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Finally Detective Sergeant Jack Logan had his turn. Zach felt the skepticism in Logan’s eyes as he asked questions, noticed the way two officers shared a dubious look when he told them about the prostitute. No matter what he said, he knew they thought he was lying.
Even though Logan went through all the motions, recording the conversation while the officers took a few notes, Zach read the disbelief in the old policeman’s eyes.
“These men who attacked you,” Logan finally said as McHenry packed up his doctor’s bag. “Rudy and Joey?”
“That’s what they called each other.”
“You ever seen them before?”
“Never.”
“He’s got to go to the hospital,” the doctor interrupted.
Logan didn’t miss a beat. “Look, Doc, we’re trying to find Witt’s little girl. I shouldn’t have to tell you that time is critical. We just need Zach to come down to the station and look at a few pictures, that’s all.”
“I’d advise against it.”
Witt’s frown deepened. “Zach?”
His mouth tasted foul, his head thundered, and his shoulder throbbed like holy hell, but he nodded to his father. “I’ll go.”
There was nothing further McHenry could do. He pulled Witt aside, warned him about something, but Zach couldn’t make out what. They rode in a squad car to the police station and, seated in a small room with flickering fluorescent lighting and the thin smell of stale cigarettes and old coffee, Zach flipped through pages of mug shots and stared at black-and-white pictures through a haze of pain.
“What about this one?” an officer would ask and Zach would focus, only to shake his head. There were more people in the room than had been in the hotel. As the hours passed, officers would come and go, glancing at him as they strapped on weapons, took statements, or told dirty jokes.
“Him. What about him?”
The questions didn’t stop and Zach stared at photograph after photograph—grainy black-and-whites of men he’d never seen. He thumbed the pages, shook his head, and thumbed some more. His father was in the room, pacing, looking as if he wished he could tear someone, anyone, limb from limb.
The pictures started to look alike and swim before his eyes. His back ached and he felt as if he hadn’t slept for a hundred years. One officer sat on the corner of the table, watching his reactions, while another went out for coffee.
Zach slumped in his chair and craved a cigarette. The coffee didn’t help.
“That’s it. Nothing,” a burly officer said over a yawn as another, a slim woman who had just come on duty, started gathering the books.
“I guess Rudy and Joey weren’t processed here,” Officer Ralph O’Donnelly said as he squashed out the butt of his cigarette in his empty coffee cup.
“Rudy?” The woman glanced from Logan to Witt.
“Yeah, the kid, here, heard their names.” Officer O’Donnelly stood and stretched. His back popped loudly.
“Why didn’t you say so?” she asked, searching through the books again and flipping one open. She shoved the open pages under Zach’s nose. “Look again.”
Every eye in the room was on Zach, as aching, he ran his finger under the pictures and forced his eyes to each face. They blurred for a second, but he kept looking and he felt the air in the room charge. “I don’t think—”
“Look again! Imagine your man clean-shaven or with different-colored hair or whatever,” Logan muttered angrily. “Let’s get an artist in here.”
Zach gritted his teeth, eyeing the mug shots, knowing that there wasn’t a clue on the page, when he stopped at a shot on the bottom row. The hair was different, longer now, and a beard and mustache in the photo covered what appeared to be a pockmarked jaw, but the eyes, the malicious eyes, were the same.
His throat barely worked as he laid a finger on the incriminating shot. “I think—”
“Rudolpho Gianotti,” the woman officer said with a satisfied grin. Zach got the impression she liked beating the men at their own game. “A speed-head who hangs out with Joseph Siri.”
“Hell,” Witt ground out. He strode across the room and glared at the mug shots. Red in the face, he trembled. “I bet they’re connected with Polidori.”
“Bingo,” the woman said. “The vice squad is checking them out—drugs and prostitution, maybe even some penny-ante gambling.”
“I told you!” Witt growled, kicking at the leg of the table. “When I get my hands on Polidori, there’s gonna be hell to pay. Let’s go!”
