“Maybe the partner of that guy who ended up dead in your shed. How’s an hour?”
“We’ll be there,” I said.
I hung up and told Ellen. She went white. The idea of being anywhere near the other man involved in the attack on us, even if there was a sheet of one-way glass separating us from him, filled her with dread.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” she said.
“It’ll be okay. It’ll be like on TV. He won’t be able to see us. We’ll just be able to see him.”
“He wore that mask the whole time,” she said.
“But they can get him to say a few words,” I said. “We heard him talk plenty. And there was the tattoo on his arm.”
Ellen nodded. I leaned in, kissed her on the neck. “It’ll be okay. I’m gonna jump into the shower, put on some fresh clothes.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll clean up here.”
As I was about to step into the shower, I heard the phone again, but someone grabbed it after the first ring, so I got in and let the water rain down on me for a good five minutes. When I got out, the bathroom was filled with steam, the mirror clouded over. I used a towel to make a clear spot on the glass and took a look at myself. My face was still bruised from my run-in with the late Lance, there were bags under my eyes, and my cheekbones seemed more prominent than they had two weeks ago.
“You,” I said, “need a vacation.”
On the way to the station, I said to Ellen, “Who phoned?”
“Fucking telemarketer,” she said. “Windows.”
Barry met us at the station entrance, led us down a hallway, up some stairs, talking the whole way.
“Cops in New York picked him up for us, shipped him back up here for you to have a look at.”
“Who is it?” Ellen asked. “What’s his name?”
“I’d rather not say anything at this point,” Barry said. “I’d like you to view the lineup cold.”
Barry had already told me that they were interested in a partner of Mortie’s by the name of Lester Tiffin, believed to be related to Conrad’s wife, Illeana Tiff. I had not, as yet, shared this information with Ellen. I was worried that throwing this kind of unsubstantiated detail into the conversation might be like tossing a stick of dynamite into a campfire.
We were taken into a room that really was like the one in the movies, one wall a sheet of glass that looked out on a mini-stage wide enough to hold half a dozen people. Barry was in the room, as well as another, unidentified man in a well-tailored suit. A lawyer, I was betting.
Barry grabbed a phone handset hanging from the wall and said to someone in another room, “Showtime.”
Six men walked into the room on the other side of the glass. All white, all with dark hair, all around six feet tall. Three had short-sleeved shirts on, three had sleeves that went down to their wrists.
“Face forward,” someone barked at them.
“Have a close look,” Barry said to us.
I scanned the faces of all six men and recognized no one. “You know he was wearing a mask,” I said. “A stocking mask.”
“I know,” Barry said. “I thought we’d get them all to say a few words for you.”
Ellen nodded. “That might help.”
“What would you like them to say?” Barry asked.
“Have them say,” I said, “‘This mask is so fucking hot.’”
Barry grinned, nodded, picked up the handset, and repeated my instructions.
In turn, each of the six men said, “This mask is so fucking hot.”
There was something about the way the fourth man, who was wearing his shirtsleeves down to his wrists, said it.
“That guy,” I said.
Ellen said, “Maybe, I’m not sure.” The guy in the suit made a snorting noise.
“Would it be possible,” I asked, “for all of them to put on stocking masks?” The suit looked at me like I was an idiot. “All I was thinking was, there might be something familiar in the way their faces get mashed down.”
The suit said, “That’s ridiculous. Everyone up there will look like the suspect, including my client. I’ll make laughingstocks of all of you all the way to Albany.”
Barry said, “I don’t think that’ll fly, Jim.”
I nodded. “What about their arms? The other man, he had a tattoo of a knife on his arm. His right arm.”
Barry spoke into the handset and then a voice on the other side of the glass instructed the men wearing long sleeves to roll them up.
The fourth guy, the one whose voice sounded familiar, was very slow about it.
“Let’s go,” someone barked at him.
He rolled up the sleeve, and once it was past his elbow the tip of the knife appeared. He rolled it up farther, exposing more of the blue blade, then the handle.
“That’s it,” I said, my pulse quickening. “That’s the tattoo I saw on the guy.”
Barry said to Ellen, “You recognize it?”
Ellen shook her head slowly, and said, “No.”
I whirled around. “What?”
“I don’t recognize it.”
“What are you talking about? You were with him even more than I was. He went back into the house to get you, he brought you out to the shed.”
“It was dark,” she said. “And I was so scared, I don’t know.”
Barry sidled up next to Ellen and whispered, “He’s denying everything, we haven’t got anyone who can put him with his pal Mortie, so if you can’t-”
“Detective Duckworth, something you’d like to share with the class?” the suit asked.
“Ellen,” I persisted, “how could you not recognize-”
“I think we’re done here,” said the suit. “It’s clear the woman can’t make any kind of ID, Detective Duckworth.”
“Ellen, are you sure that’s not the guy?” Barry asked. “Jim recognizes the tattoo.”
“No,” she said. “It’s all wrong. That’s not how I remember it at all. It was much longer, and skinnier. It went down below his elbow.”
“Ellen,” I said, trying to control my voice, “what the hell are you doing?”
The suit, heading for the door, said, “I’ll expect you to be releasing my client momentarily.” And then he was gone.
I was still looking at Ellen, but she couldn’t look me in the eye.
THIRTY-FIVE
Once we were out in the parking lot, I grabbed Ellen by the arm and forced her to look at me. “What the fuck just happened in there?”
Darkness had fallen in the time we’d been in the police station, but I could see, by the glow of the parking lot lights, the tears on Ellen’s cheeks. She was struggling to free herself from my grip. “Leave me alone!”
“The fuck I will! You let that guy walk! He and his buddy nearly took off my fucking fingers! They probably were going to kill us!”
“Stop it!”
“You have any idea who that was?” I couldn’t stop myself from shouting. “I do. My guess is that was Lester Tiffin. And you know who the fuck Lester Tiffin is? He’s related to Illeana. A brother, maybe. A hood from New York. She didn’t exactly come from the best of families before she landed in Hollywood and finally ended up with your Conrad.”
