Swift’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Brittney Silas. He couldn’t take the call right now. He stared across the table at Darring, who looked smug.
“Let’s try this. When I looked at the timeline, what always perplexed me was why you and your friends didn’t hightail it out of there sooner. Why’d you wait around for nearly an hour and then come back? That left just enough time for you to do something. Like drive up to Tori McAfferty’s house, plant evidence, and then head back south. And, theoretically, because you’re not familiar with the layout up here, you backtracked instead of hopping on the interstate right from South Plattsburgh. You got picked up at the same exit you got off the highway on.”
Darring scowled. “You’re not giving me much credit.”
“Then I thought, maybe you wanted to get caught. You drove right back through New Brighton and out the other end because you hoped you’d get picked up.”
“Makes no sense to return to the scene of the crime.”
“Sure it does,” said Swift. “If you forgot something.”
For just a moment, Swift thought he saw fear pass over Darring’s features.
“In your story,” Swift went on, “you never got out of the car. You never had contact with Braxton Simpkins. You were on your way to see him. Just arriving, just pulling in when you mistakenly drove past his house in the dark, you overshot, and then you saw this man in the road, plow-truck driver, standing over a dead body, and you turned, and you ran away, scared. But I think you were coming back.”
There was an interruption, and Captain Tuggey’s voice came over the intercom.
“Detective, we have to cease the interview. Darring’s public defender is here.”
Swift looked up towards the ceiling, then into the camera in the corner of the room, then down at Darring, whose look of resignation had lightened into a smug smile.
“Better stop,” Darring said. “I think your job is already in danger, isn’t it?”
Swift sighed and sat back. “Yeah.”
“You’ve come along further than others might have.”
“Oh yeah?” Swift raised an eyebrow. He wondered what the other cops thought of that one.
“Yeah.” Darring maintained eye contact, gazing across the table at Swift. “I hope you realize something, Detective.”
“What’s that?”
“That you, and all the men and women, classics that you are — what a vintage, really. God bless you. Your fuck-ups weren’t directly your fault. In the 70s and 80s you Baby Boomers had no idea what to do. And the Generation Xers, they just inherited a mess, which they’ve been whining about and trying in vain to fix. Neither of these two generations can be expected to know, to be able to do, what my generation can.”
Swift leaned forward and put his hands, knuckled down into fists, on the table in front of him. “Is that what this whole thing is, Robert? You trying to prove something to the world about your generation? That the Millennials aren’t really lazy, spoiled brats? Instead they’re murderers?”
Darring almost flinched, and then smirked. “Oh that was tacky.”
“So’s your speech, Mussolini.” Swift said.
Darring laughed out loud. “That’s good. What I’m saying is that I’m a digital native, Detective. I may know more than most, but my whole generation is more fluent than yours’ll ever be. So I’m just trying to concede that the playing field isn’t really level, and I’m sorry for that. It seems capitalism once again favors those with early, unfair advantages.”
“The playing field has never been level,” Swift said. “That hasn’t ever stopped me.”
The intercom interrupted again. “Swift . . .”
Swift stood up, walked to the door and turned the lock. Interrogation rooms weren’t supposed to have locks — but Sheriff Dunleavy had permitted it. Swift silently praised the man. He was too close now, goddammit. He had the kid right on the ropes.
“Swift!” Tuggey’s voice roared over the speakers. There was a pounding on the other side of the door.
Swift was nonplussed. He and Darring stared at each other. “You created a whole web of lies to confuse and distract Braxton, and everyone else he knew. You created what you thought was a perfect screen for you to hide behind. Nothing in your little apartment in Queens, nothing on your so-called personal computer. Because you got those two other kids shilling for you.”
Swift watched Darring closely. The young man’s face had taken on that dreamy expression he’d gotten before. Like he was a radio signal fading out.
Suddenly, Swift flew across the room. In a few giant strides he was back at the table, and he slammed his hands down. He yelled in Darring’s face. “What did you do to those kids to get them to do what you wanted? Why did you kill Braxton Simpkins?”
“Swift! Stop it, Swift!” Swift thought he heard the jangling of keys. Escher was opening up. The seconds were melting away.
Darring barely flinched at Swift’s outburst. He looked up at the detective.
Swift gnashed his teeth. “Come clean, Robert! You know I’m going to find out anyway. You got people working for you; I got people working for me. Tell me! What are you doing?”
The door flew open.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
“Let’s go get this motherfucker,” said Bull Camoine, setting down a black bag. He stood in Mike’s living room, snow melting off his combat boots forming a puddle at his feet. Here in this place, Bull seemed larger than life. Living up to his name. He stood over six feet, and was at least two-hundred and twenty pounds of muscle and fat.
Mike, on the other hand, felt vaporously thin. A ghost. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. Had they eaten breakfast this morning, he and the girls, before he took them to the airport? His head was swimming with the four vodkas he’d pounded, and a fifth glass was held in his hand. Nearby was a cup filled with spent cigarettes. He hadn’t been drunk in months. Maybe a year. It was hitting him hard.
Bull clapped his hands and rubbed the palms together. “Tell me where he is.”
“He’s here in town,” Mike said.
“He’s here? What the hell are you talking about?” Bull’s eyes were bulging with excitement.
“I got directions from him. He’s right fucking here in town, man.”
Mike felt dizzy and needed to sit down. He walked to the couch and dropped so fast it felt like the cushions jumped up and hit him in the ass. His drink sloshed in his grip.
“Whoa, whoa, hey Mikey,” Bull said. He strode across the floor, his dripping boots tracking more slush and water. Mike stared at the melting trail on the floor. Bull grabbed the drink out of Mike’s limp grip. “You’ve had tee many martoonies or what?” Then Bull lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it. He smacked his lips and said, “Ahh.”
“I feel like shit.”
“Fucking nuts. This guy is just something else.” Bull strode away, presumably to get more drinks. Mike looked into the empty hand that had held his drink, still curled in a grip around a non-existent glass. When Bull came back a moment later with two fresh vodkas, he wore a thoughtful expression.
“So how did he get to your money?”
“I don’t know. But, it’s gone.”
Bull slurped his drink and looked down with a quizzical expression. “Aren’t you the only one who can make a withdrawal?”
“I’m the account owner, yeah. But the one putting the money in is my old man.”
Bull shook his head, drank until the ice cubes bumped against his lips. “Uh-huh.”
Mike felt like he was floating, attached to his body by a string.
“Your old man,” Bull repeated.
“There’s got to be something else going on.”
“You call them?”
“Callie? No. I couldn’t. I can’t.”
“You able to see who made the withdrawal?”
“I am.”
“Your old man?”
“There was one more email,” Mike said, starting to shake. It seemed to
come from inside of him, his whole being rattling like an engine. The laptop was on the couch beside him. He tapped the mouse pad and the screen came to life. The last email was there. Bull, standing with his drink like a man at an art gallery opening, casually bent and squinted at the text. He read it out loud.
“Don’t call the cops. Or the girls will get hurt.”
Bull stood back up. He didn’t look at Mike. He finished the vodka and stared off for a moment, thinking. Then he turned and walked across the room where he bent down to the black bag he’d placed near the front door. He reached in and pulled out a handgun. He came back towards Mike holding it out in his palm.
“This is a Glock 19, Mike.”
He held it up. It was small, all black. Mike shifted the vodka between his hands, reached up and took the weapon by the grip.
“That’s a Modular Back Strap design,” Bull said. “Dual recoil spring assembly inside.”
The grip was gritty in Mike’s palm. He turned the gun back and forth in the air. He slipped his finger into the trigger. It had been years since he’d held a gun. The last time was when he was in his teens. He’d pointed it at his father.
“That texture you’re feeling is called Gen4. And that’s a reversible enlarged magazine catch. You can change that in seconds. I’ve got nine-by-nineteen safe action ammo for you. You’ll have ten rounds in the magazine. But all you need to know, Mike, all you need to worry about, is that’s your trigger, right there.”
Mike imagined standing as he had stood decades ago. Holding a gun. Pointing it. Only this time, squeezing the trigger. Jack Simpkins’ face became Tori McAfferty’s. It all came crashing together — along with vodka on an empty stomach — and Mike got up and stumbled into the bathroom.
He dimly heard Bull calling after him, “Get it up, Mikey. Get it outta ya. We got business.” And then he heard the slap of a steel magazine as Bull loaded the gun.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“You’re done, Swifty,” said the Captain. “You’re done.”
Swift felt a hand clamp down on his arm and he shrugged it off. He strode out of the interrogation room and stalked down the hallway, putting the phone to his ear.
“Swift!” The Captain chased after him into the corridor. Swift looked around but didn’t stop what he was doing, checking the message from Silas.
“You’re done, I said, Swift.” Tuggey was closing in on him. There was a dangerous edge to his voice. Swift knew he was one step away from being forced to resign. This was it. His new job might possibly be salvageable, if he stopped right now, if Tuggey could be convinced, after all this, to provide a glowing letter of recommendation to the Attorney General. But if Swift didn’t press, didn’t go for broke, the kid would walk. He knew it. If he gave in now, if he turned and bowed out gracefully, saving what little face he had left, then Robert Darring would get away.
He held a finger up to the Captain, who stood fuming. Swift listened to Brittney Silas’ recorded voice.
“John, it’s me. Listen, we found the headlamp. Two days out here in this shit, but we found it. Way down the road, like it was lost maybe while the victim was dragged behind the car. PETZL brand. I’ve checked it for latent prints. There’s prints we cleared, which are Braxton’s. And then there are a second set of prints, but they’re nowhere in our database. Nothing. We’ve got clear-prints on the Simpkins family, and it’s none of them, so . . .. Anyway, we’ve got it logged into evidence. Call me.”
He hung up.
* * *
Swift gathered all the cops into the room they had all been watching from earlier. He was surprised to see Janine Poehler there. He gave her a brief smile and touched her shoulder before turning to the others. Tuggey, Mathis, Escher, all there. Dunleavy was busy elsewhere; Lieutenant Timberlake was out commanding the manhunt for Tori McAfferty.
Swift told them all about the headlamp.
Mathis spoke up first. The ADA looked like he was choking on a piece of meat.
“It’s too late, Swift. Darring’s PD has the gag on him. We’re not getting another word, you’re not getting another second with him. This thing with the headlamp? My God. What a screw up. What an epic screw up. No way to enter that into the evidence file now. I’m sorry, man. I know you’re a legend around here and I’m just the shitty new guy with the attitude, but you fucked up.”
“Listen, Sean, I don’t think so.”
Mathis waved his hand in the air and turned away.
“The headlamp was dusted for latents,” Swift said. “And nothing.”
Mathis spun back around with raised eyebrows.
“Nothing? Well, what the fuck? We booked and printed him two days ago. He’s in the system.” Mathis pulled on his hair and paced. “Ah, shit.”
Swift looked from Mathis to Tuggey, Escher and Janine Poehler, then glanced at the monitor. He watched Darring sitting there in the interrogation room along with his lawyer. He looked small from here, nothing like the big, unshakable personality of the past few days. From this distance he was just a kid, alone.
But, not entirely. He’d never been alone.
“He’s not showing up for the prints because he’s not who he says he is.”
“What? Swift, you’re losing it. You already lost it.”
“I want to get the Feds on this,” Swift said.
Mathis rolled his eyes. He plopped down into a swivel chair in front of the monitor and recording gear. He waved his hands. “Swift, we talked about this . . .”
Swift looked at him, cutting him off. “I know you want this one. But I’m sorry, Mathis.” He looked around. “And the rest of you. I’ve got a feeling about something. I’ve had it for a little while.”
Tuggey gaped. “For Christ’s sake, John . . .”
Swift pointed at the screen, and they all turned to look at Darring’s small, digital shape there in the center of it. “The prints don’t match? That’s because he’s not who he says he is.”
Mathis scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“Who the hell is he?” asked Tuggey.
“I’m going to find that out.”
“We go to court in less than an hour,” Mathis bellowed.
“I know,” said Swift. He caught the scent of Janine Poehler beside him, her perfume, shampoo, aromatic traces of good coffee. He let his thoughts rest there for a moment. Escher was giving him a dirty look — he’d just had to unlock a room and haul Swift out. Tuggey had been riding him since the beginning. Mathis wanting to run the show. Swift was trying to keep it all in the pocket. It wasn’t easy. Goddammit, it wasn’t easy. A cushy job in Albany would be much better. Time with Kady. Time to think. To get out from under all of this.
“Tricia Eggleston,” said Swift.
“Yeah? What about her?”
“You said you’d work on her.”
Escher spoke up. “She got picked up in Plattsburgh, over the line, Clinton County. So she’s up there.”
Swift was looking sharply at Mathis, waiting.
Mathis raised his palms. “Swift, you think Remy LaCroix and DA Cobleskill haven’t thrown everything at her? She’s not talking. If she knows where McAfferty is, she’s not going to say. Warren has got her locked up like Rapunzel. Anyway, we’re talking about two different things here. I’m here because of the kid in that room, okay? Your case, the Braxton Simpkins case. We can’t stick anything to this kid, headlamp or no. We cannot introduce anything else at this point. We’re done. Over.” He enunciated every word.
“Call her.”
“Cobleskill?”
“We need to talk to Tricia right now.”
“Swift,” Tuggey said, “We’re at the end of the line. Time’s up.”
Swift looked them all over. Mathis was rumpled with doubt and something like jealousy; he didn’t want Federal involved, stealing his glory. Tuggey just looked bewildered, his mouth hanging open a little. Janine had a slight smile playing over her lips. Swift saw she had just a touch of lipstick on, or maybe lip balm, so that
they shone. To hell with what they said about younger women. Janine Poehler was where it was at.
Swift pressed on. “We’re going to need Kim Yom, too. Let’s get her in here. We’re going to meet tonight.” Swift glanced at his watch. “Right now we need to have Tricia Eggleston tell us where McAfferty is.”
Janine spoke for the first time. “What makes you think she’s just going to open up?”
Swift looked at her and smiled. “I have that way,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Back out in the cold. The frigid wind edged into Mike’s coat. Bull Camoine’s Pathfinder sat in the middle of the driveway, the engine still running, the headlights turned off. Mike thought he saw someone sitting in the passenger seat.
“Who’s that?”
“That’s Linda.”
Mike stopped walking, halfway to the car. Now he’d thrown up he felt empty, as if someone had taken a steel wool brush and swiped it through his insides. His thoughts were still nebulous; things in his peripheral vision danced and darted. “Jesus, Bull. You brought Linda?”
Bull kept his voice low. His breath puffed out between his lips. “She’s my wife, Mikey. We do everything together.”
It had been years since Mike had seen Linda Epstein. He hadn’t gone to Bull’s wedding — no one had; the two of them had run off and married in Vegas, much to Bull’s mother’s endless chagrin. Linda had been a year behind Bull in school, and Mike remembered her coming to some of the old football games, a mousy girl with glasses who clutched her books against a flat chest.
The woman who greeted him as he piled into the back of the Pathfinder was very different. Now Linda Camoine, as she turned and smiled and held out her hand, Mike could see the tattoos that started from between her thumb and forefinger and wound around her wrist and disappeared beneath the sleeve of her black, body-hugging shirt. She’d either developed breasts, or bought some, and they bulged against a taut sweater. More tats rose from the collar, one tine of some probably tribal design snaked up and came to a point right between the back of her jaw and her neck. Her hair was no longer dull brown, but dirty-blonde, with a streak of purple or blue in it — he couldn’t tell beneath the dome light.
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