want to have to come down on him so hard, but he needs to understand that I feel strongly about this.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” he counters. “Pick me up at the airfield at six.”
“You’re still doing that?” I ask.
“It’s more fun than sex,” he answers.
There’s no logical response for that, so I don’t offer one. Pete earns extra money at Teterboro Airport by taking pictures of people while they are skydiving and selling them the pictures if they make it to the ground alive. They are mostly beginners, out for a fun time, and Pete has been skydiving for many years.
I understand skydiving about as well as I understand Swahili and women, which is to say not at all. People jump out of planes so that they can get to the same ground they were safely on before they boarded the plane in the first place. Why is that exactly?
Of course, they are given equipment that guarantees their safety. Specifically, that equipment consists of a pack of nylon that they open up while hurtling toward the ground at about twelve million miles an hour. Now, I had never realized what an incredibly powerful substance nylon is. For instance, I’ve never heard of prisoners in maximum security prisons trying to cut through their nylon bars in a futile attempt at escape. Nor have I overheard a father at the lions’ exhibit at the zoo telling his frightened son not to worry because the nylon cage provides all the protection they could ever need.
Of course, the nylon is not the last resort. Sky divers also wear a little helmet for protection. Since they don’t wear body armor, if the nylon doesn’t open or hold up, are they supposed to try to land on their heads?
Death-defying acts like this are to me nonsensical. Why would I do them? What is the upside if everything goes perfectly? That I live? I can do that at home on the couch.
I arrive at the airfield just as Pete floats down. He sells his pictures and is in my car by six-fifteen. We’re at Madison Square Garden in less than an hour, first stopping at the will-call window so I can pick up the eight- hundred-dollar courtside tickets left by the good people at Irwin’s Ticket World. We then head for the seats, stopping only so that I can buy Pete a pair of thirty-six-ounce beers, one for each hand.
The first half is a disaster. The Knicks commit fourteen turnovers, are outrebounded on both ends of the floor, and head to the locker room down by sixteen, which represents one point for every hundred dollars I spent on the tickets.
The arena is understandably quiet during halftime, so I try to address the reason I’m here in the first place. “So let’s talk,” I say.
“Now? In the middle of Madison Square Garden? Come on, man, let me enjoy the game. We can go to Charlie’s afterwards and talk all you want.”
“I thought you were tired of Charlie’s.”
He nods. “I was, but I’m over that now.”
The Knicks are down by twenty-seven at the end of the third quarter, which is also when they stop selling beer, so I’m able to get Pete to leave. I start our talk on the way, since I’d just as soon this date not turn into an all-nighter.
“Do you know anything about Tommy Lassiter?” I ask.
He becomes instantly alert, no small feat considering he’s carrying around a bathtub full of beer in his gut. “What have you got to do with him?”
“He murdered Linda Padilla.”
He shakes his head. “He’s a contract killer; the best there is. But he’s not a serial killer.”
“I’m not speculating, Pete. I’m positive.”
“So take the proof that makes you so positive, show it to the judge, and get your case dismissed.”
“I have nothing to show the judge. But there’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Tell me how you know,” he says.
“We got one of the prisoners at County to talk. He said Lassiter arranged Randy Clemens’s murder.”
“You got someone to turn on Lassiter?” he asks, not concealing his incredulity.
I nod. “Marcus was persuasive with someone.”
He knows Marcus, so no further explanation is necessary. “So what are you asking me?”
“To help me catch him.”
Pete laughs, not the reaction I was hoping for. “Okay,” he says, “park over there and wait, and I’ll chase him toward you.”
“I’m serious, Pete. This guy keeps killing people; now might be a good time to get him off the streets.”
He’s now controlled himself to just a few chuckles. “Is he currently in the area?” he asks.
“I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling he might be. I know he was here the nights those people died.”
“Andy, you don’t know if he’s within a thousand miles of here. You have no evidence that he killed those people. What the hell do you want me to do, close the state borders?”
“Isn’t Lassiter already wanted for murder?” I ask.
“Of course. He was born wanted for murder.”
“So I’m a credible source telling you that I have information that he was recently in this area. Isn’t that enough for you to put out an APB or whatever the hell you guys put out?”
“You want me to go to my captain with this?”
I nod. “And tell him that somebody you trust, a goddamned officer of the court, came to you with this. Get him to send his picture out to every cop in the state. And get me a copy of his picture as well.”
“Come on, Andy . . .”
“What’s the downside, Pete? That he’s gone and we don’t find him?”
He nods. “Okay.”
Satisfied with this concession, I bail out of the trip to Charlie’s and drop him off at his house. When I get to my house, it’s almost midnight and Laurie is already in bed.
“Hi,” she says sleepily. “How did it go?”
“He said he’ll do the best he can.”
She smiles. “Good. Come to bed.”
I start to get undressed. “I forgot to tell you. Cindy’s getting married.”
“That’s nice,” she says, though I think she’s more intent on falling back to sleep than hearing what I’m saying.
“She says that when you know, you know.”
“Mmmm” is all she can muster, now almost completely out of it.
“I think she’s right about that. Don’t you?”
“Mmmm.”
I’ll take that as a yes.
• • • • •
CAPTAIN TERRY MILLEN is Tucker’s final witness and the one that ties his case up quite nicely. Millen was in charge of the murder investigation from the early point in which the state police were called in, and he had the most connection to Daniel of anyone in law enforcement.
The physical evidence has already been powerfully introduced, so Tucker will undoubtedly let Millen’s testimony focus on Daniel’s unique knowledge of the murders. His contention is that Daniel knew these things only because he was the killer, while our defense is that the killer was simply communicating the information to Daniel.
Before Millen takes the stand, I lose a heated argument during which I again oppose the introduction of testimony concerning the three other victims and especially photographs of them. This defeat makes it official: We have received no benefit at all from Tucker’s decision to limit the charges to the Padilla murder.
Tucker starts off Millen’s testimony by showing all of those photographs and letting the full impact of their gruesomeness inflame the jury. Daniel tries to obey my instructions to remain as impassive as possible, but I can tell from the look on his face that he is having an emotional reaction to them. I’m sure part of that reaction must be that he is aware the world thinks he is responsible for this carnage.
During a break, Daniel leans over to me. “Can I have copies of your files on the other victims besides Padilla?”
