The Wrong Man

20

Detective Gary Boxer led me into an interview room. He had a file folder in his hand and a small notepad. He dropped them both down on the desk and motioned to me.

“So what’s your interest in Lorenzo Fowler?” he asked.

“He came to see me a few days before he was murdered. Legal advice. I didn’t take the case, but we talked. I wish I could tell you what he said to me.”

Boxer opened his hand. He was probably just over forty, with a rash of blond hair and deep-set eyes. A toothpick moved freely in his mouth. “He’s dead,” he said to me. “He’s got no worries at this point.”

“But he’s got the privilege. It survives his death.”

“Okay, so you can’t tell me what he told you. So why are you here?”

“Thought I might ask you some questions.”

“You’re gonna ask me questions.” He eyeballed me for a moment. “Okay, shoot. Not saying I’m gonna answer.”

“You know a strip club called Knockers?”

He kept with the poker face for a moment before relaxing. “So maybe we liked him for that murder. We sweated Lorenzo pretty good two days before he died. You probably know that, right?”

“Not saying I do, not saying I don’t,” I answered.

Boxer tapped his fingers on the table. “You’re not the Capparellis’ lawyer. So if he’s coming to you, it means he wanted out. He wanted an independent lawyer.” He nodded as he thought this over. “Lorenzo was thinking about a trade. Turning state’s evidence. We figure the Capparellis hit him, right? He was becoming a liability. Maybe he was trying to find a way out of the whole business. Stop me if I got it wrong.”

I didn’t stop him.

“And that’s the very reason the Capparellis would want him out of commission,” he continued. “A liability, like I said.” He worked the toothpick expertly from one side of his mouth to the other. “This isn’t exactly stuff I didn’t know.”

Right, but he was going to take his time extracting information from my silence.

“Might Lorenzo have given you some valuable information?”

“He might have,” I said. “He might not have.”

“He might have, he might not have.” Boxer was going to wait me out.

“You play cards?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Used to play poker. You?”

“I like a different game,” I said. “I prefer gin rummy.”

A wry smile crept across the detective’s face. Boxer got it. “Funny,” he said. “The Capparellis have a guy who goes by that nickname.”

“What a coincidence,” I said.

“We don’t know his identity. There’s some people in the brown building downtown who’d sure like to, though. So would some of my colleagues.”

“So would I,” I said.

Boxer frowned. He’d gotten his hopes up. “So Lorenzo didn’t tell you.” He drummed his fingers again. “Was that gonna be the trade?”

“I’d be breaching my privilege if I answered that.”

“Sure. Right.”

“From the papers, Lorenzo’s murder sure read like a Mob hit,” I said. “One in the throat. One in each kneecap.”

“They’re not subtle, these guys.”

“Maybe you can’t answer-but does it look like Gin Rummy?”

Boxer shrugged and sighed. Couldn’t tell if he was debating whether to share with a civilian or if he didn’t know the answer. “Hard to say, Counselor. Whoever it was, he was a damn good shot. These were precision shots, and not from close range.”

“Shell casings?” I asked.

“No, no. Nothing like that. Trajectory of the windpipe shot, lack of tattooing or charring or anything. Wasn’t close up. The offender shot out the kneecaps while Lorenzo was up against the door of the bookstore, and the offender wasn’t on the sidewalk or the curb or the street, either. Two eyewitnesses on the corner said so.”

“The shooter was, what-across the street? Bent down between cars?”

Boxer smiled. He was done sharing, but it seemed like I’d guessed right. He leaned in toward me. “I’m gonna ask you straight, just so there’s no misunderstanding with these games we’re playing. Do you know who Gin Rummy is?”

“No.”

“Then I’m out of time for you.” He slipped me a card. I slipped him one of mine. Then I slipped out of the police station.