"Forget about it. Come on back. Lieutenant's orders."
"What's going on here, Henderson? Why are you shutting this down?"
"You were right all along, Ramirez. You had it pegged from the start. We got a call from a pawnshop about the watch. We just picked up the ticket holder, with what appears to be the right gun and a box from the Toth office."
"You're killing me."
"He's waiting for us in interrogation room six. Come on back. We'll go in together and break down his ass and put the Laszlo Toth homicide to bed."
CHAPTER 38
WELCOME TO SENATOR TRUSCOTT'S Philadelphia office," said the pretty receptionist at the desk facing the front door. "Can I help you?"
Kyle looked around at the paneled walls, the dark wood furnishings, the august seal of the United States Senate above the receptionist's desk, at the tight, smiling face of the senator himself bolted onto the wall next to the seal. Maybe this was what his father meant about glory. If so, the son of a bitch could have it. There was something forced and artificial about the whole scene, something whose only purpose was to impress. From what he could tell about the job of a senator, it was all about sucking up for money, checking your values at the door, and voting with your party. Kyle would just as soon cut out the middle stuff and head straight to the party.
He looked at the receptionist's sincere brown eyes and tilted his head. She seemed familiar. He had met her before. At a bar? At a club?
"Hi, I'm looking for that Senator Truscott," said Kyle. "Is he around?"
"No, I'm sorry."
"But he's coming to Philadelphia tomorrow, right?"
"He has an event at the convention center." She eyed his outfit. "A fund-raising event. Would you like to buy a ticket? There are still a few available."
"For a pretty stiff donation, I assume."
"Oh, it will be worth it, I assure you." Her pretty eyes widened, and she lowered her voice. "It's not definite yet, but I have it on good authority that the vice president is scheduled to attend."
"Really? The vice president?" Pause. "Do you have a fork, by any chance?"
"A fork?"
"Yeah, because I'd sooner stick a fork in my eye than go to an event that the vice president is scheduled to attend."
The receptionist leaned back and smiled a smile of sudden interest. "I know you," she said. "You're that Kyle Byrne. I didn't recognize you in that . . ." She waved her hand.
"Suit, it's called a suit. Where did we meet, again?"
"I just started at this job. Before that I worked in the lobby of the building where your father's old law firm was located."
"Ahh, of course," he said. "I remembered your lovely eyes." He waited for the blush, but she wasn't the blushing type. "It's funny how we keep running into each other. What's your name?"
"Sharon."
"So, Sharon, maybe you could help me." He sat on the edge of her desk, leaned forward. "What I'd like to do is to sort of meet with the senator before his convention center event. Could you set that up for me?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, actually."
"The senator's schedule is booked months in advance. There's no way they can squeeze you in. And in any event, all scheduling for the senator is done in Washington. Requests for meetings need to be faxed to his office down there. I could give you the fax number."
"How long will it take to get a response?"
"Count on weeks. And be aware that the senator's ability to meet with constituents is very limited."
"I guess that means forget about it."
She looked left, looked right. "Do you have a couple thousand to donate to his campaign?"
"No."
"Then yes, forget about it."
"How about if I just leave a message for the guy? Could you pass that along for me?"
"Again, I could give you the fax number."
Kyle stared at her for a moment and tried to think it through. Talking to her wasn't going to help, because she didn't have the power to help. But something seemed fishy. It was quite the coincidence, her being first at his father's old office and now here. But maybe it wasn't a coincidence. Maybe the cops who'd picked him up in his father's office had been waiting for him all the time. Maybe they'd been tipped by the senator himself, who'd been tipped by someone who knew that Kyle had come calling to his dad's old firm. By this Sharon? Maybe. It might be how she got this job. But girls like Sharon didn't get plum jobs by trading information, they traded something else. And he remembered his suspicion about her and that bulldog lawyer when he had seen her before. Plus, the son of a bitch had mentioned that he had already begun a new job.
"Why don't I talk to Malcolm about it," said Kyle. "Is he around?"
Sharon flinched.
"I guess that means yes."
"I think you should go, Mr. Byrne."
"I suppose you're right, I should go, but I'm not going to. Which is his office? I'll just stop in for a few minutes, chat about the weather."
"If you don't leave now, Mr. Byrne, I'll be forced to call security."
"Before you do that, Sharon, why don't you let your little buddy Malcolm know that I'm here to see him. And you can tell him that if he doesn't see me right this instant, I'm going to have to have a chat with his wife about how he swung you this sweet job and all the lip smacking and knee knocking that went with it."
SHAME ABOUT YOUR HOUSE," said Malcolm with a flickering smirk. "Shame about your dick," said Kyle.
Puzzlement creased his pug features. "What about my . . . ? Oh. Okay, we're back in high school. State your business, Byrne. Some of us work for a living."
The little creep was sitting in suspenders and shirtsleeves behind a desk in his private office, and Kyle could barely restrain himself from leaping over the wide desktop and throttling that thick neck. This punk was probably responsible for both his arrest and the fire, and Kyle would've liked nothing better than to batter that face bloody, while the photograph of the senator and his tight smile looked on from the wall. But then he might get some blood on the suit, and that would be a bitch to get out. Another argument for T-shirts and shorts.
"Nice digs," said Kyle.
"I like them."
"Quite a leap to go from toiling for a little troll like Laszlo Toth to becoming an aide to a United States senator."
"I got lucky."
"Oh, don't demean yourself. It was more than luck." Malcolm's belligerent chin lifted in immodest pride. "Maybe you're right."
"Let's add thievery and betrayal and a touch of murder, too."
"Go to hell."
"Who did you call when I came looking for my father's old files?"
Malcolm twisted his head as if his collar had suddenly tightened. "No one. I didn't call anyone."
"If this is the quality of your lying, then I hope your matrimonial lawyer is a sharp little cheddar, because it means your wife already knows about you and Sharon and the whoop-de-do."
"I don't have the least idea what you are talking about."
"Funny, that's what Sharon says, too. But adultery is really a minor matter in the scheme of things. My guess is the senator asked you to keep an eye on Laszlo Toth, all the while dangling this job as bait. When Laszlo found the file, you called the senator and chirped away like a chirpy little cockatoo. But when the senator ended up having Laszlo shot to death, that made you an accomplice to murder. You're here to keep your mouth shut."
"You're way off base, Byrne."
"Maybe, but I'm getting close to something, aren't I?"
"What do you want?"
"I guess that means I'm getting damn close. The senator is coming to Philadelphia tomorrow for an event at the convention center. I need to meet with him before the fund-raiser."
"He's booked. There's a committee hearing he has to attend in the morning."
"Oh, yes, and we all know how important committee meetings are. Call him and make it happen."
"Why would I do that? Why would I do anything to h
elp you?" Why indeed? His father had given him the answer, now it was time to squeeze.
"Because I found it, you dork," said Kyle. "Because I have what Laszlo was killed for and what you were undoubtedly searching for even when I came knocking at my father's office. I have the O'Malley file."
Malcolm turned his head slightly. "You're bluffing."
"Maybe, but can the senator take that chance?"
"If you have it, let me look at it. If it's real, I'll see if I can do something for you."
"Oh, I have it, and it's real, don't you worry. And my bet is that you have no idea what's inside. I'm sure Senator Truscott would be thrilled to learn that his new aide has been angling to take a peek. Trying to blackmail yourself into a chief-of-staff position?"
"That's not what I was doing—"
"Save the lies for your wife and the tears for Sharon. Now, take out a pencil and a piece of paper. After three years of law school, you turned yourself into a messenger boy, so here's the message: Tell the senator that I have the file."
"He'll want proof," said Malcolm as he plucked a pen off his desk.
"Tell him I know what really happened to Colleen. That will spark his interest. We'll meet at four o'clock, which will give him plenty of time to get here from Washington, have our discussion, and still be able to stick his tongue in the vice president's ear."
"Where do you propose to meet?"
Kyle thought for a moment. "There's a bar called Bubba's in Queens Village. Your boy's a clever fellow, he'll find it. You tell him to be there at four and to be there alone. He shows up with a guard, with his mother, or even someone as weak-kneed as you, and it's over."
"And you'll have the file with you?"
"Fuck no. I'm not an idiot. The thing will be in safe hands, ready to go to the press if anything happens to me. But nothing will happen, right? Just a pleasant meeting with a constituent. I have some ideas on the immigration issue."
"Really?"
"No."
"Okay, I got it. Do you have a number where he can reach you if the plans change?"
"The plans won't change," said Kyle, standing. "We'll meet, we'll talk, we'll do a fox-trot and figure something out. Everyone will go home happy."
Malcolm stared at Kyle for a moment. "You're completely different than you were last week in the office. What the hell's gotten into you?"
"It's the suit," said Kyle.
CHAPTER 39
HIS NAME WAS Lamar, and Lamar was scared.
It was clear in the way Lamar's hands shook as he brought the can of soda to his lips, in the way the soda slopped out of his mouth as he tried to drink, the way his jaw trembled as he repeated his improbable story. Ramirez thought the fear was a pretty good indication of guilt. It wouldn't take much, she knew, to push him into abandoning his cock-and-bull story and signing a confession that would close the case. But Henderson had spent so much time in these rooms with kids who showed nothing but contempt for cops, for their crimes, for the prisons they were headed to, nothing but contempt for themselves, that in Lamar's fear he saw possibilities for some sort of redemption. Ramirez would consider Henderson's thoughts about redemption a sign of muddleheaded weakness arising from his severe case of old age. Henderson considered it his only reason for still being a cop.
"Where do you keep your drugs, Lamar?" said Henderson, who was taking the lead in the questioning and kept his voice calm and soft. Ramirez sat with her chair leaning against the wall and glowered.
"I told you, man, I don't do drugs."
"Remember that cup you peed in when they picked you up?" said Ramirez with a sneer. "Well, that says you're a liar."
"What they find?" said Lamar. "Some sticky icky," said Ramirez.
"Hell, that ain't drugs. I just took a hit off a buddy's blunt last night. But I ain't got nothing at the house, if that's what you're asking. My moms would kill me she finds that crap. Truth is, sad as it is to admit, I don't got the money for it."
"The pawnshop said you got seventy-five for the watch," said Henderson. "What did you spend it on?"
"Food."
"Where?"
"Most I gave to my moms so she can feed my brother. But I kept enough for a rack from Ron's and some mac and cheese."
"You get it extra hot?"
"What are you, crazy? Ron's is hot enough, just regular. The extra will burn a hole through the back of your throat."
"You got that right," said Henderson. "So let's go over it again."
"I told you four times already."
"Then let's do five."
"I was out walking that night."
"What night?"
"I don't know when, a week or so ago. I was out walking."
"Looking for what?"
"Anything. Is that a crime? I was out, is all. And I saw this pack come toward me on the street that I didn't want anything to do with, account of I recognized one of them idiots, and he and me we don't get along."
"What's his name?"
"Danny something, I don't know. He's big and he's ugly, you want a description. So when I passed one of them deserted lots, I ducked into it so as to avoid his ass."
"Where exactly?"
"I don't remember. It was, like, west of Sixteenth on Montrose or something. I didn't care where it was, I just wanted to get away. He's got this nose, man, like a baked potato that exploded in the oven. You know what I mean? And so as he passed by on the street with his boys, I kind of slunk my way into one of them corners that was darker than the rest, and that's where I found it."
"Found what exactly?"
"I told you. It was a box, a white box with handles cut into the sides, and the stuff was in there."
"The box we found in your room?"
"The same."
"And what was in there again?"
"You know, the watch that I pawned. And then the stuff you found, that computer screen and the gun. There were a couple other screens that I passed out to some friends in exchange for gabbling onto their Internet, because my connection is, like, nonexistent. I thought we was supposed to be getting it free, that's what the mayor said, but I got nothing."
"We'll be sure to let him know," said Ramirez.
"Why didn't you pawn the cuff link when you pawned the watch?" said Henderson.
"Cuff link? What cuff link? I don't wear no cuff link."
"The cuff link you still had on you. There were two, but you lost the one, right?"
"What are you talking about cuff links for?"
"No cuff links?"
"Nah, man. What would I be doing with something beat like that?"
"Maybe one of your other jobs."
"I told you, I don't do no jobs. And if I did do jobs, I wouldn't be stealing no cuff link."
"So then let's talk about the gun. You use the gun?"
"Nah, man, that crap scares the piss out of me."
"So why didn't you pawn it with the watch?"
"I don't know."
"Is that your best answer, that you don't know?"
"I don't know."
"You were going to use it against that Danny character with the potato nose, weren't you?" said Ramirez, as her chair slapped down on its front legs with a crack.
"Nah, I don't know. Protection, maybe."
"Use it on him like you used it on the old man," said Ramirez, who stood and started walking toward Lamar. "What old man?"
"Don't be cute, baby," she said. "You know just what old man I'm talking about. How are we going to help you if you don't help us?"
"I'm trying to help."
"You didn't mean to shoot him, we know that," said Ramirez, leaning forward now with her knuckles on the table so that she was peering down at Lamar with angry eyes. "The door was open, you slipped in, saw all that stuff, and started filling a box. Then the old man appeared. You panicked, you drew the gun, pointed it, the thing went off. It happens, and it was an accident, and we can help you get past it."
"That's not what happened."
"Then you bet
ter tell us what happened, and you better tell us quick, before we take a dimmer view of things."
"I found the box."
"Lamar," said Ramirez, her voice loud now, and fast. "Baby. You keep playing it like that, we're going to have no choice but to figure you did it on purpose."
"But I didn't."
"That you went in there intending to shoot that man."
"I didn't go there to shoot nobody."
"Bang you down for first degree. Twenty years. Or more. Is that what you want?"
"No."
"Help us help you."
"I don't know what to say."
"Yes, you do. We told you already. It was an accident, you didn't mean it. That's what you need to tell us. That's the only way out for you. Other than that, it's a needle in the arm, boy."
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, come on, baby, you know what I'm talking about. It's why you're lying to us."
"I'm not."
"Another one right there. Right there, you pathetic loser."
"Take a minute, Lamar," said Henderson, who stood now and stepped between the cowering Lamar and Ramirez, whose fists were balled.
Henderson faced Ramirez and stared for a moment, before she spun on her heels and stormed out the door. Then he turned to Lamar and put a hand on Lamar's shoulder. He could feel the bones beneath his fingers shaking.
"Did it happen like that, Lamar?" said Henderson. "Did the gun go off like she said?"
"I told you. I found the box."
"That's a little hard to believe, son. And if we don't believe it, and we want to help you, how's a jury going to believe it? Stay here for a bit and think on it. We'll be back."
From the other side of the mirror, Henderson and Ramirez stood next to each other and watched the boy. Lamar wiped his eyes with his palm, his nose with the back of his hand. The shaking was worse now, the fear had clutched tight at his heart, and all pretense of faking it was gone. As Ramirez stared through the glass, she could see the ghost of her own reflection in the mirror superimposed on the boy's scared face. Her face was twisted with a strange and ugly expression that she didn't recognize and didn't like.
"Another ten minutes and it would have been done," said Ramirez. "He would have signed Mein Kampf if I put it in front of him."
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