Vince Conrad picked at a pimple on his face, squeezing out a white filament and bringing it close to his nose for a sniff. "I don't remember. I'll tell you when I do."
Marcus Shaw sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Then let's talk about how Shane Mercer took the fall. How did this Sledge make him take the blame?"
"Him? He was just some kid from out of town. Where would he get the money to start a company?"
Marcus Shaw felt his face burning, as if he'd been slapped twice.
He had thought it suspicious at the time—pulled every business license for the catering company, but every document listed Shane Mercer as the legal representative. He'd even tracked down the man's delivery signatures and compared them to the handwriting on the license applications. They matched.
The police had also traced the source of the registered capital, but the trail hit a wall, as if something had been deliberately obscured.
Later, Vince Conrad and Gordon Pike both testified that Shane Mercer had met a wealthy benefactress at a nightclub—some mysterious older woman who, moved by his outsider's plight and natural charm, had forked over half a million without a second thought.
Facing his colleagues' testimony, Marcus Shaw had been torn, wanting to confirm the story with the two men, but they'd vanished. He'd tried to track down this wealthy woman based on their vague descriptions, but found nothing.
And with Shane Mercer dead and unable to contradict anyone, plus the pressure from provincial leadership to close the case fast, it had been rubber-stamped and shelved.
Now it turned out there was far more beneath the surface.
"Shane Mercer joined later. Gordon Pike saw he was hungry to make money, felt sorry for him, and pulled him in to deliver lunch boxes. But after just one meeting with Sledge, the very next day, Shane Mercer took on two entire delivery routes, both going to key middle schools."
"Why?"
"Who knows? Maybe he was a natural brown-noser and Sledge took a shine to him. Who can say who clicks with who?"
Marcus Shaw said nothing.
Vince Conrad went on, "Anyway, it wasn't long before he started throwing his weight around, always relaying Sledge's orders, ordering us around while he stood there slacking off." Vince Conrad paused and spat on the floor. "Bottom line, he became the boss's pet. Whatever the boss wanted, he did. Total lackey. Stole all the spotlight."
"And so you perjured yourself? Didn't you know that was a crime?"
Vince Conrad straightened up. "After it was over, Sledge paid us off and told us to keep our mouths shut, or he'd go after our families. What would you have done?"
"You shouldn't have let an innocent man take the fall. You could have reported him. We'd have arrested him and seen whether he could still hurt anyone."
Vince Conrad turned his head away. "He's craftier than a monkey, never shows his face. Report him? I wouldn't dare. Besides, Shane Mercer was already dead by then. Whether he took the fall unjustly or not—what difference did it make?"
Marcus Shaw sat rigid, silent. After a long while, he said coldly, "So where has that gotten you? You lied under oath for him, and he still tried to kill you both. Couldn't reach you, so he went after your mother instead."
Vince Conrad's eyebrows shot up, then fell. The facts spoke for themselves, and he had no retort.
Marcus Shaw thought it through. Since Shane Mercer had become a trusted aide, he would have been utterly obedient. Young and poorly educated, he might not have grasped the consequences of what he was signing. The boss told him to sign, so he signed—stepping right into a trap without realizing it. A pitiable figure.
As if reading his thoughts, Vince Conrad added, "Later, the two of us were talking, and we realized Sledge was truly diabolical. No wonder he treated Shane Mercer so well—he'd spotted an easy mark and set up his fallback plan. Thinking about it that way, there was nothing to be jealous of. If anything, I was lucky he didn't pick me as his sacrificial lamb."
"Was there anything suspicious about Shane Mercer's death itself?"
Vince Conrad's gaze drifted away. He stared at his empty cup. "I'm thirsty."
Marcus Shaw had no choice but to go refill the water. When he returned, Vince Conrad didn't drink—just set the cup on the table and spun it around in his hands.
Marcus Shaw asked again. Vince Conrad countered, "Didn't you police investigate his cause of death?"
"We did. He died from taking cold medicine. Roxithromycin and compound methoxyphenamine—those two shouldn't be taken together. They cause theophylline poisoning."
Vince Conrad smirked. "I don't know what can't mix with what, or what poison he got. But I'll ask you this: since it's something I wouldn't understand, could a guy like him have understood? Even if he wanted to kill himself, why choose such a technical method?"
"But we checked the pharmacy surveillance footage. He personally went to two different pharmacies and specifically asked for those two medications."
Vince Conrad said nothing, just gave Marcus Shaw a strange sidelong glance.
Marcus Shaw slapped his thigh. "Are you saying Sledge claimed he had a cold and sent Shane Mercer to buy medicine? Afraid the pharmacist would warn him, so he split it up—two trips to two different pharmacies? Qiang probably never took the pills, or took only one kind. But Shane Mercer, for some reason, swallowed both?"
Vince Conrad raised his cup and took a sip. "I didn't say anything. I don't know anything."
The interrogation ended. Marcus Shaw had no more words. It felt as if every ounce of strength had been drained from him. He shuffled back to his desk.
The grilled cold noodles still sat on the table. One sniff told him they'd gone sour. He tossed them into the trash.
But his stomach felt stuffed, pressed against his heart, making it ache.