Slipping Into Darkness Read Free Page A

medal.”
     
    “Same difference.” Francis nonchalantly pulled out the Miranda card for Julian to sign. “I know how it goes. You’re always wanting something nobody can ever give you back. Sometimes you don’t even know what it is. You just want. Sign here, please.”
     
    The long lashes fluttered and a shiny spot formed in the corner of Julian’s eye. He sniffed and glanced down at the card in embarrassment.
     
    “But it’s always the same thing, isn’t it?” Francis said, distracting him. “You just want what everybody else has.” He nudged the card. “It’s all right. You don’t have to write your whole name. Just put your initials.”
     
    Trying to clear his eyes with the back of his wrist, Julian scribbled next to the warning, glad to be doing something that looked adult and purposeful.
     
    “I see you’re doing a pretty good job of looking after yourself,” Francis said, tugging his attention back lest Julian start reading too carefully. “You should’ve seen me when I was your age. I was a mess. My shirttails were always out. My hair never got combed. My shoes were always falling apart.” He chuckled knowingly. “You ever do that thing where you have to write your name on your clothes in Magic Marker because you don’t have anybody to sew a label on for you?”
     
    “Sometimes, but I still got my papi taking care of me. We kinda look out for each other.”
     
    Francis nodded, getting the picture. The widower and his son living together in the basement apartment. The boy carrying his father’s toolbox, always breaking out the wrench and the pliers before it was time to use them.
     
    He put the Miranda card back in his pocket, mission accomplished. “So Julian. You were working in Allison’s apartment the night before —”
     
    “ Hoo- lian.”
     
    “Ha?”
     
    The boy looked abashed. “My parents called me Joo-lian instead of Julio, ’cause they didn’t want me to sound like every other Puerto Rican kid on the block. But then I started getting the crap kicked out of me in middle school, so my dad started calling me Hoolian the Hooligan.”
     
    “I hear that. ” Francis half saluted. “You can imagine what it was like going to Regis with a name like Francis Xavier Loughlin.”
     
    The peach fuzz mustache jerked. “Really? You went to Regis?”
     
    “Four years.”
     
    “I think we played you in soccer last year.”
     
    “Probably.” Francis humored him. “Anyway. You told Detective Sullivan you were in Allison’s apartment the night before.”
     
    “Yeah. The ball cock wouldn’t rise.”
     
    Francis heard what sounded like a cough behind the glass. “I beg your pardon?”
     
    “The toilet tank wasn’t filling properly. Looked like it was leaking. So actually what I did was, I tightened the jamb nut. Then she could build up some serious pressure and get a nice strong three-point-two-gallon whoosh. You could’ve flushed a cat down that sucker.”
     
    “I see.” Francis nodded and reached into the canvas bag he’d brought in the room. “Hoolian, I want to ask you something. This yours?”
     
    He dropped a Ziploc evidence bag on the table between them. It deflated with a slow pouff, revealing the steel claw hammer inside. The cloudiness of the bag obscured fingerprint powder on the black rubber grip and the spots of dried blood on its head.
     
    “Guess so.” Hoolian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I must’ve left it in her bathroom. Where’d you find it?”
     
    “In the fire hose storage compartment, downstairs.”
     
    “ Damn. How’d it get there? I thought I left it in the bathroom.”
     
    Francis shrugged, not letting on that Hoolian had just admitted the murder weapon belonged to him. “So you told Detective Sullivan that you stayed and talked to Allison awhile after you were done with the toilet.”
     
    “Yeah, you know, we hung out sometimes. We were, like, you know, friends.”
     
    “Friends?”
     
    “Yeah . . .” Hoolian pushed up in his seat, a little disconcerted. “She was . . . a good person. We talked a lot.