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These papers were what he’d had with him when Charles Hale’s assistant, Woman X, tranqued him and hauled him off to the acid room. (Lyle Spencer’s news that Burdick was probably planning to use a fellow cop’s own medical chart about an old injury against him might have inspired someone else to slip into the hospital and steal and destroy those records. Which, of course, Pulaski would never do. “Borrowing” Aaron Stahl’s file, though, while a little borderline, was really just part of his investigation.)
He continued, “Aaron, your blood work showed the presence of triamcinolone and lidocaine. Injectable painkillers. Which the responding medical technicians didnotgive you. You shot yourself up with thembeforethe crash so that it didn’t hurt too much. Because you were paid to drive in front of me and take the hit. I suspect you didn’t expect to catch fire, but”—he shrugged—“every job has its downside, right? And also on your chart, Narcan, administered probably two days ago. You’ve got an opioid problem, Aaron. Which means you have a dealer—and therefore access to fentanyl. Somebody in the crowd helping me after the accident managed to get some on my skin. That’s why I tested positive. Hell, you might even’ve paid off an EMT. I don’t know.”
Pulaski wondered if Aaron had intentionally passed an armthrough the unexpected flames at the crash, just so he could hit the doctors up for more drugs.
If true, nothing but sad.
“And after that I went to look at your burned-out SUV, the junkyard where they towed it in Queens. And guess what I found inside? A wad of plastic that had been an Opticom.”
“Shit,” muttered Baskov.
Opticoms are remote controls carried by many first responders to change traffic lights, so, say, a fire truck can turn all the reds it’s approaching to green.
“You used it to switch the lights when I was in the intersection. Nobody was paying attention until the collision, so everybody saw my light was red, yours was green. Oh, and another thing that didn’t get burned up completely? The crash helmet you wore. And one final thing we’ve got. The main witness who gave a statement that I ran the light? Theresa Lemerov? She isn’t exactly what you’d call objective. A cop friend of mine in Brooklyn followed her. She was in your brother’s house all day, and—”
“Wait,” Aaron barked.
Pulaski lifted an eyebrow.
“My brother?”
“Evan Stahl. Theresa, the main witness, knew your family, and that—”
“My brother.” His face was red with anger. “Did your friend say she spent the night?”
“What?”
“Did Theresa spend the night with my brother?”
Baskov: “Oh, Jesus, Aaron. Let it go.”
Aaron muttered, “That bitch! She said she’d never have anything to do with him again. I take a fall, nearly get burnt alive, and the first thing she does is run to Evan. Oh, and that prick—”
Baskov said, “Would you just be quiet?”
Amen to that.
“So, where was I? Right. I knew Burdick was setting me up—but I thought it was just to get me fired because I dissed him in front of some reporters. But it was bigger than that. It was about me hunting for Eddie Tarr.”
When Baskov blinked, his theory became proof.
“Tarr needed me off his trail for a murder I was investigating—just until he could finish a job here. He paid Burdick to get me out of the picture. First, Burdick tried to get me suspended at a crime scene and when that didn’t work, he hired your father.” A glance at Baskov. “He set up the crash.
“So here’s the thing. I want Burdick. A solid case. Gold. I’ve got a circumstantial one. I want witnesses.
“If I was to give you a statement …”
“Hey, I know shit too!” Aaron’s defiance had become desperation.
Being the daughter of a capo, she needed only one look to silence him. She said, “And emails, dates and places.”
Pulaski said, “This’s making my heart sing.”
She shrugged. “What do I get?”
“We,” Aaron blurted.
“The DA can guarantee the state won’t go for anything more than four years, medium sec.”
