Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [8]
Nobody said a word on the ride downtown.
They left me alone in a holding cell for an hour or so. I didn't ask to make a phone call. I did that once, when I was a kid. Just to be doing it—I had nobody to call. Now I knew better. On both counts.
They brought me into the interrogation room. Two detectives I never saw before shouldered in behind me. Street cops. Wash–and–wear suits, bad haircuts, sidewalk shoes. They looked alike. Same size, same weight. Same eyes.
"You want a smoke?" the first one asked.
"How much are they?"
The second one grunted. "On the house," the first guy said.
I nodded. He tossed a pack on the table, pushed a dull metal Zippo across to me. I rolled my thumb carefully across the surface of the lighter, held it up to the light, slid it back to him. The second guy laughed. Threw a book of paper matches at me. I lit a cigarette.
"You want to make a statement?"
"About what?"
"You're busted. Homicide."
I blew smoke at the ceiling.
A knock at the door. The second guy opened it. The new guy was flashier. Younger. Nice suit, silk tie, dimple under the knot. Spent money on his haircut. Mirror shine on his black loafers. Even had tassels on them. The B Team. He took the seat across from me. The street–sweepers stood in the background.
"I'm Detective Lieutenant Swanson. And you're…"
"Under arrest."
One of the street cops snorted. The lieutenant gave me a hard look. "I thought you had more sense than that. What's it gonna get you, pal? You know the score. You don't give up your prints, we can hold you forever. You stand for the prints, your rap sheet falls on you and the judge is gonna remand your ass. You're looking at a few months on Rikers Island even if you beat this."
"I already gave you my prints."
One of the rollers laughed. The lieutenant looked unhappy. "Don't play games, okay? You know how it works. We got some homicides, we got a building blown all to hell in Times Square. We got feds taking fucking bows with their big score. We want ours, okay?"
"What's yours?"
"You tell me, pal. It could be you. It don't have to be. Understand? You got something to trade?"
I ground out my cigarette.
The lieutenant looked at his watch. Two gold bracelets on his wrist. "Last chance," he said.
I lit another smoke.
"Don't you even want to know who you killed?"
I blew smoke in his face.
He pushed his chair back. "Book him," he snapped to the two street cops, walking out the door.
This time all three of us laughed.
13
IT WAS ONE in the morning before they brought me downtown for arraignment. The Lobster Shift: they run arraignments twenty–four hours a day in Manhattan. Seven days a week. I spotted Davidson in the front row, dressed like he was going to face a jury, wide–awake. I waited for my name to be called.
Wolfe was arguing with the judge. If she was standing up at a night arraignment, the defendant must be some major degenerate. She was standing by herself at the counsel table, ten pounds of paper spread out in front of her, a guy who looked like a bouncer in a waterfront bar just behind her. Her voice was soft, but it carried.
"Twenty–nine counts, Your Honor. Twenty–nine separate counts. Seven complaining witnesses. That's seven children. The People respectfully request that the defendant be remanded until trial."
The defendant was sitting straight up, facing the judge. Well–dressed, dignified. Looked outraged to be in such a place. His lawyer was an older man, beautiful shock of white hair falling almost to his shoulders, church deacon's voice.
"Your Honor, if I may be heard. Doctor West is a prominent member of the community. A man without a scintilla of a criminal record. A family man, whose wife and children are shocked by these obviously false allegations. The People's request for a remand is simply outrageous. I assure you we intend to fight these scandalous charges on the merits, and we are contemplating the appropriate civil remedies against the parents of these obviously misguided children. I'm sure this young lady means well…"
"Don't patronize