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“We need to speak to Kalvin Kohl.”
“I’m not sure–”
“Ma’am, this is urgent and not the time for games. If you know where he is, you need to tell me–”
He didn’t get to finish his threat, Forty jerked the door open and confronted the man, scooting Roach back with his forearm as he did so.
“Stop bumbling and state your business, son,” he demanded.
When the officer swallowed any retort, and lowered his gaze, Forty abruptly stepped back a bit. His shoulders tensed, and I could tell he exactly when he realized that this wasn’t the usual shakedown-style encounter he normally got out of local law enforcement.
“Kalvin, I’m Detective Todd Barrows with the southern Illinois gang task force. I'd like to speak with you for a moment, if I could.”
“I don’t know anything about gangs, that’s some Chicago shit.” Kal instantly started shifting his head in denial. “And I don’t have anything to do with Chicago or anyone in it.”
“You’re not being accused of anything, nor are you suspected. This isn’t that kind of house call. If we could speak in private, just a moment…”
I could tell by the way Forty’s grip was biting into the door frame that he already knew what time it was.
“Listen,”
“Mr. Kohl, I handle homicides within my unit.”
Forty took another step back, abandoning his post at the doorway, though he didn’t take his eyes off the detective. The man had a lot of balls, too, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, leaving whatever backup he’d brought out on the porch.
His gaze shifted from me to Forty, “Is it okay to speak in front of–?”
“Is he dead, or do you suspect him of killing someone?” Forty got straight to the point, and I respected him for it.
The detective cleared his throat, lowered his gaze, and stiffly nodded. “We found what we believe to be the body of Pax–”
Forty didn’t stick around to hear anymore, he tore through the kitchen and retreated to his room.
The detective looked remarkably uncomfortable as he wet his lips and glanced back toward me.
“Don’t look over here, I’m not family.”
Roach stood at the kitchen entrance, gnawing her lower lip and openly contemplating which way she should turn.
“Ma’am—” the detective began.
“She doesn't know shit, either, she’s just a cock sock.” I gestured toward the door, “Probably best if you give him a little space. He didn’t take it so well when his wife passed away a few years ago. I can’t imagine this will be any easier on him.”
The detective didn’t seem surprised by my disclosure. He glanced toward the door, and I smiled.
It froze on my face when he looked back and asked, “Who are you, by the way?”
“Thought you weren’t here for suspicion?”
He bobbled his head without committing to a denial, “I said no one suspected Kalvin Kohl of involvement. I don’t know who you are.”
“Don’t you need suspicion of a crime to demand identification?”
“Demand is a strong word. I was merely asking your name, is there a reason you don’t want to offer it?”
I laughed at his lame efforts to steer me. It was as pathetic as the way he was trying to take in my patches without really directly eyeballing my cut.
“My name is Kingston Crowe, and I don’t have anything to hide. I’m seeing his daughter, Kennedy. Anything else you want to know, Detective?”
