Until Proven Guilty Read Free Page B

Michael told her to get rid of it, but she didn’t. We hid it.” He stopped and stood looking at the cup, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. “Do you think I could keep it?”
    Nodding, I returned it to his grubby hand. “I think Angel would like that.”
    As soon as he had once more concealed the cup, I walked Jeremiah back downstairs. Brodie glared at him as we came past, but he refrained from comment. I guess Sergeant Watkins’ threat of jail had carried some weight with Brodie. He had all the earmarks of a bully and a coward, someone who would lord it over those who were weaker than he. I wondered about his frustration at being faced with a tough little kid who refused to cry. I wondered if, by not crying, Angel Barstogi had signed her own death warrant. It was a possibility.
    As a homicide detective, however, I’m not allowed to act on mere hunches. I can move only when I have solid evidence that points me in a certain direction. I had a feeling about Michael Brodie, but nothing substantial. Jeremiah’s revelations about the “lickings” in Faith Tabernacle gave us a basis for making inquiries, but nothing more.
    Slowly the crowd in the house diminished as people filtered out. At last there were only Peters and Brodie and Suzanne and me. We took them into separate rooms.
    Suzanne’s original numbness was beginning to wear off, but she had a hard time following my questions, to say nothing of answering them. Some things, like the date of her divorce, escaped her completely. She claimed she simply could not remember.
    That bothered me. Cops learn to listen to what’s said as well as to what isn’t; then they combine the two in order to get at the truth. Suzanne was under a lot of stress, but nonetheless there was a lot she wasn’t saying. I didn’t know why. She was hiding something, that much was certain, but I didn’t know what or who she might be protecting. Did Pastor Michael Brodie exert such influence that he could coerce a mother into concealing her own child’s murderer? It was a chilling thought, even for someone who has been in this business as long as I have.
    We left Gay Avenue around ten o’clock that night. I was starved. It had been a long time since breakfast. We went to the Doghouse, a lowbrow place in my neighborhood that stays open all hours and has fed me more meals than I care to count.
    Peters and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on food. Peters is an enzyme nut. He eats sprouts and seeds, which may be okay for rabbits, but in my opinion that stuff is hardly fit for human consumption. He avoids sugar and salt. He consumes little red meat and can declaim for hours on the evils of caffeine. In other words, there are times when he can be a real pain in the butt. I don’t mind eating with him, but I’ve thought of carrying earplugs for when he gets on his soapbox.
    I, on the other hand, thrive on ordinary, garden-variety, all-American junk food. Karen got the barbecue in the divorce settlement. It went with the house. Since that was the only piece of cooking equipment I had mastered and since barbecuing was unavailable in my downtown high-rise, I converted to restaurants. Other than the department, the Doghouse is my home away from home.
    It’s at Seventh and Bell, a few blocks from where I live. It’s one of those twenty-four-hour places frequented by cops, cabbies, reporters, and other folks who live their lives while most people are asleep. The waitresses wouldn’t win beauty pageants but the service is exceptional. The food is plain and plentiful, without an enzyme in sight. Connie, a grandmotherly type with boundless energy, tapped her pencil impatiently as Peters groused about the available selections. She finally pacified him with an order of unbuttered whole wheat toast and some herb tea.
    I wolfed down a chili burger with lots of onions and cheese while Peters morosely stirred his tea. “What do you think?” I asked eventually.
    “It’s got to be some kind of