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“Found it at the ferry terminal?”
“Yes, ma’am. Man said to me, ‘Take this car from me, please. I can’t afford to have it fixed.’ I gave one large in cash and he said, ‘Thanks.’”
I picked up the rather thick file of Donald Wolfe’s record of juvenile and petty crimes and slammed it down hard on the table. It made a nice loud crack.
I said, “Cut the shit. You want a break on that stolen car, you’ve got exactly one minute to help me out. After that, my partner is getting what we need from Valdeen. He looks soft, Donnie. I’m betting he’s gonna step up to the line.”
Wolfe looked down at the table and started shaking his head while muttering, “Nuh-uh-uh. No-no-no.”
“No what, Donnie?”
“What is it you want to know, exactly?”
“What do you know about the armed robbery at Wicker House this morning?”
“N.O. Nothing. When I left work, everything was cool. Do you understand? Rascal and me. We’re stockroom boys. We unpack the boxes. We ship boxes out. We make labels and check inventory and sometimes we bring coffee to some decorator lady. I don’t know shit about shit.”
“Did you know there was going to be a raid on Wicker House?”
“How would I know anything about that?”
“Seven people were shot to death. You knew those men, Donnie. You worked with them. You want whoever killed them to get away with it?”
“I hope you get whoever did that. I do.”
He looked at me like I was supposed to believe him.
I said, “Do you know anything about men wearing police Windbreakers knocking over mercados? Hitting up drug dealers?”
“What? Cops taking drugs and money offa dealers and keeping it for theirselves? I never heard of anything like that.”
He laughed. Then he got serious. He leaned across the table and said, “Listen up, Sergeant. Other people will take care of this problem that happened at Wicker House, OK? They’re a whole lot better at it than you.”
That stopped me. “Meaning what? Who’s going to take care of this? How?”
Wolfe shrugged. His flip, phony wise-ass personality was back. “Follow the money, Sergeant.”
“Explain what you mean by that,” I said.
He said, “I get my phone call now? My girlfriend is worried about why I’m not home. Did I say? We’re having a baby.”
“Who will get to kiss his daddy in twelve to fifteen?”
I left the room and walked next door. I looked through the glass into Interview 2 and watched Conklin get absolutely nowhere with Ralph Valdeen. Another stockroom boy. Didn’t know nothing.
Seven men had died, and if that massacre was over wicker furniture, it was a first. More likely, big money and a lot of drugs had been boosted from that drug factory.
I thought about what Wolfe had said in that one honest-sounding statement: Someone would take care of the men responsible. Someone better at it than us. “Follow the money.”
I had a shivery feeling as I thought about what kind of payback there might be for the massacre at Wicker House. A feeling the Irish might express by saying “Someone just walked over my grave.”
CHAPTER 46
CINDY WAS BEING treated like a celebrity in a bookstore called Book Revue on Long Island, New York.
This part—the book signings, the people applauding her—she hadn’t thought about this at all during the years she’d spent thinking about writing a book.
She had staked out psycho killers in sketchy areas, had spent nights in rough motels or in her car, had worked nights and weekends and pestered cops, even ones she loved, for information that would become a great story, possibly an exclusive one. She had worked the crime desk for the challenge of finding an angle that the police didn’t have, for the rush of turning her hand-mined facts into dramatic prose.
