came in earlier, I wouldn’t know. Plus, the mailbox felons could be off on their time frame.”
“Or lying,” McAdams said.
“Always a strong possibility,” Decker said. “Get the tapes and we can all watch some TV tomorrow. Right now, let’s go home.”
They all walked out to the parking lot together. McAdams said, “You’re taking me home?”
“Unless you want to walk.”
McAdams said, “What are you going to do after Riley Summers?”
“Well, assuming I let him go, I suppose I’ll go track down Brady’s friend Boxer.”
Butterfield smiled. “Boxer?”
“Apparently he works in Bigstore’s warehouse department.”
“Maybe Brady Neil’s friend is a dog. Or maybe Boxer is the name of his profession? Or his favorite hobby?” McAdams started jumping around feigning punches. One came near Decker’s face, close enough that Decker jerked his head back.
“What is wrong with you?” He was annoyed. “Did you take your Ritalin this morning?”
McAdams looked chastened. “Sorry.”
Butterfield said, “Where’d you learn the moves?”
“I’ve been taking mixed martial arts classes in Boston.”
“Really?”
“No joke. I started with Brazilian jiujitsu. On the first day of class, I grappled with a five-foot, ninety-nine-pound girl and she took me down. After that, I switched to boxing.”
Decker smiled. “There’s got to be a lesson here somewhere.”
“Of course, there is. Don’t get hurt. However, if you do get hurt, you can always sue.”
AT ELEVEN THE next morning—after an hour of interviewing Riley Summers—Decker was having a hard time deciding if the kid was a deft psycho or if he was just another confused and/or stoned teen. The few coherent statements he did make seemed to jibe with the statements given by Dash Harden and Chris Gingold. Perhaps they all colluded, but it was hard to believe that these guys could keep a false story straight without tripping up. In the end, Decker released the kid, giving him the same stern warning that he gave Harden and Gingold yesterday: keep your nose clean and don’t go anywhere too far away.
“Does that mean I don’t have to go to work?” Riley was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and was scratching a pimple on his face.
Lennie looked at Decker for guidance. He said, “You can go to work, Riley. Just don’t go anywhere far. Where do you work?”
“Eddie’s Gas.”
Decker said, “On Milliken, off the highway?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you do?”
“Pump gas. Eddie don’t use automated machines.”
“Why not?” Lennie asked.
“’Cause that way he can charge for full service. That’s why I pump gas. I also wash windows and check oil.”
Maybe Harden was the smart one. “It’s okay for you to work, Riley.”
“Fine. Can I go now?”
“Yes.” To Lennie, Decker said, “Could you see him to the door, Officer Baccus?”
“Of course.”
After they left, Decker picked up his car keys. He met Lennie as she was coming back into the station. “I’m going to Brady Neil’s place of work, specifically to interview a guy nicknamed Boxer who works in the warehouse of Bigstore in Hamilton.”
“There are two Bigstores in Hamilton. Which one?” Decker showed her the address. “That’s near me in Claremont.”
“Where’s the other Bigstore?”
“Right outside Bitsby.”
“The Bitsby one is nearer to Brady Neil. I wonder why he didn’t work there?”
“The Bigstore in Claremont is bigger and has higher-end things.”
“Ah. Do you shop there?”
“I’ll buy food and household stuff. Sometimes I’ll get coffee and a muffin in the café. It’s cheap.”
“Are you there often?”
Lennie thought. “Once a week.”
“And you know some of the employees?”
“A few by name. Most by sight. Do you want me to come with you, boss?”
“Yes. While I interview this guy, Boxer, you ask around. I’m sure by now everyone has heard of Brady Neil’s murder. It made front-page news. There are bound to be some rumors floating around the place, some sotto voce. It’s your area store. It’s in your city. People will feel more natural around you. See what you can pick up.”
“Of course. What do I tell them if they ask me questions?”
“You tell them nothing, but you make it sound like you’re telling them something. You’re going back to Hamilton after this investigation is over. You’ve got to get along with the people you serve. So just dodge their questions. But be really nice about it.”
“HE’S NOT HERE.”
“Okay.” Decker looked around the warehouse. It was enormous, with enough supplies to outfit a third-world nation, and he hadn’t even made it to the food storage section. He was talking to a guy in his late twenties—beefy build with muscled arms. He had pierces in his thick lips and a shaved head that was tattooed except for a natural colored red/orange mohawk running down the middle. He was Phil G. Decker knew this because his green Bigstore name tag told him so. The kid was halfway up a ladder stocking some game systems, when Decker asked, “Do you know when he’s coming back?”
“No idea.” Phil pushed the three boxes he was carrying on an open shelf and climbed down. His forehead was beaded with sweat. No A/C in the place, just a bay with barn doors that were open. He faced Decker. “Boxer didn’t show up yesterday and he didn’t show up today. Tomorrow’s his day off … if he still has a job.”
“Has anyone tried to call him?”
“Wouldn’t know. I didn’t call him. He wasn’t a pal. Ask the manager.”
“And where would I find the manager?”
“In her office.”
“And where is her office?”
“All the way in back. When you get to the barn doors, hook a left, then go past the
