just sit right back down here.”
McGuffey yelled at Delion, “Mickey Stuckey’s a damned liar! Don’t believe him. He set the whole thing up.”
Sherlock said, “Mr. Stuckey told me you hired him, just to be his palm guy, to stand there, keeping his eyes on everything and take whatever you passed to him. He claims he didn’t have a clue about what you were going to do. He’s really against shooting a lady.”
Sherlock shut up and stepped back, no reason to lay it on too thick. The guy looked white now, not just pale, actually white.
Milt was on his feet, trying to pull away from Delion, who’d really clamped down on his forearm and wasn’t about to let go. “No! Man, you gotta listen to me. I told you, Mickey’s a liar.”
Savich sighed deeply, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, frowning, “All right, since I’m still here, why don’t you tell me your side of it. But don’t lie about it being Mickey who was the shooter because I saw you pass the gun to him. What you tell me better be right on target because I’ll tell you, Milt, I’m really leaning toward Stuckey’s story and I haven’t even heard him tell it yet.”
“Okay, okay, you gotta listen, okay? I’ll tell you the truth. Here it is.”
“Just a moment, Milt,” Delion said. “I want to tape-record this. You okay with that?”
“Sure, sure, let’s get on with it.”
Delion flipped the record button. He gave his name, the date, and McGuffey’s name, said, “You’re willing to make this confession, no one’s coercing you?”
“Dammit, yes. Let’s go!”
“You don’t want a lawyer present?”
“No, I just want you to hear the truth!”
Delion gave him his Miranda rights, asked him if he understood, to which Milt spewed out more obscenities before he said yes, he understood his rights, to the tape recorder.
“Okay, Milt, tell me what happened.”
McGuffey said, “Look, Stuckey called me a couple days ago, said this guy down in LA wanted me to scare this broad at a priest’s funeral. Stuckey said he’d give me ten grand, but I had to do it in the middle of the service, for God’s sake, in front of hundreds of people, which sounded real stupid to me, but he said that was the way it had to be. I didn’t want to do that, but Stuckey had me by the short hairs, you know? I owe him money, some bad investment decisions, you know? So I had to take the job or he might have broken both my legs. But it was never murder, oh no.
“Stuckey had a gun for me, and a silencer, and said the shooter had to be me, it just had to. When I asked him why, he laughed and said, ‘You look just right, Milt,’ that’s what the guy said. ‘You look just right, maybe even perfect for the role.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”
He really did look just right, Dane thought. A good physical resemblance. Damn, nothing was ever easy.
“You really expect me to buy this?” Savich said, lounging back in the uncomfortable chair, looking bored.
Milt sat forward, clasping his hands in front of him, like he was ready to pray. “Look, Inspector, like I told you, I had to have the money. I had to pay off Stuckey or I was in really deep shit. Then there’s my disability and that jerk of a landlord is nearly ready to throw me out. Hey, I was just three days away from sitting on Union Square, leaning against the Saint Francis Hotel, begging for money. I had to take the job. A man’s gotta survive, you know? A man’s gotta pay off his bad investment decisions.”
Delion had sat back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest, a sneer on his face. “You want us to believe that this guy specifically told Stuckey it had to be you because you just looked right? You were perfect for the role?”
“I swear it. Hey, Stuckey told me the LA guy’s name was DeFrosh-weird name-you’d never forget that stupid name.
“Stuckey said the guy faxed him a photo of the lady I was to give scare to, you know, shoot her just a little bit but not kill her, I wouldn’t ever do that. Yeah, the guy told Stuckey that the broad was homeless, but hey, she sure didn’t look homeless in the church, but what do I know? How would the guy in LA know about that? Stuckey didn’t tell me nuthing else, I swear it.”
Dane looked down at Nick, who was as white as the bra he’d watched her pick out in their marathon shopping spree. It was just this morning. Amazing.
Savich said, “What did you do with the photo he faxed of the lady?”
“Stuckey has it, just showed it to me, then took it right back.”
“What did it look like?”
“She was coming out of this police station with that guy who’s standing beside her out there, you know, that dead priest’s brother. It didn’t look like no police station I’ve ever seen in San Francisco. Yeah, Stuckey’s got it. She’s a looker, I wasn’t about to forget her. Like I said, she sure didn’t look homeless in the church so for a while there I wasn’t sure it was really her.”
The bastard took the photo in LA. Dane couldn’t believe it.
“So you recognized the priest’s brother?”
“Oh yeah, heard people talking about how he and Father Michael Joseph looked identical and it really shook some people up. Everybody was real quiet, you know? Everyone was focused on that guy and what he was saying. Lots of them were crying just listening to him. Then she had the nerve to move-no reason that I could see, she just lowered her head right when I pulled the trigger. Jesus, I could have killed her, but thank the good Lord that it went just like it was supposed to. Yeah, the bullet just grazed her.”
“Tell us more about this guy from LA.”
“I don’t deal with people I don’t know, at least usually, and neither does Mickey Stuckey. He said he knew the guy, knew he was good for the money. Hey, he gave me five thousand up front. He told me his name was DeFrosh-I already told you that. Really weird, man.”
Milton McGuffey put his head down on his folded arms and began to cry again. Everyone heard him say over his sobs, “I don’t want to go to jail, but now I’ll have to do time just because I put a little crease in the broad’s forehead.” He raised his head. “I want Stuckey to go down. I never should have agreed to do it in the church.”
Delion said, “You didn’t realize there would be cops there?”
“Stuckey told me there’d probably be a couple there, but if I got my timing right, I’d get away, no problem. Damned bastard, that Stuckey. I really want him to go down, he set the whole thing up.”
Savich said as he himself smiled down at McGuffey, “Yes, he’ll go down, all right, Milt, just as soon as we catch him.”
McGuffey’s jaw literally dropped open. He stared at Savich for a very long time.
He said, “Shit, man.”
Then he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I want a lawyer!”
Delion looked over at Savich, who was speaking to Lieutenant Purcell. They heard her say she’d already put out an APB on Mickey Stuckey, aka Bomber Turkel, the most creative of all his aliases. Delion said, “That guy is something else, Dane. He’s your boss?”
“Yeah, I’ve been in his unit for about five months now.”
“Smooth as butter,” Delion said. “I was thinking about letting you have a go at Milton, but he knew you, knew you weren’t a cop, so that wouldn’t have worked. And there was Savich, looking ready, even smiling a little, and I knew he had something up his sleeve. He did good, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“His wife, her name is really Sherlock?”
Dane nodded, smiled. “Yes, they’re quite a team.”
“You know,” Delion said, “I’ve been in court with Sherlock’s dad. Now there’s a tough, high-powered dude. Defense lawyers hate his guts. They bitch about having the rotten luck to end up with the only law-and-order judge in San Francisco. Cops love him, needless to say.”
“Yes,” Dane said. “Too bad that Milton McGuffey isn’t a bit more stupid. The DA’ll have trouble proving attempted murder. We need Stuckey. At least Milt verified-and it’s probably the only thing he said that was true- that the guy who hired him lives in LA and his name’s DeFrosh. Damn, Milton isn’t the killer, Delion.”
“Yeah, I know, but we’re getting there, Dane. I’m going to call Flynn, tell him what happened. He’s gonna
