April glanced at Sanchez as if he had betrayed her for the thirty-fourth time, then turned to Sergeant Joyce. “We have a confession,” she said.
“No shit. Who is it?”
April referred to her notes. “A bookkeeper, and get this. It’s the guy who does the accounts for the store across the street.”
“Where is he?”
“I’ve got him downstairs in a questioning room. I thought you’d like to hear what he has to say.”
Joyce nodded. She motioned at Sanchez. “Let’s go.”
April raised an eyebrow at the guy who kept saying he wanted to be her best friend and kept edging her out every time he got the chance.
Sanchez shook his head. She just never got it. Women.
“So what happened up there?” April asked, her voice neutral as they trooped to the stairs. It was hot out in the hall. The heady smell of precinct sweat filled the corrider.
“Asses on the line.” Sergeant Joyce gave her a hard look. “It would be nice if this were the guy.”
In the questioning room, Albert Block sat in a metal chair, chewing on his nails. A chubby blue uniform the size of a fullback guarded the door.
“Howya doin’, Herne?” Sanchez said.
Hernando Silvera nodded. “He’s a live one all right.”
Sanchez looked in through the wired window at eye level and snorted, then opened the door for Sergeant Joyce.
“That was my initial reaction,” April said softly.
They filed into the green room, with its ancient peeling paint, one lone table, four chairs, and smudge marks on the wall. Albert Block jumped to his feet. He was all of five five and weighed in at no more than a hundred twenty-five. His scraggly brown hair was gathered into a short ponytail that just brushed the collar of his bright red-and-blue checkered shirt, which was tightly buttoned at the wrists and open at the neck. Black jeans, black motorcycle belt with silver studs. On his feet were a pair of expensive green lizard cowboy boots. In contradiction to the boots, the ponytail, the motorcycle belt, and the strongly colored shirt, his face was shuttered down and timorous in the extreme. Block had watery blue eyes, thin chapped lips, and a receding chin. He was small and pale. His hands were tiny and freckled, the size of a child’s. He looked a lot like Woody Allen after the fall.
April put the tape recorder she had brought down on the table. “Mr. Block,” she said politely, “this is Sergeant Joyce and Sergeant Sanchez. You can sit down.”
He nodded and plunked himself back in the chair, eagerly regarding the tape recorder. “Thank you,” he said.
Sanchez and Joyce looked at each other. What the hell was this? This guy couldn’t lift a five-pound sack of flour, much less press a hundred-and-five-pound corpse a foot and a half over his head and hang it up on a chandelier. What’d he do it with, a winch? Sanchez coughed into his hand.
April ignored him.
“Mr. Block, why don’t you tell the sergeants here what you told me about Saturday night.”
Albert Block nodded again, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and looked from one cop to the other, checking out their faces, three, four times, as if testing their patience. No one moved. He had them in thrall.
Finally he removed the thumb from his mouth and started to talk.
24
What’s that for?” Albert pointed at the tape recorder.
“So we can remember what you said.”
“I’m confessing.” Albert frowned at the tape recorder. “Where’s the D.A.? If I confess, I know the D.A. is supposed to be here. I don’t want to talk to that. I want to talk to him.”
“We have to do everything properly, Mr. Block,” April said pleasantly. “Right now we’re talking. We’re establishing what, if anything, you know.”
“I told you I did it.” He became belligerent. “What else do you want?”
Sanchez and Joyce glanced at each other.
“Why don’t you just tell the two sergeants here what you told me about Maggie,” April prompted, “and we’ll worry about the D.A. later.”
“Who are they?” Block crossed one black-jeaned knee over the other and jiggled a green lizard cowboy boot nervously.
“I told you. This is Sergeant Joyce, Supervisor of the Detective Squad in this—”
“Did you read him his rights, Detective?” Sergeant Joyce interrupted.
“Yes,” April said, “I did. Twice.”
“Do it again, Detective. For the record.”
Albert kneaded his freckled hands.
April read his Mirandas for the tape. “You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to be represented by a lawyer. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided for you. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Do you have any questions, Mr. Block?”
“No,” he said faintly.
“Would you like a lawyer?” Sergeant Joyce asked gently.
“Who’s doing this, you or her?” Block flared up, his moment of weakness gone in a flash.
“Who would you like to do it?” Sergeant Joyce asked.
Sanchez coughed.
“Shut up!” Albert slammed his hand on the table.
Okay. The guy was a nut with a temper.
April took a deep breath. “Why don’t you just tell us about Maggie, Mr. Block. You knew Maggie.”
“Maggie?”
“Yes, tell us how you met Maggie.”
Block sniffed. “Will you get the D.A. in?”
“No promises. Just tell us the story.” April kept her eyes on him. He was weird. Earlier the words had just come tumbling out. Now he was acting like a hardcase. She should have taped him then.
“Okay.” He lapsed into silence, staring off into the far distance, where the green wall had a long crack down the side that resembled the California coastline. “Fuck you” was scrawled over Mexico. There was no window in the room except the wired window at eye level in the door. It was getting stuffy and tense.
“I met Maggie last winter.”
Silence.
April licked her lips. They waited.
“Uh-huh. Could you give us the time frame on that?”
“Huh?” Block shifted his gaze.
“When you met Maggie.”
“Oh, in February. Right after she moved here. I decided to go out on my own.”
Silence.
“What do you mean, Mr. Block? Did Maggie convince you to go out on your own?”
“I was working for a firm. You know the kind of tight-assed kind of place.” He looked at them expectantly. They didn’t.
“I’m an accountant. Harry encouraged me to go out on my own. Harry’s the owner of All Dressed Up. That’s the store on Columbus next to the bookstore.” He waved a tiny hand in the direction he thought it was.
Sergeant Joyce nodded. They knew where it was.
“I had his account. He told me to go up and down to all the stores and restaurants on Columbus and ask if they were happy with their accounting. Nobody’s ever happy with their accountant, you know.” He challenged them to disparage accountants.
