ewing is seeing me in a different light—ironically, a better one. Possible, but I’m not counting on it.
“Just getting the specifics. You know how it works. Or maybe you’ve forgotten?” A dead stare, a pointed accusation.
I ignore it. I tell him I wasn’t wearing the earrings in Dallas.
“Do you have them?”
