by Steven Henry
Ripper sat.
“Down.”
Down he went.
“Good boy.” She unfastened the leash and stepped back, still facing him, making him see she was boss. “You just stay here.”
The black, shaggy beast watched her go. She thought she saw a hint of a wag in his tail.
Chapter 8
The kid was Devon James, age sixteen. Given the short time span of his criminal career, he’d built a pretty impressive rap sheet. Mostly juvenile stuff, but he’d lately graduated to Grand Theft Auto. He was actually supposed to be in Juvenile Detention, from what Erin could see, but someone somewhere had screwed up and he was back on the street. For the moment.
“Looks like they’re running a chop shop,” Vic observed over Erin’s shoulder. They were back at the precinct, checking up on their suspects before starting the interrogation.
“Probably,” she agreed. “The crummy old cars I saw there were cover. I expect they move the real merchandise through as fast as they can.”
“I thought this guy worked for General Motors,” Vic said.
“He did,” Webb said. “I just checked with GM. He got laid off a month after Grimes’s trial. He’d started with their maintenance division before he made manager, so he already had the skill set to slot into a nice life of crime.”
“Think he got canned because of the mess with Grimes?” Vic wondered.
“It’s a possibility.” Webb stood up. “I think we’ve got enough to go on. O’Reilly, you’re with me.”
“This should be good,” Vic muttered. “I guess I’ll watch on the sideline. Like usual.”
The usual rule of thumb with interrogations, when there were multiple suspects, was to start with the weakest one and work your way up. Normally this would mean starting with the teenager. Since he was 16, James was old enough to be interviewed without parental consent. But Webb went to Bucklington’s interrogation room first.
“The kid’s a hard case,” he explained, one hand on the door. “Practically born in the life.”
“Bucklington doesn’t have a record,” Erin agreed. “He’ll crack easier, you think?”
“He hasn’t lawyered up yet,” Webb said. “So he’s either inexperienced or an idiot. Either way, we’ll take him apart.” He opened the door.
Hugo Bucklington was cuffed to the table inside. He looked scared, but also a little confused, like he’d been hit on the head. He looked from one detective to the other and smiled hesitantly. Erin had to admit, he looked soft. She’d been around a lot of criminals and was used to their defense mechanisms. Bucklington didn’t have any. He looked like a random blue-collar guy, like the neighbors she’d had growing up in Queens. Pudgy, middle-aged, balding. The sort of guy you’d call if your plumbing clogged up.
On the other hand, murderers could look harmless. It didn’t pay to make assumptions.
“You’re a long way from Detroit, Mr. Bucklington,” Webb said, taking a seat opposite him.
“Detroit?” the prisoner repeated.
“Motor City,” Webb said. “Motown. Detroit.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s where I’m from. Say, could you or the lady tell me what’s going on here?”
“We just need you to answer some questions for us,” Webb said. “Can you tell me where you were on New Year’s Eve?”
“I was at home. Well, not Detroit, that is. I have an apartment in the Bronx.”
“All day?” Erin asked.
“Huh? No, just for the evening. I was working during the day.”
“Who can vouch for your whereabouts?”
“Devon. He was at the shop all day.” Bucklington’s face fell. “But you arrested him, too, so maybe you won’t believe that.”
“We’ll see,” Webb said. “You’re pretty handy with machinery, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You go to school for that?”
“Henry Ford Community College. Automotive Technology.” A little pride showed in his voice.
“You had a pretty good thing going with GM.”
“Yeah. While it lasted.”
“How’d you lose the job?”
“The economy. Lots of guys got canned.”
“What’d Kathy Grimes have to do with it?”
“What?” Bucklington asked.
“Kathy Grimes,” Webb said patiently. “Tell me about her.”
“That bitch?” For the first time, an expression other than bewilderment and fear was on Bucklington’s face. “She played me. She got in close, all cozy-like, made me think we had something special. Then she ripped me off. Cleaned out the department petty cash account, using my access.”
“Did she use your work computer?” Webb asked.
“Remote access, from home,” Bucklington said more quietly.
“Were you having an affair with Miss Grimes?” Erin asked.
He snorted. “I was having an affair,” he said bitterly. “She was playing games with me.”
“How did she get away with it?” Webb asked. “She was acquitted at trial.”
Bucklington snorted again. “Reasonable doubt. They couldn’t find the money anywhere. Her lawyer said it could’ve just as easily been me. My word against hers. I hope that lawyer was expensive. She sure got her money’s worth from him. Hell, maybe she was screwing him, too. Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“What happened afterward?” Webb asked.
“GM sacked me three days after the trial,” he answered unhappily. “By that time my wife had already moved out. They said it was the economy, but the truth is, they just didn’t trust me anymore. Word got around, and I couldn’t get another job in Detroit. So I headed out east to try my luck.”
“Where you ran into Kathy again,” Webb said.
“What’re you talking about? Kathy’s still in Detroit,” Bucklington said. “Far as I know.”
“No, she was in Manhattan on New Year’s Eve,” Webb prompted. “What do you think she was doing?”
“Screwing some poor bastard over,” Bucklington said. “That’s what she does. Look, Detective, I don’t know what’s going on here, but if it’s anything to do with Kathy Grimes, it’s nothing to do with me. She and I are done. Over. I’m not working with her!”
“I didn’t say you were,” Webb said softly. “You really hate her, don’t you?”
“She took my job, my money, and my marriage, okay? Of course I hate her!”
Webb nodded sympathetically. “I can see why. She pretty much ruined your life.”
“You’re damned right she did!”
“You ever think about getting even with her?”
“I used to dream about it,” Bucklington said. He sat back and stared into space, remembering. “She’s got this great, sparkly smile, like you see in a toothpaste commercial. I dreamed about taking a tire iron to those pretty white teeth of hers.”
Erin winced inwardly. That was not a wise thing to say in an interrogation room.
“You’d like her to be dead, wouldn’t you?” Webb suggested, soft and encouraging.
“The day I hear she’s dead,” Bucklington said, looking Webb straight in the eye, “I’ll get a case of beer, drink about six cans, then go to the cemetery and piss it all out on her grave.”
“Then this is your lucky day,” Webb said with a smile. “Tell you what. Why don’t you tell me how you did it, and maybe we can get you that beer you’re wanting.”
“Huh?” Confusion and fear crowded the anger back out of Bucklington’s face. “Did what?”
“Kathy,” Webb said patiently. “Tell me how you killed her. You already told us why.”
“Kathy’s dead?”
Erin and Webb nodded in unison.
“Wait, you think I killed her?” he exclaimed.
The detectives waited and watched him.
“No! I didn’t! I would never!”
“Take a tire iron to those pretty white teeth?” Erin repeated.
“I was just saying that! I didn’t mean it!”
“You meant it a minute ago,” Erin said, stepping into the role of bad cop. “She was killed brutally. Painfully. By someone who really hated her. Someone like you, Mr. Bucklington. Listen, this is a bad situation. You’re lucky they don’t put people in the electric chair anymore in the great state of New York. But once they hang this around your neck, you’re never getting out of prison. The inmates, they’ve got special plans for guys who kill girls. Maybe, just maybe, if you can explain this, tell us how you did it, come clean, you might get a shot at parole before you die behind bars.”
Bucklington looked wildly from Webb’s face to Erin’s, a trapped animal looking for a way out. “No, you have to believe me! I wanted to hurt her, sure, but I didn’t! I didn’t even know she was in New York, I swear to God!”
“How did you get backstage at the theater?” Webb pressed on relentlessly. “Help me so I can help you.”
“What theater? I wasn’t at any theater! I was working New Year’s Eve!”
“Can you prove it?” Erin challenged.
Bucklington froze for a few seconds in sheer, blind panic. Then his face lit up. “Yeah! Yeah, I can! I sold a bunch of parts off a Mercedes to a guy.”
“A Mercedes?” Erin repeated. “You expect us to believe that? You were working on a piece of shit from the ‘80s when we rolled up on you. You don’t get high-end crap like that. If you’re gonna feed me bullshit, make it something believable.”
“No, it was a Mercedes,” Bucklington said. “I swear. I can give you the guy. His name’s Ed Kane. He deals parts to street racers and local garages, behind the scenes.”
“When did you meet with this Mr. Kane?” Webb asked.
“Four o’clock, more or less.” He looked hopeful. “Was that around the time Kathy died?”
“And your dealings with Mr. Kane would be illegal?” Webb prompted.
“Well, yeah, technically.”
“And this Mercedes was stolen?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“But you didn’t receive the vehicle title.”
“No.”
“So, your alibi is that you were receiving stolen mer¬chan-dise.”
Bucklington hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’re going to need a detailed statement about this,” Webb said. “Everything you did on the 31st, start to finish. Who you talked to, who you met with, how much money changed hands. Everything.”
Vic gave them a slow round of applause as they left the interrogation room. “That was beautiful, boss. Absolutely beautiful. You said you were gonna get a confession, and you did. I mean, it was a confession to a totally different crime, but still...”
“Can it, Neshenko,” Webb said. Then a smile crossed his face, almost against his will. “Okay, I admit it. That was a good one.”
“We need to check the whole thing out,” Erin said. “Those guys are all gonna lie about it. It’s the worst alibi in the world.”
“Yeah,” Webb said. “But we’ll be able to kick some of the legwork over to Auto Crimes, at least. And in the meantime, let’s find out who else wanted Kathy Grimes dead.”
“I’m starting to get the feeling it’s gonna be a long list,” Vic said.
Chapter 9
“This is hopeless,” Vic said.
For once, Webb didn’t comment on Vic’s pessimism. The three detectives stared morosely at a map of the United States. Webb had stuck it to their whiteboard. Erin and Vic had plotted the Great Ronaldo’s tour of the lower forty-eight with a red Sharpie. It made a meandering trail of crimson that hit Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, Philadelphia, and Boston before coming to a stop in New York.
“We can’t check six major cities for tangential crimes,” Webb said. “It’ll be the damn phone book.” He twirled an unlit cigarette in his fingers.
“It was just a theory, anyway,” Erin said. It had been her idea that Kathy Grimes might have been using her role with the magic show as a cover for larceny.
“But it makes sense,” Webb said. “Sideshow performers have a tendency to engage in that kind of behavior.”
“I wish Kira was here,” Vic said. “She’d have some fun fact for us, like how getting ‘gypped’ is an old ethnic slur on Gypsies.”
“Sounds like we don’t need her,” Webb said. “You’re a fountain of knowledge.”
“Only about persecuted ethnic groups from eastern Europe,” he replied.
“Anyway,” Webb said, “it’s unlikely any local victim would’ve followed her to New York. They wouldn’t have had much time to plan, and the chances they were familiar enough with stage equipment... It’s thin.”
“We letting Bucklington go?” Erin asked.
“Yeah,” Webb said. “He’ll go all the way to the Fifty-Fourth. They’ll take him in for the car theft he’s confessed to. If we need him again, they’ll have him in a nice, cozy cell. After that, he’ll be in Riker’s if he can’t make bail.”
“And I don’t think he’s exactly rolling in money,” Vic added. “How about Whitaker?”
“He’s not going anywhere, either,” Webb said. “If he leaves town, I’ve told him he’ll be trying to outrun a warrant. If he crosses state lines, it’ll be the Marshals on his ass.”
“I’d like to see him pull a disappearing act on them,” Vic chuckled.
“Last I heard, he was looking for a new assistant,” Webb continued.
“Who’s gonna be crazy enough to take that job?” Erin wondered aloud.
“With this publicity and exposure?” Vic retorted. “There’ll be wannabe celebrities lined up around the block. Ten bucks says so.”
“No bet,” Erin said. Carlyle, professional bookie, would’ve agreed it was a sucker’s wager.
“We need more,” Webb said softly, tapping his cigarette against his upper lip thoughtfully.
“Maybe someone should talk to Whitaker again, or Miller,” Erin said.
“You want to?” Webb asked.
“Hell no,” she said. “These guys give me the creeps. But I think it’s a good idea. I want to understand how their world works a little better. Who they come in contact with, how they do their business. I understand drug rings, mob families, street gangs, sure. But magicians are different.”
Webb nodded. “Okay. Why don’t you talk to Miller? These stage types are pretty close-mouthed about their own tricks. He may open up a little more about his competitor.”
Erin’s dad had told her something similar about busting street gangs. “No one wants to rat out his buddies. But they can rationalize squealing on a rival. They’ll even insist they’re not a rat afterwards.”
“I’ll head over now,” she said. “I should be able to catch him before he starts prepping for the evening show.”
“He’s staying at the Hilton Times Square,” Vic said. “But if he invites you in, watch his hands. If he grabs your ass, shoot him.”
Erin pulled out of the Precinct 8 parking garage in her Charger, Rolf riding in his compartment in back. She checked the rearview mirror to see if she was being followed. The black Lincoln Town Car in her lane was a little suspicious. Two guys were riding in it, and the windows looked to be tinted right on the edge of the legal limit. She told herself she was being silly, turned north on 8th Avenue, and checked the mirror again.
The car was still there.
She went a couple of blocks, waiting for it to turn or change lanes. It didn’t.
Who were those guys? She thought of Ian Thompson, but Ian was apparently a lone operator, and there were two men in the car. Other mob associates, maybe, like Carlyle was worried about.
That was assuming Carlyle was telling the truth. Erin wondered about that. He was cagey, sure, but he was also very good at never actually lying to her. Everything he’d ever said that she’d been able to check had turned out to be true, technically.
She turned southeast on 34th. It was out of her way, but that was part of the test. If they stuck with her through her zigzag, she could be pretty sure they w
ere tailing her. She went north again on 6th Avenue.
The Town Car stuck with her.
Erin maintained her speed. She didn’t want to spook her tail. But she kept an increasingly sharp eye on them and eased a hand to the Glock at her belt. If it was a hit, they’d wait for her to come to a red light and pull up alongside. If she saw them coming up on her with windows down, she’d know for sure. Then she’d have about five seconds to figure out how to stay alive.
She got to 40th Street without incident and turned right, starting a circuit around Bryant Park and the New York Public Library. Her plan was to circle the library at 5th Avenue and hook back up 42nd Street to the Hilton. There was no way the other car would follow her by accident.
Sure enough, the Town Car followed her onto 40th. The light at 5th Avenue was red as she approached in the left-hand lane, with two cars stopped in front of her. The other car moved into the next lane over. It edged forward.
Its windows were still rolled up, but Erin wasn’t taking any chances. She flicked her remote stoplight control. Every police car had one these days, enabling them to change lights as they approached. It messed with traffic flow and pissed off city engineers, but it could make all the difference in response time. The light obligingly turned green.
Erin quickly went left. The Town Car blinked its turn signal, but another car had pulled up behind her and they couldn’t find a space. The driver had no choice but to continue straight across 5th Avenue and away from her. Erin, looking in her rearview as she accelerated away from them, was sure the driver was watching her. She caught a glimpse of a square-faced guy wearing a watch cap; not enough to pull out of a lineup.
Another car was right behind the Lincoln, a nondescript off-white Toyota, and for an instant, Erin thought she caught a glimpse of a familiar buzz-cut silhouette behind its wheel. Now that looked like Ian Thompson.
She shrugged the thought away. Whatever had happened, or nearly happened, she’d dodged it. It didn’t scare her; it pissed her off. Erin expected perps to run away, not trail after her. She’d have to take care of this, one way or another. But in the meantime, she still had a job to do.