“He and Eddie enrolled in the police academy together and graduated in the same class of new officers. He—” She broke off and looked away from him, but he caught her chin and jerked her head back to him.
“What?” he demanded.
She saw no point in hedging. “Fred is spearheading the manhunt for you.”
“How do you know?”
“He conducted a press conference this morning. He pledged your swift capture and justice for the seven men you killed. Allegedly.”
He absorbed that, then released her chin and took the frame from her. To her consternation, he turned it over and began folding back the metal tabs so he could remove the easel back.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
He took it apart and, inside, found only what she knew he would: the photograph, a piece of stiff backing, and the glass. He stared hard at the photograph and checked the date printed on the back of it. “They seem like a real chummy quartet.”
“The three boys became friends in grade school. Stan practically raised the Hawkins twins along with Eddie. They’ve been a great help to us since he died. They’ve been especially attentive to Emily and me.”
“Yeah?” He gave her a slow once-over. “I’ll bet they have.”
She wanted to lash out at him for what his smirk insinuated. But she held her tongue, believing it was beneath her dignity to defend her morals to a man who was smeared with his victims’ blood. She did, however, take the photograph from him and return it and the pieces of the frame back to the top of her bureau.
“How’d he die?” he asked. “Eddie. What killed him?”
“Car accident.”
“What happened?”
“It’s believed he swerved to miss hitting an animal, something. He lost control and went headlong into a tree.”
“He was by himself?”
“Yes.” Again she looked wistfully at the photograph that had so perfectly captured her husband’s smiling face. “He was on his way home from work.”
“Where’s his stuff?”
The question yanked her from the poignant reverie. “What?”
“His stuff. You’re bound to have kept his personal belongings.”
In light of their conversation, his wanting to go through Eddie’s effects was the height of insensitivity, and it offended her almost more than having been th
reatened with a pistol. She met his cold, unfeeling eyes head-on. “You’re a cruel son of a bitch.”
His eyes turned even more implacable. He took a step toward her. “I need to see his stuff. Either you hand it over to me, or I’ll tear your house apart looking for it.”
“Be my guest. But I’ll be damned before I’ll help you.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
Catching his malevolent implication, her gaze swung beyond his shoulder toward the living room where Emily was still enjoying one of her favorite shows.
“Your kid is all right, Mrs. Gillette. She’ll stay all right so long as you don’t play games with me.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“So we understand each other, neither am I.”