Instead, John had stayed home from work and had camped out in the living room, an emotional wreck, almost incoherent and sobbing with anxiety, his hair uncombed, his complexion pasty. Where had Luis been? Who had he been with? Why hadn’t he picked up his urgent phone and text messages? Why, of all days, had he abandoned him yesterday? Luis shrugged the tirade off, wanting to know what the big deal was. Couldn’t a guy go out after work and have a couple of drinks with friends? It was beyond pathetic. You think I’m pathetic, John had shouted. Look at this you son of a bitch! He had run off to the kitchen and had come back with a postcard pinched between his fingers. It’s a Doomsday postcard, asshole, with my name on it and today’s date!
Luis had looked at it and had told him it was probably a sick joke. Maybe the idiot clerk John had recently fired was getting back at him. And anyway, had John called the police? He hadn’t. He was too frightened. They had argued back and forth for a while until Luis’s cell phone had gone off on the hall table with its campy “Oops I Did it Again” ring tone. John had leaped for it and had cried out, Who the fuck is Phil? Answer, truth be told, it was the guy from Sutton Place, but Luis had dodged the truth unconvincingly.
John’s emotions had red-lined and, according to Luis, the normally mild-mannered fellow had lost it, grabbing the aluminum softball bat that he had abandoned by the front door a decade earlier after tearing an Achilles tendon in an adult-league game in Pelham. John had wielded it like a lance, pushing the end into Luis’s shoulders, screaming obscenities. Luis had screamed back at him to put it down but the jabbing continued, inflaming Luis beyond his ability to control what would happen next when somehow the bat wound up in his hands and the room began to get painted with blood.
Will listened with rising discomfort because the confession had the ring of authenticity. Still, he didn’t bring papal infallibility to the table. He’d been duped before, and God willing, he was being duped now. He didn’t wait for Luis to stop crying before aggressively and suddenly asking, “Did you kill David Swisher?”
Luis looked up, startled. His instinct was to wave his arms in protest which made his wrists chafe against the handcuffs. “No!”
“Did you kill Elizabeth Kohler?”
“No!”
“Did you kill Marco Napolitano?”
“Stop!” Luis sought out Nancy’s eyes. “What’s this guy talking about?”
By way of a response, Nancy continued the battery, “Did you kill Myles Drake?”
Luis had stopped crying. He snorted his nose dry and stared at her.
“Did you kill Milos Covic?” she asked.
Then Will, “Consuela Lopez?”
Then Nancy, “Ida Santiago?”
And Will, “Lucius Robertson?”
Captain Murphy grinned, impressed at the rat-a-tat.
Luis shook his head vigorously. “No! No! No! No! You guys are crazy. I told you I killed John, in like self- defense, but I never killed these other people. You think I’m the fucking Doomsday Killer? Is that what you think? Come on! Get real, man!”
“Okay, Luis, I hear you. Take it easy. You want some water?” Will asked. “So how long have you been flying the New York-Las Vegas route?”
“Almost four years.”
“Do you have a diary, some kind of flight log handy?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a book. It’s upstairs, on the dresser.”
Nancy hurried out the door.
“You ever mail any postcards from Vegas?” Will demanded.
“No!”
“I heard you say loud and clear that you didn’t kill these people but tell me this, Luis, did you know any of them?”
“Of course not, Man!”
“That includes Consuela Lopez and Ida Santiago?”
“What? Because they’re Latino, I should know them? What are you, some kind of an idiot? You know how many Spanish there are in New York?”
He didn’t break stride. “You ever live in Staten Island?”
“No.”
“Ever work there?”
“No.”
“Got any friends there?”
“No.”
“Ever visited there?”
“Maybe once, for a ferry ride.”
“When was that?”
“When I was a kid.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“A Civic.”
“The white one out front?”
“Yeah.”
“Any of your friends or relatives drive a blue car?”
“No, man, I don’t think so.”
“You own a pair of Reebok DMX 10s?”
“Do I look like I’d wear some jive-ass teenage sneakers, man?”
“Did anyone ever ask you to mail postcards from Las Vegas?”
“No!”
“You admitted you killed John Pepperdine.”
“In self-defense, man.”
“Did you ever kill anyone else.”
“No!”
“Do you know who killed the other victims?”
“No!”
He abruptly halted the interview, went looking for Nancy and found her on the upstairs landing. He had a bad feeling and her crimpled mouth confirmed his fears. She was wearing a pair of latex gloves, leafing through a black 2008 day planner. “Problems?” he asked.
“If this diary is legit, we’ve got big problems. Except for today, he was in Las Vegas or in transit during every other murder. I can’t believe it, Will. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say fuck. That’s what you should say.” He leaned wearily against the wall. “Because this case is completely fucked.”
“Maybe the diary’s been doctored.”
“We’ll check the records with his company, but we both know this guy’s not Doomsday.”
“Well, he killed Victim Nine that’s for sure.”
He nodded. “Okay, partner, here’s what we’re going to do.” She put Luis’s diary down and opened her notebook to take down his instructions.
“You don’t drink, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Good, consider yourself designated. We’re going to clock out and go off duty in about five minutes. Your assignment is to take me to a bar, talk to me while I get drunk then drive me home. Will you do that for me?”
She looked at him disapprovingly. “If that’s what you want.”
He knocked back his drinks quickly, shuttling the waitress between the booth and the bar. Nancy watched him slip the bonds of sobriety while she moodily sipped a diet ginger ale through a bendy straw. Their table at the Harbor Restaurant overlooked the bay, the calm waters blackening as the sun began to set. He had spotted the restaurant before they made it off the island, muttering, “That place’s bound to have a bar.”
He wasn’t drunk enough to miss the fact that Nancy was uncomfortable having an after-work drink with her
