Known to Evil

57

Rinaldo decided to take the afternoon off with Angie. They were going to have lunch at the old diner where they'd met. She was on his office phone, calling all her friends, telling them that she was fine, when he took me aside again.

"I'm not used to having people disobey my directions, Leonid," he said.

"It's a long way from Mr. Brown at the diner, huh?"

Not only did he smile at my little insight, he was surprised at his own humor.

"I have to admit, however," he said, "that you've done a very good job. Still, I can't continue to include you in my, my inner circle, as you've proven yourself to be a wild card. I cannot, this office cannot afford that kind of behavior."

"So you repay me by cutting me off?" I asked.

I was thinking that separation from Rinaldo and his world might be the best thing that ever happened to me.

"Do not come here again," he said. "If I ever need you, I have your number."

"What about Sanderson? Do I have to worry about her?"

"I'll take care of everything connected to me," he said. "That includes Sanderson and her actions."

I wondered at the machinations the Special Assistant planned. I guess I winced a bit at the possible fates of Grant Corman and Sam Strange.

"Is there something wrong?" Alphonse asked.

"No," I said, almost wistfully. "My arm hurts some and I'm really tired."

"Should I have Christian get you a car?"

"No thanks. I drove here."

I was three blocks from Rinaldo's office on lower Broadway. My troubles were over, and so I just kept walking. It wasn't until the uniformed cops had surrounded me that I realized I was, once again, the subject of a major arrest.

"What's this about?" I asked as they grabbed me and chained my arms behind my back.

No one answered my questions. They didn't inform me of my rights or ask anything, just shoved me in the back of a police cruiser and drove me to One Police Plaza.

I was taken to a windowless gray room that was too small even for an interrogation. There they left me to wonder if Rinaldo had lost his juice. Or, maybe, I was a loose end now that the job was done.

I sat on the aluminum chair, my wrists in chains, for a very long time-hours. No one spoke to me, much less offered water or the use of a toilet.

I was growing more and more certain that Sanderson had caused me to be brought here. And if I was identified as one of Rinaldo's operatives, then Patrick was probably free.

I wasn't scared, though. That was the business. Sometimes you lost.

Hush would protect Katrina and the kids. He'd settle any recurring problems with Dimitri and the pimp; and if he didn't, Twill certainly would. Katrina would honor my commitment to Gordo.

There was a lot of unfinished business in my life, but that was okay, too. At times, when faced by Death or imprisonment, I was reminded of when I was a child and President Kennedy had been assassinated. There had been twenty-four-hour coverage of the tragedy on television and radio. And then one afternoon I saw the image of a very tall man standing next to the First Lady-Jacqueline Kennedy.

"Who's that man?" I asked my father.

"That's their president, son."

"No, Dad. The president's dead."

"The minute he died this new one took his place."

"That fast?"

"No one is so important that somebody else can't take his place," he told me.

I never forgot it.

"WAKE UP!" SOMEONE SHOUTED, making me realize that I had fallen asleep.

"What?"

"You're going to have a little talk," the man said.

He was flanked by three uniforms. They took me seriously in police circles. You kill one monster of a man with your bare hands and they never forget.

"You should let me use a urinal before I get there or I'm gonna piss all over your floor."

CAPTAIN JAMES CHARBON'S OFFICE was on a high floor with a great view. I could see the Statue of Liberty through the window over his shoulder.

I was feeling warm, feverish. This played tricks with my vision. But I would have been able to pick out Charbon with my eyes closed. He wore a particular brand of cologne that had very little sweetness to it. His eyes were steel gray. His haircut was military, and his handsome features were offset by an innate cruelty.

"Mr. McGill," he said.

One of the men who had brought me there pushed me into a chair. He didn't have to use much muscle.

There were a lot of people in the good captain's office: my four policemen, a woman taking notes on a court stenographer's machine, and a fleshy, middle-aged man perched on the corner of the big mahogany desk.

"We got you," the captain said.

"No question about that. Can you free my arms?"

"No."

"I see."

We, all eight of us, remained silent for the next span of seconds. I was expected to say something but didn't.

"Do you know what we found in the trunk of your car?" the man sitting on the desk asked.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Broderick Tinely."

"Oh," I said. "The prosecutor."

He wasn't pleased that I knew him.

"There was a pistol in the trunk of your car. The same gun used to slaughter poor Wanda Soa."

"Oh."

As in a darkened cinema, I imagined faceless men in suits, on a broad screen. They make their way into John Prince's empty apartment, find a pistol in a drawer and take it away.

"Do you have anything to say?" Tinely asked.

"Um… no."

"This is murder, McGill," the city prosecutor informed me. "Even if you slither out from under the primary charge, we'll get you as an accomplice after the fact."

"I finally got you, Leonid," Charbon said.

I couldn't think of a word to contradict him.

"WHERE'D YOU GET THE GUN?" Prosecutor Broderick Tinely asked for the hundredth time.

We were back in my cramped little cell. I was surprised that they fit in there with me.

He was flanked by James Charbon, who, I could only suppose, wanted to be there when I finally broke.

I had a full fever by then. My head was pounding and I could barely concentrate on the words spoken.

The interrogation had been going on for hours. I was so weak that I could hardly hold my head up. The pain down my left arm was excruciating.

"Where'd you get the gun?"

One hundred and one.

I looked up into the prosecutor's face. His jowls were fat and his head bald, like mine, only white.

"Sandra Sanderson the Third," I said in a loud and clear voice.

The fear in his eyes made me chortle.

Charbon slapped me, pretty hard.

I knew then that I must have been very sick because I didn't feel even a sting from the blow.

The door behind the two swung open and Carson Kitteridge walked in.

"What's the meaning of this, Lieutenant?" Charbon bellowed.

"Excuse me, Captain," Carson said. "I'm sorry to interrupt your interrogation but I'm here to arrest Mr. Tinely."

"What?"

"For accepting bribes, sir," Kitteridge said, playing it meek and mild.

"Get the hell out of here," Charbon said.

"No, Captain," said another voice. "Lieutenant Kitteridge and I are taking Tinely into custody, and we're also relieving you of this interview."

Nathan Samuels, assistant chief prosecutor for the city, walked into the room. There was a nimbus of light around him. I attributed this to my fever.

"But, Mr. Samuels…" Charbon said.

"Leave us, Captain." He didn't have to say it twice.

"And you, Mr. Tinely," the pudgy boss of the DA's office said. "You go with the officers in the hall."

People seemed to be leaving. Along with them flowed my consciousness.

"Come on," Kitteridge said to me. "Stand up."

I managed to get to my feet but couldn't keep the balance. I fell, in what felt like sections, to the floor. The concrete felt cold on my skin, and that was best sensation I'd known in a long time.