I went to the door. Davis followed me.
2
Coppinger was a little guy, about forty years old, with a leathery face and a black moustache. His eyes were blue, sharp and cold. He looked sleepy, but there was something about him that told me he knew more than most guys awake.
“She’s in a spot,” he said, when he finally got seated. I don’t know what they’ve done to her, but they’ve done plenty.” He shook his head, and took out a bag of Bull Durham smoking tobacco and a packet of brown papers. He rolled himself a cigarette. “She acts like she’s already dead.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “What did she say?”
He lit the limp cigarette, let it dangle out of the side of his mouth.
“She said she killed Herrick,” he told me in a flat voice. “That’s all she did say. Although I was alone with her, although I kept telling her I was working for you, she just wouldn’t bite. ‘I killed him,’ she kept saying. ‘Leave me alone. I killed him and there’s nothing you can do about it.’” He shook his head again. “She’s a goner, Cain. There’s nothing I can do for her. We can plead not guilty, but we can’t make a fight of it.”
“Okay,” I said, “stick around. See her as much as you can, and keep working on her. I wanted to be sure we couldn’t beat the rap. Now, I know what to do.”
He looked at me thoughtfully.
“I’ve heard about you,” he said. “You’ve got a reputation. It won’t get that girl anywhere if you try violence. They’re going to bring her to trial. If she looks like sliding through their fingers, she’ll meet with an accident. I know Killeano and Flaggerty. Those boys won’t stop at anything, and I mean anything. The election’s too close. They’ve got to clean up Herrick’s murder before then. So be careful how you step.”