Glaring at Trever, Fedler pounded a table and leaned over it, and Simmons smashed a cigarette butt into an ashtray and tapped Fedler’s arm.
“Let’s remain calm,” Simmons said and blew a grey cloud. “By midnight, we’ll know whether or not he’s lying, and if he is, he’ll have nowhere to go but before a jury, murder-one in tow.”
Trever threw his hands high. “I’m not lying: last night, when I entered the apartment, a man already lay dead on the floor!”
“Why didn’t you phone the police?” Felder said.
“Yeah, right: me—a brown man with a rap sheet as long as my arm, ninety-nine percent of it pinned on me, by the way—phone the cops and say, ‘Found a stiff, didn’t do it’?! No way.”
“Fine, and for the record, you sitting in that seat has nothing to do with your being Hispanic,” Simmons said. “And everything to do with your history of being in places you don’t belong.”
The young man rolled his eyes and peeked at a wristwatch. “Midnight, huh?” Y’all really plan on holding me another six hours?”
“Depends on you,” Simmons said.
“But I’ve told you everything!”
“Everything?” Simmons dug a crumpled, plastic pack out his blazer pocket and drew a cigarette. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Besides, it’s Saturday night, and I’ve a date.”
Simmons chuckled. “You, a date? Where will you take her—carjacking on 14th and Grand?”
“No, she’s an honor student—last semester, studied in Europe, and I’m taking her to an Asian restaurant in District West.”
Fedler circled partway around the table and glared. “Well, if you don’t want to disappoint her, you’d better think…hard.”
Trever hunched over the table, rubbed his temple.
“Listen,” Simmons said. “If you didn’t do it, fine, but you were there, so you’ve got to give us something to go on—anyone you heard, anything you saw…”
Trever gasped, straightened up. “That lady…”
“What lady?” Simmons said.
“Geez, why didn’t I put it together before?”
Fidler poked the young man’s chest. “Don’t waste our time. Spill it.”
“When the elevator door opened, I saw a woman hurry up the hall, fiddling with a purse, asking me to hold the elevator.”
Simmons took-up a pad and pencil. “What did she look like?”
“Tall, blonde, wore an evening gown.”
“So, what happened?” Fidler said.
“I held the elevator and watched her get on and then walked down the hall to the apartment where the door was ajar and leaned inside, announcing I was delivering dry cleaning. When no one answered, I carried the suits inside and laid them atop a table, but alongside the table, I saw a man lying face down. After calling out to him a couple times, it was clear he was dead, so I dashed into the hallway where, down the hall, I saw the woman in the elevator, staring at me, and the elevator doors only just close.”
“Anyone else on the elevator?” Fidler said.
“No one else. Only her.”
Fidler nodded and then looked at Simmons who stared into a corner. “Well, Sims, what do we think?”
“That woman,” Simmons said. “Did you notice anything about her face. Like a black eye or something that suggested she’d been ruffed up?”
Trever snapped a finger. “No black eye, but I noticed a scar.” He tapped his chin. “Right here.”
“And you’re certain—no black or puffy eye?” Simmons said.
“Yeah, other than a scar she tried to cover with make-up, her face was as clean as a whistle.”
The men gazed at Trever who shrugged.
“I have four sisters,” the young man said.
Simmons nodded, crossed the room to a door, and knocked, and a police officer opened it. “Trevor, unless you’re delivering a dozen, starched blazers to someone living, I don’t want to catch you anywhere near 14th and Grand.”
Trever grinned. “Yes, sir—I promise.” He dashed to the door.
“And tonight, when you’re on that date,” Simmon said. “Try not to make a fool of yourself.”
Trever shook his head. “For that, sir, no promises.” He ambled out-of-sight, and Simmons grinned, lit the cigarette, and took a hit.
“Who’ve we questioned with a black eye?” Filder said.
“No one—I made it up. I just wanted to confirm Trevor was telling the truth.”
Fedler pointed at the open door. “Needless to say, you believed he did.”
“Yes, because just like him, I’d noticed a tall, blonde who sported a chin scar, as well.”
Fidler clapped his hands together. “That lounge singer.”
Simmons nodded.
“Well, thank you, Trever,” Fedler said and snatched a trench coat on.
“No, thank you, ol’ man Spalding at Spalding Dry Cleaners—he hired the little pickpocket and put him on deliveries.” Simmon shook his head and dug car keys out a jacket pocket. “On our way to Moonlight Lounge, I may need to stop by and apologize to Spalding in advance before he hears about all this and stops hemming my pants.” He ambled to the door, puffed the cigarette. “Not one store in this damn city seems want to sell a suit in my size.”
Fedler chuckled and tailed him out.