Part 40 (1/2)

”Except for Brewster,” I said.

”Huh?” Angie looked up from the photos of David Wetterau and the other woman.

”Why didn't this Brewster guy panic, too?”

She slid her chair over beside mine and looked down at the diagram.

”He's here,” I said and placed my finger on the crude stick figure she'd labeled W#7 W#7. ”He's moved past Wetterau, so his back would have been to the car.”

”Right.”

”He hears tires squeal. He turns back back, sees the car plowing toward toward him, and yet he's-” I found his statement, read from it. ”He's, quote, 'a foot from the guy, reaching toward him, you know, sorta frozen' when Wetterau gets. .h.i.t.” him, and yet he's-” I found his statement, read from it. ”He's, quote, 'a foot from the guy, reaching toward him, you know, sorta frozen' when Wetterau gets. .h.i.t.”

Angie took the statement from my hand and read it. ”Yeah, but you can freeze up in this sort of situation.”

”But he's not frozen, he's reaching reaching.” I pulled my chair in closer to the table, pointed at W#7 in the diagram. ”His back was to it, Ange. He had to turn, see it develop. His arm's not frozen, but his legs are? He's standing, by his own admission, a foot, maybe two, from car tires and a rear b.u.mper sliding out of control.”

She stared down at the diagram, rubbed her face. ”Our possession of these statements is illegal. We can't reinterview Brewster and let on that we know what his original statement was.”

I sighed. ”That do make it tougher.”

”It do.”

”But the guy bears a second look, you agree?”

”Definitely.”

She sat back in her chair, raised both hands to her head to push back hair that wasn't there anymore. She caught herself at the same time I did, gave my wide grin her middle finger as she brought her hands back down.

”Okay,” she said, and drummed her pen on her notepad. ”What's our list of priorities here?”

”First, talk to Karen's psychiatrist.”

She nodded. ”That's a h.e.l.l of a leak coming from her office.”

”Second, talk to Brewster. You got an address?”

She pulled a piece of paper from the bottom of the thermal fax pile. ”Miles Brewster,” she said, ”Twelve Landsdowne Street.” She looked up from the page and her mouth remained open.

”Gee,” I said, ”what's wrong with this picture?”

”Twelve Landsdowne,” she said. ”That would make it-”

”Fenway Park.”

She groaned. ”How's a cop not notice that?”

I shrugged. ”A rookie taking the statements at the scene. Forty-six witnesses, he's tired, whatever.”