Body Copy - Michael Craven [42]
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Michael Craven
“The other ad guy and the possibility that Gale was running around?” Peterson said.
“Right,” Tremaine said, “and one other thing, the thing I wanted to hear your thoughts on.”
Tremaine looked right at Peterson now and saw Peterson register his stare, think about it a little.
“What is it?” Peterson said.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Tremaine said. “About your involvement in everything.”
Peterson was listening carefully.
“You had an offer here in Atlanta that you took right after the Roger Gale thing went cold. You knew you were leaving.”
“Yeah,” Peterson said.
“Well, I talked to Phillip Cook the other day, and he mentioned you. He mentioned you in a way that I found unusual.”
“So, he mentioned me. So what? I worked on the case, why wouldn’t he mention me?”
“Phillip Cook and his mother are desperate to prove to everyone in the world that Roger Gale didn’t have affairs.
Gale wouldn’t do that to Evelyn, embarrass her like that.
When Phillip brought your name up, it was almost like he had a relationship with you, like he knew you as more than a cop. And then, when I indicated I might talk to you, he didn’t like that. But I got to thinking, maybe you and Phillip had some kind of agreement. That no matter what you knew, you were going to say what Phillip wanted you to say.”
“Tremaine, this case is tough. There’s nothing to go on.
I understand your frustration. But you’re creating some-130
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thing out of nothing here. The guy mentioned my name—
so what. Read the report—get Lopez to give it to you.
Everything I know is in there.”
“Everything you wrote is in there. But is everything you know in there? Detectives don’t make much money, Peterson. Everyone knows that. Say you found something and Phillip paid you to keep quiet. You were leaving anyway—out of sight, out of mind. You were the perfect guy to do it. And Lopez told me you were a good cop, no one would suspect you, you just took a better-paying job in a different city. A lot of cops would do that.”
Peterson downed his beer. Tremaine flagged a waiter, who came over. An old man who looked like a butler.
“Let’s do a shot,” Tremaine said to Peterson.
No objection from Peterson.
“Two shots—Maker’s, please,” Tremaine said.
They waited, not talking now, for the booze to arrive.
Peterson had his head down, making his way through the remainder of his steak. Eating the fat. Tremaine just sat still, watching him. Peterson in this moment looked like an animal to Tremaine. Head down, eating away.
The shots arrived. Peterson put his fork down, and he and Tremaine threw back the bourbon.
Tremaine looked at Peterson and said, calmly, “I’m not going to sell you out, Peterson. If you tell me something, it will never come back to bite you in the ass. Never. But if I don’t leave this restaurant with something, something you know that I don’t, I’m going to drop the Roger Gale case and investigate you.”
“Are you threatening me, Tremaine? Are you threatening a cop?”
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Michael Craven
“Yes.”
“I don’t know shit. You came all this way and I don’t know shit.”
“Bullshit,” Tremaine said.
“Pay the bill, Tremaine.”
“Peterson, tell me what you know, and go back to your life. Don’t tell me, and I’ll find out about you if I have to rip out Phillip’s glass eye and feed it to him.”
Peterson laughed, the comment had caught him off guard. He’d evidently forgotten about that bizarre glass eye for the moment. He looked at Tremaine.
Tremaine said, “I’m not going to fuck with you, Peterson, no matter what you tell me. As long as you tell me.”
Peterson slumped in his chair. Then, calmly, the veteran cop back for the moment, he said, “You got me, Tremaine.
If I don’t tell you, you’re going to look into me. I don’t want you looking into me. So I’m going to tell you.”
Peterson paused, took a breath, and said, “I took a payoff from Phillip Cook to keep something out of the report.”
Tremaine looked at Bill Peterson, not changing his expression, not expressing any satisfaction that he’d been right. He just looked at the guy.