Don't Ever Get Old by Daniel Friedman Page A

to him, I mean. So, like I said, I thought you might be interested.”
    I yawned. “Not really.”
    â€œWell, I am interested in why he was visiting you at home.”
    Had Jennings been staking me out? Why would he do that? I was not going to admit anything.
    â€œWhat makes you think he was at my house?”
    â€œThere is a GPS navigation computer in his car. It has a record of every place he’s driven in the last week.”
    I didn’t know what a GPS navigation computer was, but it sounded like it could be a real thing, so I ceded the point. Goddamn DNAs and DVDs. “My friend Jim Wallace, who died recently, said something to Kind about leaving money to the church. Kind was concerned that Jim’s son-in-law, Norris Feely, might be trying to keep the money for himself. He came to my house to ask if I knew anything about it.”
    I didn’t see any reason to tell Jennings about Ziegler and the treasure.
    Jennings nodded. “What did you say to him?”
    â€œThat I didn’t know anything about any money.”
    He squinted at me. “If that’s the truth, why would you lie to me about it?”
    â€œBecause sometimes, old men forget about things,” I said. “My doctor tells me I might have the dementia.”
    He peered at me. “You’re old; I’ll give you that. But I think you’re forgetting things on purpose.”
    He leaned in toward me, so close that I could smell the coffee on his breath. I suppose he thought it was kind of an intimidating thing to do. I belched loudly in his face.
    â€œAlso, you’re an ass, and I don’t like you,” I said.
    That seemed to conform better to his worldview; he leaned away and wiped at the bulbous tip of his nose with a handkerchief. “Fair enough,” he said. “Do you think Feely did this?”
    The possibility was worth thinking about. I considered telling Jennings to get his forensics team to search the scene for knuckle hair, but then Tequila walked into the auditorium.
    â€œWhat’s going on in here, Grandpa?” he asked. Then he saw the inside-out mess that used to be Lawrence Kind. “Oh, holy shit, that’s fucked up.”
    â€œYou were supposed to wait in the car,” I shouted at him.
    â€œWho the hell is that?” Jennings asked me, pointing at Tequila.
    â€œDetective Jennings, this is my grandson, Jameson.”
    â€œPeople call me Tequila,” explained Tequila. “It’s a fraternity thing.”
    â€œWhat is he doing here?”
    â€œSomebody had to give me a ride,” I told him. “It isn’t safe for a man my age to drive at night.”
    â€œHow did he get into my crime scene?”
    â€œI was wondering that myself. You should run a tighter ship.”
    His mustache seemed to bristle a little. “The crooks down at City Hall keep cutting the budget. There’s never enough overtime, so I’ve never got enough men. Without resources, without guys to bang on doors and chase leads, without rush jobs on lab work, the only way we catch a killer like this one is dumb luck. But if the homicide clearance rate falls, it’s my ass hanging out.” He refocused his annoyance with the situation on Tequila. “Does he know anything about this?” he asked, pointing a stubby finger in my grandson’s direction.
    I shook my head. “He’s a student at NYU. He’s here on vacation.”
    â€œAnything I can help with?” Tequila shouted to us. He was still standing at the back of the room, and he looked terrified that he might have to go near the stage.
    â€œGo back and sit in the car like I told you to.”
    Tequila left without complaint.
    â€œEvery year, they give us less and expect us to do more,” Jennings said. “And every year Memphis becomes a more savage place. We pour blood and sweat into locking up the scum, and the system gives them two days’ credit against their