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“I thought so,” Lowenstein said. “I’ll have it sent to Callis within the hour.”
“What the hell, Matt,” Carlucci said. “I mean, you’re right here in the neighborhood, right’? Why don’t you, both of you, take this to Tom? See if he has any problems with it? Give him my very best regards when you do.”
James Howard Leslie had been sitting in the steel captain’s chair in the Homicide Unit interview room, handcuffed to its seat, for almost an hour when the door opened and a very large, important-looking black man walked in.No one had spoken to him during that time, nor had anyone so much as opened the door to look at him. He suspected that he was being watched through the somewhat fuzzy mirror on the wall, but he couldn’t be sure.
“James Howard Leslie?” the black man asked.
Leslie didn’t reply.
“Good afternoon,” Jason Washington said. “If you’d like, I can remove the handcuff.”
“I don’t give a fuck one way or the other.”
Washington unlocked the handcuff and stood back. Leslie rubbed his wrist.
“I don’t even know what the fuck’s going on,” Leslie said.
“You’ve been in here some time, I understand.” Washington said. “Is there anything I can get for you’? Would you like a Coca-Cola, a cup of coffee, a sandwich?”
“What I would like is to know what the hell is going on. All I did was try to burn some garbage.”
“I understand. That’s why I’m here, to explain to you what’s going on. And while we’re talking, would you like a Coca-Cola, or a cigarette?”
“I could drink a Coke.”
Washington opened the door. “Sergeant,” he ordered sternly, “would you please get a Coca-Cola for Mr. Leslie?”
Leslie heard someone reply.
“Fuck him! Let the fucking cop killer drink water!”
“I said get him a Coca-Cola.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” the voice said.
“That wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order,” Washington said sharply.
Two minutes later, a slight, dapper man with a pencil-thin mustache entered the interview room with a Coca-Cola, thrust it into Leslie’s hand with such violence that liquid erupted from the neck of the bottle and spilled on Leslie’s shirt and trousers.
The slight, dapper man then left the interview room. Just before the door slammed shut, Leslie heard the man say, “Fuck Special Operations, too.”
Washington handed Leslie a crisp white handkerchief to clean his shirt and trousers.
“He and Officer Kellog were friends,” Washington said, in explanation.
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Washington said. He leaned on the wall by the door, waited until Leslie had finished mopping at himself and started to return the handkerchief.
“Keep it,” Washington said. “You may need it again.”
“Thanks,” Leslie said.
“As I understand what’s happened here,” Washington said conversationally, “Officer Bailey of the Thirty-ninth District extinguished a fire in your backyard. In doing so, he found a photograph of Officer Kellog on his wedding day.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Officer who?”
“The finding of the photograph was, in the opinion of the Honorable Francis X. McGrory, Judge of the Superior Court, sufficient cause for him to issue a search warrant for your home.”
