The UJ would pay for this. “You hit me, so I hit you,” is one thing, but this was a pure innocent who, months ago, happened to plant some flowers near one of their hang-outs. The bastards were being corralled at that very moment, courtesy of Special Agent Beck.
Edwina’s choker was undoubtedly Bubbs, O’Rourke’s imposter was probably Arthur. Traci was the woman on the couch.
He started to put together what he knew about UJ painting parties and had a thought.
“Sister, this is extremely important. If you were where I think you were, there would have been a third woman: you, the woman on the couch, and a third. Did you get the sense at any point that there was someone else there against her will?”
Edwina dug as deeply as she could. She’d spent the last eight hours looking forward to putting the event out of her head, but now there was the possibility of a second victim, a victim probably less lucky than she.
“I don’t know, maybe. While I was sitting on the couch, I felt something fall directly in front of me. I suppose it could have been a body. And when I was pulled off the couch, I may have I heard a woman scream. It was hard to tell. The music…the things on my ears. I can’t be sure…”
He wanted to give her a hug. He wanted to take her out for coffee.
“Please, detective, just promise me I can speak on the man’s behalf.”
It was a promise he couldn’t make. Whoever saved her left another woman on the floor screaming. Still…
“I’ll try.”
The peal of church bells reminded him that he had to meet Warner and Gomez at the station for a very important ride across town.
“I’m going to call a uniform and have them take your official statement. You won’t need to tell the story again; just write it down.”
He pictured Karney, Leo, O’Rourke, and the Mother Superior with their ears pressed against the chapel door. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.
“One more thing…do everything you can to stay away from those clowns outside.”
And Detective Lynch got his hug.
“You missed me, bitch!” Exactly what the hell could that possibly mean?
4. The Station
Rick had an intense hatred for cops. His teenage experiences with police brutality left him a perfect candidate for Arthur’s elite. He’d been convinced by Arthur that there was safety in numbers, and nothing shuts down a cop faster than a corroborated alibi. Arthur offered him an entire crew willing to fall on a sword if it meant doing the Potterford PD up the ass.
Rick was fine with the plan to waste Reilly. He was fine with anything Arthur had in store for any member of the Reilly family. If you shared blood with a cop, if you shared a bed with a cop, then you were a cop. That’s how deeply his hatred ran. The only thing worse than a cop was a Fed.
“Hello, Rick. I’m Special Agent Beck. I’m with the FBI.”
Two hours had passed since the jag-offs pounded on his door and hauled him into town. Déjà-fuckin’-vu. He was in that very room sitting at that very table Saturday night and walked away without giving the police shit. He intended to do the very same before his twenty-four hours of non-charged custody were up. He would admit to nothing. He would roll over on no one, not even Arthur, who was all but dead to him.
They were using every lame trick in the book to break him. He was to be questioned about crimes relating to the death of Bishop Ryan. That is all he was told, yet he’d been sitting in an empty room for almost two hours and hadn’t been asked a single question. Every time he dozed off, a pinhead in a blue suit stormed in with a cup of coffee. It was a different pinhead each time to give the impression that the station kept forgetting he was in there. Each pinhead said the same thing.
“Just finishing up in another room. Shouldn’t be long. What’s your name again?”
He was being watched, and they had no interest in keeping him awake. The coffee was disgusting but not so much that Rick was fooled. He knew decaf when he tasted it. They wanted him groggy and needing a piss.
Now Special Agent Beck was sitting across from him with a legal pad and a bottle of water. Rick figured it was just a matter of time before the air conditioning inexplicably konked out.
“Rick, I won’t keep you longer than necessary. The locals are at sort of a standstill with this Ryan thing, especially now that Archbishop Fellini has probably been killed by the same person. They’ve called us in to help, so we’re just following up on a few things. You know…these guys miss things from time to time.”
“Yes, Special Agent Beck. I’m sure they drive you nuts. You and I are on the same side. Go team.”
She was genuinely amused.
“What do you do for a living, Rick?”
“If you found where I live, then you know where I work.”
That was all Agent Beck needed for now. This boy needed to be taught the penalty for being glib with the FBI. She took a sip of water, which was the signal for her to be interrupted. In seconds, a man with rolled up sleeves and a loosened tie popped his head in the room.
“Special Agent Beck, we’ve got something in the next room.”
“Thank you, Henry. Hold tight Rick. I’ll be right back.”
As she walked out, pinhead number seven walked in with another cup of coffee.
“Oh, for the love of…”
All this pretense and game playing over a murder that had nothing to do with him? They must have been setting him up for something else. Reilly’s injury, the painting party, there were so many loose ends
