Returning to Leesburg from the prep school in Syria shortly before 5 pm, I went to the county office building and to find Peter Blair in his police department office. I decided not to tell him that his "rape" victim in the Wallace case lacked just a tad bit of credibility as a victim of molestation—and probably wouldn't half try to lie about it on the stand. First, that case was just about as dead as Wallace was, and, more important, Jason Dabney's testimony to me erased Peter's own alibi for the time of the murder. I was still bothered that Peter had let Warren Dabney spin that lie for me, so I decided to keep whatever cards I could get close to my chest for a while.
After I'd checked in at the reception desk in the county office and before Peter sent down for me, I decided to check another thing that had bothered me one more time and, showing my credentials and the letter that assigned me to the Wallace case, asked to be admitted to the basement morgue again to take another look at Wallace's body.
Peter found me there in the morgue and gave me a funny look when he walked in. That I was standing next to the gurney with Wallace's body on it and putting my shirt back on probably had something to do with that. What had bothered me earlier hadn't been dispelled upon a second look.
"Don't worry, Peter," I said to his questioning look. "Wallace and I haven't been having the sex of the dead. I just wanted to recheck something."
Blair didn't pursue the point, and I didn't fill him in on anything either.
"Glad you're back," he said. "Just in time to stop for a drink and then to my place for dinner and a little—"
"No thanks, I'll pass for tonight, I'm afraid," I cut him off, knowing what he was going to suggest for later. "I'm bushed and it's a long drive back to Rosslyn."
"You know you can stay at my—"
"Thanks," I cut him off again. "But I need some separation while I process, and for the very reason you brought me down here, appearances require that we not be in bed together—in either the literal or literary sense. Not the least is because you're still a suspect."
"Still a suspect?" Peter blustered. "This afternoon, we—"
"Yes, well that was this afternoon, Peter. The Dabney kid tossed out your alibi. He said he was with his father on the evening of the murder and that you weren't. What's the truth of that, Peter?"
He stood there, dumbfounded. I'd surprised him with the question, which was exactly what I had intended to do. He didn't think fast enough on his feet. He just stood there, his jaw working, but no sound coming out.
"That's what I thought, Peter. The kid sounded like he was giving an honest answer. So, do you want to tell me why you let Dabney give you a false alibi here, sort of informal, or should we go back to your office for a more formal deposition?"
"Dabney calls the shots around here," Peter finally said. "He said he wanted to keep it all simple—and he didn't want to own up to his son being anywhere near this part of the state that evening. So, I just went with it. He calls the shots."
"Yes, I got that impression—about him calling the shots," I said. "You weren't such a pushover in New York, Peter. You had more balls there. But it's pretty cushy here in the rich Eden for Washington, D.C., isn't it? It's so easy to sell out down here, isn't it."
