Page 43 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“I got the same story you did.”
“Bullshit. You must know more. That’s why you think I’m wrong. Did you hear it wasn’t a cartel? It obviously is.”
“Because she’s Latinx?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, because that’s how they operate. It’s either that or organized crime.”
“Drug cartels are organized crime.”
“You know what I mean. Cartels versus triads versus Mafia … The story is that her husband saw something, right? Let’s start with that.”
“Let’s start with this.” I flip my phone to a photo of his boots from last night, turned on their side for me to photograph the sole. “Last night, we found a possible scene.”
“Crime scene? You found the kid, didn’t you. He’s dead.”
I meet his gaze. “You should see your eyes right now, Louie. They’re shining with excitement at the thought that a ten-year-old boy is dead.”
He yanks back. “What? No. I’m just interested.”
“In the murder of a child.”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“Nope, I don’t think I am. A crime scene implies a spot where we think a crime took place. This was a scene of interest, one indicating someone has been in the forest for illicit reasons. Beside it was a boot print matching yours.” I lift a hand before he can go on. “Only three people in town wear a twelve, and there’s a notch in yours.” I point to the picture. “This makes the print unique.”
I’m bullshitting. Not about the notch or the size. But all I have is that heel print, which seems to roughly match a size eleven or twelve. He doesn’t know that, though, and I study his face as his arms cross.
“I was out there,” he says. “You already know that.”
“Then tell me what I found.”
Genuine confusion. “What?”
“I found this print beside a very curious scene, and if you did not create that scene, then you saw it. So tell me what it is.”
“It was dark.”
“Not that dark.”
“I was paying attention to where I was walking. Looking for evidence. If I didn’t walk straight through your ‘scene’ then I didn’t see it.”
“You seem to like the idea that Max is dead.”
“What?”
“I mean that you like it as a theory. You think it’s plausible.”
He relaxes. “As a theory, yes. I don’t like the idea obviously. That kid can’t help who his parents are. But you’re not going to find him alive—”
“Which you know. Because you killed him.”
“What?” He shoves his chair back. “I was trying to be helpful. I was saying you won’t find him alive after he’s been out there nearly two days. Even if he’s only lost, he isn’t an adult capable of looking after himself. But he isn’t lost. We both know that. The only way that kid is alive is if someone is holding him captive to put pressure on his momma. If that’s the case, then you need to investigate her because it means she has definitely received a ransom note.”
* * *
I question Louie a little more, mostly so he doesn’t think he gets to choose when the interview ends. After that, I make my way to the Roc. It’s open as a coffee shop during the day, and when I walk in, the usually wonderful smell nearly sends me back out again, as my stomach twists.
“Casey?” Kendra hurries over from the back of the line. “You don’t look so good. Want some company walking to the clinic?”
