'Is that right, Mr. Charles? Was it Mr. Apin who did it?'
'Apin? I don't know any man named Apin.'
'Oh.' Archie sounded disappointed, even to himself. He slid left hand into his pocket and slipped out the S amp;W S.W.A.T. knife, thumbing it open. It was a never-used First Millennium Run with short black blade, incomprehensibly sharp. He put the point Charles's forehead, mid-latitude, far left side.
'Mr. Charles, we have a situation. This is it: you will tell me what happened that night, or I'll cut your throat with this knife and let you bleed out in the bathroom here. Your blood on Gwen's.'
'That's awful,' she said.
'I know it's awful, and I don't want to do it,' said Archie. 'But if he tells me everything I want to know, I'll let him go.'
The blue eyes looked uncertain, as if the man wasn't sure he was being spoken to.
'Now,' said Archie, 'look in the mirror.'
He swept the knife lightly. Charles wrenched his head but couldn’t move it far because he was contained, chin to tiptoes, by the carpet roll from the home-improvement center. The roll was snugged up him with ten triple- wrapped belts of duct tape and five flat nylon straps with quick-release fasteners. Inside, his hands and ankles were secured by plastic department-issue restraints. He leaned upright in the bathroom corner, stiff as a mummy. Out in the bedroom was the mechanic's creeper on which Archie had wheeled him from the garage, along the side walkway, into the kitchen, down the hall and into the master bath. And the gag, freshly cut away to encourage free speech.
A line of blood jumped to Sonny's forehead, then washed down over and ran into his eyes.
'God,' said Gwen.
'Be strong,' said Archie. He reached over the carpet collar to touch the blade to Charles's carotid. A tight fit. Blood from the cut forehead eased over the knife blade and Archie's knuckles. 'You've got five seconds to start talking. I don't really like this kind of thing, so I’m getting it over quick either way.'
'I drove,' said Pretty Blond. 'Zlatan shot you and killed her. There, now you will let me go?'
'He put the gun in my hand?'
'Yes.'
'And her blood on my robe.'
'Yes.'
Archie stared into the hard blue eyes, now blinking through the curtain of blood.
'What kind of bullet is in my head?'
'Twenty-two.'
'A silenced automatic?'
Sonny nodded as the blood ran off his chin and onto the backing of the carpet.
'You'll need to tell me every detail of that night. Every small detail. And where I can find Mr. Apin when I need to. Then, if what you say turns out to be true, I'll let you go. But you'll never drive a getaway car for another murder, I can promise you that.'
Archie watched the hope drain away from Sonny Charles's eyes. He turned on the small tape recorder that he'd set on the bathroom counter between the sinks.
'You've got my word, Mr. Charles. Here, let's get a bandage on that cut while you tell me what you did. Honey, do we have any rubbing alcohol?'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Rayborn and Zamorra sat in the blue department sedan outside Ascension Cemetery on the hope that Archie would cruise his wife funeral. They got there half an hour early for the eleven o'clock service, rolled down the windows and waited.
A few minutes later the guests began arriving. Merci watched the park near the chapel for the memorial service, saw the black suits and dresses moving with slow respect through the inland heat.
The Kuerners and the Wildcrafts arrived separately but walk into the chapel together. George drove the Mercedes, a gift from the son, with an almost sacred caution. Rayborn saw Brad Eccles- Archie's alleged best friend-arrive with a big-hipped woman in wide black hat. A moment later Damon Reese pulled up in a new black pickup truck with pipes that made it rumble and a vinyl bed cover that gave off heat waves. Merci watched him shut the door and make his way alone into the chapel. She felt his touch on her forehead; again, wondered if he'd call like he said he would, wondered if she answer it.
'How's Kirsten?' Merci asked. She asked about Kirsten irregularly, but now seemed as good a time as ever.
'She's fine. She told me we should get married.'
'What did you say back?'
'That I'm not ready.'
'It's only been a year.'
Zamorra was quiet for a long beat. Then, 'Funny how the same amount of time can seem like a year or five minutes, depending on your mood. How about you and Frank?'
'I see him occasionally. Movies, dinner. He's real good with Tim.'
'I'd like to meet him.'
'One of these days we'll have you two over for dinner. Dad's a good cook. Tim would like to see you again.'
'I'd like that.'
'How about when we catch these Russian gangsters? That'll give all of us reason to celebrate.'
'Perfect.'
But she wouldn't invite Paul and Kirsten over, and she knew it, and that was fine with Rayborn. When she looked at Zamorra she felt interest and attraction, but less than before. She felt disappointment, but less of that, too. Merci did not believe that people came together 'for a reason,' or, certainly, that things always 'happened for the best.' She thought a lot of decent people got together for bad reasons, that much was obvious. But she also thought that she and Paul would be good, and it dented her pride to think that she somehow hadn't made the grade. But what exactly was missing? Ask him, she thought.
Priscilla Brock arrived with her husband. Merci watched them walk in, nominally together, Charles ahead by two steps, oblivious to her. Priscilla seemed not to care. Merci wondered if Gwen had had the same casual radiance.
A minute later a panel van with a wheelchair lift parked and an orderly helped a very old woman position her chair. The lift engine groaned and the woman descended to the asphalt. Merci watched her: white hair and white hands, head cocked sideways, brand-new black shoes that had never been and never would be walked in. The orderly slammed the van door shut and pushed the woman toward the chapel.
Then a group of young deputies who looked about Archie's age, fashionable guys, not meat-and-potatoes cops like Damon Reese. The kind of men who liked a little style and could pull it off. Archie's friends, she thought, and Gwen's admirers. She gave them credit for coming.
'I've heard lots of talk about this funeral the last couple of day “ said Zamorra. 'Half the deputies have Archie good for the murder. The other half thinks he got himself mixed up in something he shouldn't have.'
Merci watched as one of the cool young cops conferred with the woman in the wheelchair, then took over for the nodding orderly.
'That's what I got, too,' said Merci.
Left unspoken was the fact that half the department wouldn't talk to Rayborn in the first place. Those who did tended to be the young men and women who had advanced and profited from Rayborn's testimony about a corrupt phalanx in Chuck Brighton's old guard. The most awful side effect of that testimony, in Rayborn's opinion, was that some good old deputies had gone down with Brighton while some undeserving younger ones had risen to replace them. By the end her grand jury appearance Merci had been ready to disclaim everybody, cash out her meager savings and take Tim down to Mexico in search of the pink house on the white beach that she had often
