The glower Jake turns on him doesn’t contain a trace of empathy. “This is now a homicide investigation, Mr. Valenti. Your house is a crime scene until further notice.”
“Until when, Jake?” I ask. “Later today? Tomorrow?”
He shoots a flinty gaze my way. “Until I decide it isn’t.”
The lawyer in me wants to argue, but Papa beats me to it. “After I shoot O’Reilly, you let Anthony go back next day.”
Jake’s angry eyes lock on Papa’s for a long moment before he turns his attention to me. “As I was saying a moment ago, Ed’s shooting is now an active homicide investigation. We’ll require formal statements from you and Francesco today. Make your way to the station after lunch and ask for me or my partner—Francesco at one o’clock and you at two. Got it?”
“I go back to my home,” Papa insists stubbornly. “They no chase me away!”
Jake steps up to the breakfast bar, braces his hands on the countertop, and leans across until his merciless face is no more than two feet from Papa’s. His voice is pure ice when he growls, “Ed Stankowski was a good friend of mine, Mr. Valenti. I’m not going to conduct another homicide investigation at your damned house just because you want to keep thumping your chest and pronouncing yourself unafraid.”
Papa stares back at him wordlessly.
“Got it?” Jake presses. “Get the fuck out of that house. We’re not looking out for you another goddamned day.”
Papa is shocked by the outburst. So am I, although I quickly realize that I probably shouldn’t be. Jake is right. Papa needs to be elsewhere. But where? I don’t want to put Pat and Brittany at risk by stashing him at Pat’s place. A hotel? That hardly seems secure. Where the hell in the limited options we have available will he be safe?
Chapter Twelve
As if Ed Stankowski dying yesterday hadn’t already cast enough of a pall over my morning, Billy Likens called with news that the FBI has invited him and Rick Hogan in for “a chat” today. Right. Like the FBI invites people in to shoot the breeze. Something potentially unwelcome is afoot. I’d gotten the contact information for the agent who phoned Billy, then gave the woman a call to let her know that either I’d be joining the party or there would be no party at all.
So, here we are late in the afternoon at the FBI Field Office on Roosevelt Road in downtown Chicago. Compared with the interview rooms at Cedar Heights PD, the room they’ve deposited us in isn’t too bad—still Spartan, but a little larger and with somewhat newer institutional furniture. It also smells clean, a nice change from the lingering sweat and fear that have seeped into every corner of the Cedar Heights PD interrogation chamber. Yet it’s still depressingly drab. I’m not pleased to be here and am in a pissy mood.
The vibe Agents Johnson and King are throwing off isn’t improving my disposition. Johnson is big and burly, with a pug face that looks as if maybe he’s gone a few rounds too many in the boxing ring with other big, burly guys who had better boxing skills. King is a lithe Black woman with close-cropped hair and a simmering anger that threatens to explode at any moment. They’re seated across the table from my clients. I’m seated a little off to one side of Billy. One end of the table is pushed up tightly against the eggshell-white wall.
Ed Stankowski’s face keeps popping into my head, which prompts an overwhelming sense of regret, responsibility, and fury. Compartmentalize, Valenti. Whatever the hell is going down here requires my undivided attention. There’ll be time to resume mourning Ed at the end of our FBI visit.
“So, the aircraft,” Agent King says to Rick after the preliminaries are out of the way. “What can you tell us about it?”
Rick, who has arrived dressed in his work overalls, stares back at her in confusion.
The stone-faced agent studies Rick as if he’s perhaps a little on the dull side. “Make? Model? What do you know?”
Why in hell is the agent testing Rick’s knowledge of the aircraft? If King is trying to knock us off balance right from the get-go, she’s off to a good start.
Rick sounds a little annoyed when he answers, “Cessna 210N. Built in 1979. Continental 10-520L fuel-injected engine that puts out three hundred horsepower or so. Purchased by Windy City Sky Tours for one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars.”
The agent’s eyes shift to Billy, who tossed on a pair of faded blue jeans and a red plaid shirt before hopping in the car with Rick. “That sound about right to you?”
“It does,” Billy agrees.
King’s steely eyes pass between Billy and Rick. “Were there any engine issues that you’re aware of?”
“None,” Rick replies in the same moment that Billy shakes his head and says, “Nope.”
Her eyes narrow. “Structural deficiencies?”
Billy is shaking his head and preparing to reply when I reach over and clamp my hand on his forearm. “Don’t answer.”
I lock eyes with Agent King. “This isn’t an ‘information session,’ Agent King. You’re conducting an interrogation without Mirandizing my clients.”
She gazes back impassively and doesn’t deny it.
“This is beneath the FBI,” I say while glaring at the agents.
Instead of backing off, Johnson poses a question to Rick that comes right out of left field. “Tell us about the circumstances leading up to your liver transplant, Mr. Hogan.”
This smells like a setup. Rick was away from work for a few months earlier in the year for the surgery. I mimic a zipping motion across my lips, hold my hands up in a timeout gesture, and turn to the agents. “I need a minute with my clients.”
“Sure,” Johnson says agreeably. “We’ll step
