The Borzoi Killings

41.

Shock and awe.

Bo Halsey had done it so often himself that it long ago became a routine part of his work: the appearance, just after dawn, of the police at your door, shouting, Police, open up. People were vulnerable when they were sleeping, or just awake, disoriented. And, when they saw five or six strangers, sometimes holding guns, they were afraid. Arresting people at dawn infused them with terror, with a sense of the enormous power of a government that had suddenly turned on them.

But Bo Halsey couldn’t be shocked or awed. He had already been awake and had breakfast and coffee when at dawn he heard the three cars and two SUVs pull up on his lawn. He knew what was happening.

He opened the front door before the phalanx of men could cross the lawn and knock. He wasn’t surprised to see Santangello and Arena in the lead: their bosses knew that the two agents liked Halsey and they had to prove that they could do their jobs without letting emotions such as loyalty and friendship interfere.

“What is it,” Bo said, “you guys never heard of a cell phone? You could’ve called.”

Vic Santangello said, “I know, but the fucking kids made us come out here this way.”

“Must’ve been because I talked fresh to them, right?”

“Something like that,” Arena said. “You were fresh, Bo. It was fun to watch. Can we come in?”

“Hey, my door’s always open. I don’t even use locks.”

Santangello and Arena stepped inside. The others remained on the porch. The kitchen had not been renovated in years. It had brown cabinets, a linoleum floor, and a yellow refrigerator. It was neat and orderly.

Arena said, “I have to say this, Bo. You’re under arrest. I have to read you your Miranda rights.”

“I have the right to remain silent. Anything and everything I say can be used against me. I have the right to have a lawyer represent me.”

Arena repeated those words.

Bo Halsey laughed, crossing his wrists. Arena snapped on the plastic handcuffs, loosely. As Bo began to lead the way to the door, Santangello said, “Slow down. We have a search warrant.”

“Not a problem,” Bo Halsey said. “The sheets from the fucking Joan Richardson bedroom are in the basement next to the oil tank.”

Vic Santangello shouted at the other men who stood like phantoms in the semi-dark on the porch. “Get back to the vehicles, get back.” Since Vic was the senior guy, the other men receded, not speaking.

Arena was already on the stairs leading to the basement. Halsey and Santangello heard the uncertain footsteps. “Man,” Santangello said, “we’ve known each other a long time. Just between us-I swear this is just between us-what the fuck were you up to with the video and these sheets?”

“Just between us girls, this was the last and biggest job of my life. I did lots of work, made lots of decisions. There was no way I was going to let a kid with a videotape and a sad girl with sheets mess up my conviction. It worked.”

“No,” Santangello said, “it really didn’t.”