Splintered by Kelly Miller

is one guy I want to look into more. Yesterday, I interviewed the Eastins’ neighbor who lives across the street from the bus stop. He employs a housekeeper who gets a ride to work with her brother. Guess what he drives?”
    “A shitty-ass van?”
    “Yep. The brother, Franco Alvarez, doesn’t resemble the eyewitness sketch much, but he does need some serious dental work.”
    “Guess you made the right choice not to include the picture in the paper.”
    Wallace hoped his streak of bad luck had finally ended. “I ran Alvarez through the system, found out he has a record. He did time for assault. A bar brawl that barely left a scratch on him but laid the other guy up in the hospital. The guy also has a sexual battery charge against him, though charges were dropped after his girlfriend refused to testify.”
    “Looks like Alvarez has a bit of a temper.”
    Wallace nodded. “But nothing in his file indicates he has a predilection for young girls.”
    “Could be he just hasn’t been caught with his pants down. So what’s your plan?”
    “Alvarez is a mechanic. I’m going to show up at his work and rattle his cage. Find out if he has an alibi.” He knew suspects hated cops hanging around their place of employment. It made them antsy, unprepared, and prone to saying stupid things.
    “This guy must be a piss-poor mechanic if Maddy Eastin’s account of his vehicle is correct.” Rhodes moved his hand around to his lower back and began kneading the muscles on his right side. “Where does he work? I want to make sure I avoid the place.”
    “It’s over on—”
    Just then Wallace’s phone speaker crackled to life and the receptionist’s voice boomed, “Detective Wallace, you have a visitor.”
    Rhodes nodded toward his office. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll catch up later.”
    Wallace pushed the intercom button on his phone. “Betty, do you know what it’s in regard to?”
    “That attempted abduction case you’re working.”
    “Thanks. I’ll be right out.”
    Wallace groaned, wondering who it would be this time—the “concerned citizen” with her list of plate numbers of all the bad elements cruising around the neighborhood? Or maybe his favorite, the local psychic Madam Zora, who couldn’t be any more of a cliché if she tried? Every few months the woman read an article in the newspaper and would stop by to “lend her assistance.” Somehow every one of her visions involved water—not much of a stretch considering the Hillsborough River cut through the heart of Temple Terrace and Tampa Bay was only ten miles away.
    Wallace opened the door to the lobby. A man paced near the elevator. He wore neatly pressed khakis and a short-sleeve polo shirt with a logo advertising a business Wallace didn’t recognize. The man’s graying hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He had a plastic DVD case firmly gripped in his left hand.
    “Hi, I’m Detective Terrance Wallace.” He extended his hand and firmly pumped the man’s in greeting. “I understand you have information on one of my cases.”
    “Yes.” The man nodded, looking back over his shoulder at the empty waiting room.
    “Well, Mr.—?”
    “Gleason. Paul Gleason.”
    “Why don’t you follow me, Mr. Gleason? We can sit and talk. Coffee?”
    “No thanks. I’ve probably had enough today.”
    Wallace couldn’t argue. The guy was a ball of nervous energy, constantly tapping the plastic case against his leg. A clinking noise sounded every time Gleason made contact with the pocket of his pants, most likely from hitting his keys.
    Wallace scooted out one of the chairs surrounding a large oval table in the middle of the office. He motioned for Gleason to sit. It was loud in this open room, with detectives working in their cubicles around them, but Wallace thought Gleason might feel uncomfortable in an interrogation room. As skittish as the man was, he figured this would be the lesser of two evils.
    “What can I help you with