The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [123]
The tech completed his task, not having made eye contact. One of the two cops who’d picked me up in the lobby made a quick call from the wall phone, and then he and his partner walked me back to the elevator and took me up to the fourteenth floor. Lieutenant Wayland was waiting in the elevator lobby, looking sharp in a freshly pressed white shirt and dress blues. Wayland dismissed the plainclothed cops and led me toward Deputy Chief Ellison’s office.
“Let me explain what’s going on here,” he said, his voice resonant with satisfaction. “I took pictures of that mess you had taped to the wall of your hotel room. We’ve got you and Detective Kinnard for making false statements to the police and criminal conspiracy to conceal evidence of crimes. I’m betting we’ll get Belko as well. Kinnard’s out, he and Belko will both forfeit their pensions, and you can forget about ever working in the securities industry again, because conspiracy is a felony. And that’s just for starters.”
I kept quiet, reserving my energy for Ellison. Silence must not have been the response Wayland wanted. He rounded on me suddenly, face inches from mine. The hall was empty save for the two of us, darkened offices on either side.
“You and your pals are in a world of hurt,” he hissed. “Your only option at this point is to come clean and pray for leniency. Am I making myself clear?”
He was clear but wrong. The last four hours had given me options he didn’t know about.
“Your boss will be the one to make that decision,” I said, shouldering past him and continuing in the direction we’d been headed.
I thought he might grab me from behind and try to bounce me off a wall, but Wayland’s new breed of cop evidently stuck to verbal intimidation. He speed-walked past me to regain his position of leadership, jaw clenched and face flushed.
Ellison’s office was at the end of the corridor. He was on the phone, so Wayland and I took seats in an anteroom with an unoccupied secretarial station, a long row of file cabinets, and a view of the East River. The chairs were hard plastic. Wayland was fidgety, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders as though he could hardly wait to have at me. A light winked out on the secretary’s phone, and Wayland popped to his feet.
“After you,” he snarled.
The interior space was large and dark, the only light from a green-shaded desk lamp. The chief sat behind his desk in shirt sleeves, cuffs rolled up and tie pulled down. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s stood at his elbow, a half-full glass beside it. He picked up a folder and tossed it toward me.
“Read and sign.”
“Read and sign what?” I asked, lifting the folder from the desk.
“Official statements by Detective Kinnard and former Detective Goo about certain events transpiring at the LaGuardia Motor Court today. Your signature confirms your agreement with their recollections.”
Wayland grabbed the folder from me before I could open it.
“This is wrong, Chief. Wallace has to make his own statement first.”
“You shut the fuck up, Lieutenant,” Ellison roared, supporting himself on his knuckles as he half-rose from his seat. “Do something useful for a change. Go get Kinnard.”
Wayland looked stunned. I was less surprised, because I had a better notion of who Ellison had been on the phone with. I took the folder from Wayland’s unresisting hand, scanning the contents as he slunk away. Reggie and Joe had said what they’d agreed to say. I lifted a pen from the chief’s desk without asking and signed