“Whose?”
Slidell’s answer was a shocker.
25
“I PUNCH IT UP, A VOICE TELLS ME I’VE REACHED COMMISSIONER Lingo’s office.”
“Why would Rinaldi have Lingo’s number?”
“Good question.”
I reread Rinaldi’s last entry.
“VG could be Vince. Maybe Rinaldi learned the kid’s last name, and the fact that he was busted for solicitation.”
“Right around the time we’re guessing Klapec disappeared.”
“Why did Rinaldi think that was worth noting?”
Slidell shrugged. “Can’t hurt to pull arrest records for those dates. If nothing else, it might give us Vince’s last name. Kid’s in the wind, by the way. No one’s seen him since Saturday.”
“Where does he live?”
“His buddies ain’t busting their balls to share, but they think he was mostly sleeping on the streets.”
“Do you plan to pay Lingo a visit?”
“Later. Right now I’m retracing Eddie’s steps, seeing what I can score on this dipshit Vince.”
“Strictly regarding Klapec,” I said.
“Strictly.”
“Anything new on Asa Finney?”
“Unless I find a smoking howitzer in the guy’s shorts, he sees a judge on the bones rap, posts bond, and they kick him tomorrow.”
“What’s your take on him?”
Slidell snorted. “Could have been a stud except for the head-on with zits.”
I ignored the unkind remark. Finney couldn’t help the condition of his skin. “But a killer?”
“Finney’s a witch. Witch camp’s a spit from the Klapec scene. Neighbors report a lot of drumming and rattling the night before the kid’s body turns up. One says he saw a Ford Focus leaving the area long after the party was over.”
I remembered the car in the Pineville driveway.
“Finney drives a Focus,” I said.
“Don’t take a genius to connect the dots.” Again, the tensing of the jaw. “I’m thinking Finney’s wizard pals maybe also capped Eddie.”
“Why?”
“He was learning too much.”
As I started to reply Slidell shot upright in his chair.
“Rick Nelson.” A beefy finger jabbed the air in my direction. “Except for the zits, Finney’s a dead ringer for Rick Nelson. Think about it. The hair. The come-fuck-me smile. Sonovabitch.”
“You’re suggesting Finney is the violent john described by Vince?”
Slidell stood and circled to my side of the desk. The finger flipped the pages of Rinaldi’s notes.
RN-PIT. CTK. TV.
“Eddie was saying Rick Nelson with pits. Zit pits. That’s just what he’d say. I’ll be goddamned.”
“Maybe.” I was unconvinced.
“What? It describes Finney to a T. Maybe that’ll give us enough to hold the little prick on Klapec.”
“I’d still run the Akron angle.” I truncated Slidell’s objection. “See if Finney booked a flight or has ties there.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
We fell silent, staring at Rinaldi’s enigmatic code.
After several seconds, I sensed a shift in Slidell’s attention, felt his eyes crawl my face. I didn’t look up. Didn’t want to pursue the conversation I suspected was coming.
Instead of commenting, Slidell yanked a spiral from his pocket, scribbled, then tore out and laid the page on my desk.
“My girlfriend used to catch a lot of these bugs. You feel like it, you call her.”
I heard footsteps. Then my office was still.
Again, shame scorched my face. Larabee knew. Slidell knew. Who else had seen through my pathetic flu story?
I was reading Slidell’s scrawl when the ME stuck his head in the door.
“Get in here quick-” Seeing my look, he stopped. “What?”
“Slidell has a girlfriend.”
“No way.”
“Verlene Something with a W.” The name was spelled Wryznyk.
“I’ll be damned.” Larabee remembered his purpose in coming. “Lingo’s foaming at the mouth again.”
“God almighty!”
I followed Larabee into the lounge. Every station was carrying coverage of the Rinaldi shooting. The TV was tuned to one of them.
Lingo was holding forth outside a cemetery. Police barricades were going up on the street around him.
“-no longer sacred? When lawbreakers butcher those who risk their lives to keep our city safe? Those brave officers who protect our homes and keep our children from harm? I’ll tell you what it is. It is the beginning of the end for decent society.
“I am standing at the entrance to Sharon Memorial Park. Detective Edward Rinaldi will be buried here tomorrow. He was fifty-six, a policeman for thirty-eight years, a beloved member of this community, a God-fearing man. Detective Rinaldi is not alone.”
Lingo read from a list in his hand.
“Officer Sean Clark, thirty-four. Officer Jeffrey Shelton, thirty-five. Officer John Burnette, twenty-five. Officer Andy Nobles, twenty-six.”
Lingo’s eyes rolled up.
“I name but a few of the fallen.” The porcine face creased in concern. “Does the fault lie solely with the evildoers?” Solemn head shake. “I think not. The fault lies with a system of laws designed to protect the guilty. With libertine scientists who undermine the efforts of our brothers and sisters in uniform.”
I felt my innards curdle.
“Many of you witnessed the assault on my person last Friday. Dr. Temperance Brennan, employed by
Lingo drilled the camera with a look of heart-stopping sincerity.
“It is time for change. As your elected representative, I intend to see that change brought about.”
There was an aerial shot of the scene, then the program cut to an anchorwoman. Above her left shoulder, a street map diagrammed the course of the next day’s funeral procession.
“Services will begin with eleven o’clock mass at St. Ann’s Catholic Church. The cavalcade will then proceed along Park, Woodlawn, Wend-over, Providence, and Sharon Amity. Those streets will be closed to traffic until midafternoon.
“Since Sunday, members of law enforcement have been arriving from all over the country. Those unable to attend mass or to march in the procession will gather at the cemetery. Thousands are expected to turn out along the route to bid final farewell to Detective Rinaldi. Motorists are encouraged-”
