Page 8 of The Mermaid Murders (The Art of Murder 1)

He rested his hand lightly on the butt of his Glock, and then noticed Kennedy had unsnapped the thumb-break on his holster. So he wasn’t overreacting, wasn’t unduly nervous. His response was appropriate to the situation. He found it harder to be sure these days.

They followed Gervase across the mowed weeds and up the wooden steps to a small platform that served as, well, a small platform. It wasn’t big enough to be a deck, let alone a porch, but it was wide enough to accommodate the three of them. Gervase banged on the peeling wooden screen. Jason and Kennedy waited.

Jason could hear Kennedy’s wristwatch ticking over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

It took several more energetic knocks before a muffled yell from inside the house reached them. At last the front door swung open. A willowy young man leaned against the frame as though he needed the support. His long blond hair was rumpled, his jaw was heavily stubbled, his dark eyes bleary and hollow. He wore a long-sleeve plaid flannel shirt and Joker boxer shorts.

; “I already told you she’s not here!” he snarled at Gervase. It was a weary snarl though, as if most of McEnroe’s energy was going into staying upright.

“Okay,” Gervase said evenly. “You already told us. We’d still like to talk to you.”

“Who would?” McEnroe took in Jason and Kennedy. His scowl deepened. “Who are you?” He turned back to Gervase. “No way. You brought the goddamned ATF out here?”

“You’re thinking of the goddamned DEA. We’re the goddamned FBI,” Kennedy said. “And yes. We’d like a word.”

“How about fuck off?” McEnroe tried to slam shut the door, but he was neither fast nor steady. Kennedy’s hand shot out; he grabbed the edge of the door and gave it a sharp shove. McEnroe staggered and tumbled back, landing on his butt. He blinked up at them in bewilderment from the bare floorboards.

“That’s two words,” Kennedy said.

“Get up, Tony,” Gervase growled. “We’re not here about your crop, so don’t make a bigger ass of yourself than you have to.”

McEnroe climbed ungracefully to his feet and, with several looks of mingled reproach and outrage, led the way into the front room.

The house smelled of cigarettes, bacon, and something vaguely antiseptic. Liniment? Pine-sol? Sea Breeze?

McEnroe flung himself on a sagging sofa upholstered in beige corduroy and glared at them.

“I don’t know what the hell you want from me. I don’t know where Becky is.”

“You do remember she’s only seventeen, right?” Gervase said.

“I remember.”

“What did you argue about last night?” Kennedy asked. He remained standing as Gervase took the tan recliner chair across from McEnroe.

McEnroe’s eyes widened. “I don’t—how do you know? We didn’t.”

Jason positioned himself next to the front door. It afforded a cattycorner view of the kitchen, which was in the process of either being remodeled or sold for parts.

You could tell a lot about a person by the art on their walls, but Tony McEnroe did not have art on his walls. No photos either. The place didn’t seem exactly untidy so much as under halfhearted and perpetual construction. There was a layer of dust on the floor sander by the window.

Kennedy asked, “Why did you leave her party early?”

McEnroe dipped his head, running a hand through his long, oily hair. Or maybe his hair wasn’t oily. Maybe he just used a lot of product. And not much soap. “I-I just felt like it. It was boring. Too many stupid, snotty kids clogging up the place.”

“Aren’t those stupid, snotty kids the same age as your girlfriend?” Kennedy inquired.

McEnroe shook his head without looking up.

Kennedy studied him as though deciding on the best angle of approach. “Tell us about the party. Walk us through the evening again.”

McEnroe raised his head, glowering. “There isn’t anything to tell. I showed up about nine thirty, which was when the party started. Becky was in a bitchy mood. So after an hour of it, I left. That’s it. That’s the entire night right there. I went home and went to bed. The first I heard she was missing was when you knocked on my door this morning.”

“Alice Cornwell contacted you before she phoned us,” Gervase put in.

“Well, okay. Whatever. I just mean I didn’t see her again. She didn’t come here.”