2nd Chance - James Patterson [70]
“Here…,” exclaimed Jacobi, swatting him in the chest with a rolled-up Chronicle. “Your morning paper. Mind if we come in?”
“Yeah, I mind.” Coombs scowled.
Cappy smiled. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for this cat who used to be on the force? What the hell was the cat’s name? Oh yeah, Coombs. Frank Coombs. You ever hear that from anybody before?”
Coombs blinked impassively, then his mouth curled into a half smile. “Wouldn’t you know, I get boarded on planes for him all the time.”
If he recognized Jacobi or Cappy from years ago on the force, he didn’t register it, but he squinted a look of familiarity as his gaze fell on me. “Don’t tell me, after all this time, you bozos are the department’s welcome-home committee?”
“How ’bout you let us in?” Jacobi asked.
“You come with a warrant?” Coombs leered.
“I told you nicely, we’re just delivering your morning paper.”
“Then make a fucking scene. C’mon,” Coombs said between gritted teeth. His eyes were something else; they burned a hole right into the back of your skull.
Cappy pressed the door firmly in Coombs’s face, then he and Jacobi pushed their way into the room. “As long as we’re here, we might as well run a couple of questions by you.”
Coombs rubbed his unshaven chin, glaring vicious darts at us. He finally pulled out a wooden chair from a small table and took a seat with his arms wrapped around its back. “Fuckers,” he muttered. “Useless shitbirds.”
The tiny room was littered with newspapers, Budweiser bottles lined up on the sill, cigarette butts in Coke cans. I had the sense that if I could only poke around, something was there.
“This is Lieutenant Boxer of the Homicide Detail,” Jacobi said. “We’re Inspectors Jacobi and McNeil.”
“Congratulations.” Coombs grinned. “I feel safer already. What do you Three Stooges want?”
“Like I said,” Jacobi replied, “you should read the papers. Keep abreast of what’s going on. You follow what’s in the news much?”
“You got something to say, say it,” Coombs said.
“Why don’t you start by telling us where you were four nights ago,” I started in. “Friday? Around eleven o’clock.”
“Why don’t you kiss my ass.” Coombs sneered. “You want to play games, let’s play. I was either at the ballet or the opening of that new art exhibition. I can’t recall. My schedule’s too full these days.”
“Simplify it for us,” Cappy snapped.
“Sure. Yeah. Actually, I was with friends.”
“These friends,” Jacobi cut in. “They have names, phone numbers? I’m sure they’d be happy to vouch for you.”
“Why?” Coombs’s mouth puckered into a slight grin. “You got someone who says I was somewhere else?”
“I guess what I was thinking”—I met his eyes—“was when was the last time you made it out to Bay View? Your old stomping grounds? Maybe I should say your choking grounds.”
Coombs glared. I could tell he wanted to wrap his hands around my neck.
“So he does read the papers,” Cappy chortled.
The ex-con continued to glare. “What the fuck, Inspector, you think I’m some rookie whose knees start to shake when you wag your dick at him? Sure, I read the papers. You assholes can’t solve your case so you come up here and shake my bush for old times. You’ve got zip on me, otherwise you wouldn’t be lap dancing in my face and we’d be having this talk down at the Hall. You think I killed all those dingo bastards, then lock me up. Otherwise, oh, look at the time.… My Town Car’s waiting. Are we done?”
I wanted to take him by the throat and smack his smug face against the wall. But Coombs was right. We couldn’t take him in. Not with what we had. “There are a few questions you’re going to have to answer, Mr. Coombs. You’ll have to answer why three people are dead who had a connection to your murder charge twenty years ago. You’ll have to answer what you were doing on the nights they were killed.”
The veins on Coombs’s forehead started to bulge. Then he calmed, and curled his lips into a smile. “You must be up here, Lieutenant, ’cause you’ve got some eyewitness that