Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [66]
Peterson held his arm out and pushed the door open. A hard look of I don’t think so flashed across his face. Jack stiffened, but then he eased off and played it cool. Getting hammered by the cops first thing in the morning was not on his list of things to do today.
He let go of the door and walked back into the apartment. He sat in the Eames chair, reached for a packet of cigarettes on the coffee table and lit up. He leaned back and watched Peterson close the front door.
‘How’s Hammond, Jack?’
So the cops knew he was working for the old man. Had Annabelle told them?
‘That’s the first thing we’ll book you for: withholding information.’
‘Okay,’ said Jack.
‘Should be able to squeeze out an accessory to assault there, too.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘You think I’m joking? We found his little collection, Susko. The one you helped get together. And we know all about the burnt books and the notes. That constitutes assault. Tell me, did Kasprowicz get you to light the matches as well?’
Outside the wind swirled dead acacia leaves around the courtyard. Jack turned and watched: maybe it was time he cleaned up out there. Sweeping was good honest work. Therapeutic, too.
‘Didn’t your mummy tell you playing with matches would get you into trouble?’
‘You’re just fishing, Detective,’ said Jack. ‘But there’s nothing in the pond.’
‘Talking the talk, eh? How about we add aiding and abetting the escape of a murder suspect?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Kasprowicz didn’t like that brother of his,’ continued Peterson. ‘Took him to the cleaners for the family money. Then he tried to fuck him with the burnt books. Then he just decided to do him in. And now he’s done a runner.’
‘Really? Where’s he gone?’
‘Nobody knows. Except maybe you.’
‘Try Hong Kong.’
‘We checked. They never saw him. Try again.’
‘What about up your arse?’
The detective smiled. ‘That’s it, Jack. Dig the hole deeper. ’Cause you’re going to get good and buried. I got the shovel in the car.’
‘Sounds like it’s personal, Detective. Did I fuck your sister or something?’
Peterson moved a little closer. Behind his back he flexed the fingers of his right hand. ‘I know about the other guy at Kass’s apartment, Jackie boy,’ he said. There was cold steel in his tone. ‘You know, the one who stabbed you the other day? The one who shot Kass in the head? The one you saw on the kitchen floor with a bullet in his chest? Good old Rory Champion. And that was his real name, too, in case you’re wondering.’
Peterson let it all hang in the air for a moment. ‘Not telling us about Rory was a bad move, Jack. Sounds a little like intent to pervert the course of an investigation. Or maybe it sounds a lot like it. So next we have to ask ourselves why. Don’t we?’
Jack looked blankly at Peterson.
The detective grinned. ‘’Cause you’re an accessory to murder, maybe?’ he said, enjoying himself. ‘People do all sorts of things for money.’ Peterson looked around the apartment with distaste. ‘And there’s no doubt Kasprowicz could afford you.’
‘I’m sure you can colour it any way you want, Detective. But it all looks bullshit brown to me.’ Jack tried to sound smooth but it was all unsealed road from the moment he opened his mouth.
‘Oh, I got all the colours of the rainbow right here.’ Peterson tapped his pocket. ‘But let’s be clear. Let me explain the way they see it down at the station. I’ll give you the list and we’ll make sure there’s no confusion. I’d hate for you to be confused.’
The detective took a few more steps towards the Eames chair. ‘You work for Kasprowicz,’ he said. ‘You got all the Kass books for him. You lit the matches and wrote the notes. You’re a helpful kind of guy. And you find Kasprowicz someone to kill his brother. Kasprowicz knew you’d find the right person. Because you worked for Ziggy Brandt, you knew every piece of shit in town.’ The detective smiled.
Jack did not look up. He carefully shaped the end of his cigarette against the inside of the ashtray.
‘So you hire Rory — he’s nice and cheap, eat a bag of cockroaches for ten bucks. Everything