CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The tiny interrogation room needed a paint job. I sat in a straight-back chair on one side of a scarred wooden relic of a table that looked like it dated back to the Roosevelt administration—Teddy, not Franklin D.—trying to maintain a semblance of poise under the probing gaze of Detective James Willard. The detective’s light brown eyes were a startling contrast to his espresso-colored skin.
“Nice place you got here,” I said. “Ever try bouncing a Superball off these walls? Bet you could get the thing moving like a pinball.”
“Hmmph.” The detective arched an eyebrow. Tough audience.
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