Eleventh Hour

everybody.”

“Where did you get the silencer for the gun?”

Very slight pause, then, “I didn’t have no gun. I don’t even know what a silencer looks like.”

“We’ll find that gun, Milt, don’t ever doubt that. Was it the same gun and silencer you used to kill Father Michael Joseph?”

He nearly rose right out of his chair, then slowly sank down again, shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t kill no priest! I’m nonviolent. All we gotta do is respect and love each other.”

“Do you prefer a gun to taking a poker and striking an old woman dead?”

“Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What old woman?”

“You remember that piece of doubled-over wire? Do you like that the best, Milt? Pulling that wire tighter and tighter until it’s so tight it cuts right through to bone?”

“Stop it, man. I’m nonviolent, I told you. I wouldn’t hurt nobody, even a parole officer. Hey, you think I shot that broad in the head? Not me, man, not me.”

Delion rolled his eyes, mouthed toward the open door, Prime asshole.

“What were you in jail for, Milt?”

“It was just one mistake, a long time ago, a little robbery, that’s it.”

“There was a guy whose head you bashed in along with the robbery. Don’t you remember that?”

“It was a mistake, I just lost it-you know, too much sugar in my diet that day. I served my time. I’m nonviolent now. I don’t do nuthing.”

“Do you watch the show The Consultant?”

“Never heard of it.” The guy looked up then, and there was no doubt about it, he was puzzled by the question. Genuinely puzzled. He had no clue what The Consultant was, dammit. That, or he was an excellent actor, and unfortunately Delion didn’t think that was the case. Well, shit. That was a surprise, a bad one.

Delion leaned forward, delicately smoothed his mustache with his index finger. “It’s about this murderer who kills people and then taunts a priest about it, all in the confessional, so the priest can’t turn him in. He kills the priest, Milt. This guy’s a real bad dude.”

“Never heard of it. Not a word. I don’t like violent movies or TV shows.”

Delion looked up at Dane, then beyond him, to Savich. Slowly, after but a moment, he nodded.

Savich walked into the small interrogation room, took a seat beside Delion, and said, “How are you feeling, Mr. McGuffey?”

The guy pressed himself against the back of his chair. “I know who you are. You’re that big fella who tried to kill me.”

“Nah, I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Savich said, a smile on his face that would terrify anyone with half a brain, still in doubt in McGuffey’s case. “If I’d wanted to kill you, trust me, you’d be in the morgue, stretched out on a nice cold table, without a care in the world. What did you do with the gun?”

“I didn’t have no gun.”

“Actually, yes, you did and you gave it to that other guy. You know, Milt, the thing is that I saw you. I was watching the crowd, that was my assignment from the lieutenant, to watch, because just maybe the guy who killed Father Michael Joseph would be there, to get his jollies, to make him feel really proud of himself. Sure enough you came. But you weren’t there just because you were proud of your work; nope, you were there to kill Nick Jones because she can identify you. You really moved fast, didn’t you? It’s only been a couple of days since she gave your description to the forensic artist and the drawing of you was in the newspaper. How’d you find out it was Nick Jones?”

“Look, man, I did see that drawing in the paper, that’s true, but I didn’t know who the guy was. Wait, you can’t really think that guy was me. No way, I don’t look nuthing like that dude. Mean fucker, that’s what I thought when I saw his picture and read the story.”

“Yeah, right, Milt,” Savich said. “Whatever. Now, don’t get me wrong. That was a real slick move you made- you palmed the gun, silencer still attached, and handed it off to your partner as you ran past him. He slipped it into his coat pocket. You never broke stride. It really was well rehearsed and well executed. Only thing-I was watching. You weren’t lucky there.”

Savich leaned forward until his nose was an inch away from McGuffey’s.

He said very slowly, “I saw you do it. They’re looking for him right now. I gave a really good description. They’ll bring him in and he’ll rain all over your picnic.” Savich looked over at the door, knew that Sherlock was close.

McGuffey’s eyes followed.

Sherlock stepped right up into the doorway, gave Savich a big smile, nodded in satisfaction, and stuck her thumb up.

“Ah,” Savich said, “at last. Didn’t take our guys too long, did it? Just over two hours. I told you I gave them a great description. Now we have him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? Nuthing! You couldn’t have caught no guy because there wasn’t a guy.”

Savich rose suddenly. “You can go back to your cell now, Milt. You’re tiresome, mouthing all that crap, crying, for God’s sake. Just look at poor Inspector Delion. He’s nodding off, your lies have bored him so much. You need lessons, Milt. You weren’t really all that good a show.”

Savich leaned over and splayed his hands on the tabletop, got right in McGuffey’s face. “We’re going to hold you on the attempted murder of Nick Jones. After your accomplice talks-and he’ll fillet you but good, Milt, don’t doubt it-the DA is going to have a solid multiple-murder case against you. He’s going to enjoy parading you in front of a jury-talk about a slam dunk. He’s even got a witness, you know who she is, all right-Nick Jones. You saw her standing out there, didn’t you? The white bandage around her head? She sure sees you, and believe me, she knows who you are.

“Yeah, the DA’s really going to be happy about this one. You know what else is great about California, Milt? California’s got the death penalty. Killing a priest and an old woman, now there’s just no excuse for that at all- rotten childhood, too much sugar, chemical imbalance in your brain; none of that will work. They’ll drop-kick you right into San Quentin’s finest facilities. You can appeal for years, but eventually you’ll exhaust everything our sweet legal system has to offer you, and then you’re toast.”

Savich snapped his fingers in McGuffey’s face. “Dead. Gone. And everybody will be real happy when you’re off the face of the earth. See you at your trial, Milt. I’ll be waving at you from the front row.”

Savich walked out of the room, whistling.

McGuffey rose straight up and yelled, “Wait! Dammit, wait! You can’t just walk off like that!”

Savich just flapped his hand toward McGuffey, not turning around.

“Wait!”

SIXTEEN

Savich smiled at Dane, and very slowly turned, a dark eyebrow raised, obviously impatient.

McGuffey said, nearly falling over his own words he was talking so fast, “He’s a liar, he’d roll on his own mother, I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? You can’t believe a word he says. Old Mickey’s a king shit, got no sense of right or wrong, a real moral asshole.”

“Mickey seems just fine to me,” Sherlock said, coming to stand beside Savich, leaning against the door frame. “I spoke to him for a good ten minutes. He seemed real upright, not a lying bone in his body. I think everyone’s going to believe what he has to say, Mr. McGuffey, you know? I believed him.”

“No, no, you gotta listen to me. I didn’t kill no priest. I didn’t kill no old woman or any gay guy. It was Mickey who hired me. I didn’t hire him, I didn’t. I wasn’t going to kill her, just make a big noise, right? I was just supposed to scare her good, make sure she was on the next flight to China. I never murdered nobody! You’ve got to believe me, you’ve got to.” McGuffey was scrambling away from the chair, trying to shove the table out of the way so he could get to Savich. Delion simply clapped his big hand on McGuffey’s forearm and said very quietly, “No, Milt, you