The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [46]
During his trial at Foley Square, in New York, Sarah had attended the court sessions each day, trying to study and understand Wilson. He was articulate, impressively so for a man who hadn’t been inside a schoolroom since the seventh grade. He had even considered defending himself at the trial.
He had always been polite to her, soft-spoken. His style was part of the reason he’d become the darling of the New York press—a killer and drug trafficker who regularly appeared at exclusive Manhattan parties and the best restaurants.
Sarah thought of the “blue list” tapes again; the curious mismatching of criminals with the créme de la créme of high society. Why was that? What did it mean?
“So what brings you up here, to my big house in the country? Why are we having meetings in the middle of the night?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” Sarah asked.
Nicky Wilson smiled again. He had always liked to play mind games with Sarah. His fingers made elegant steeples in front of his face.
“Well, all right… The warden leaves the room, which means you want to talk serious business. That’s one observation.
“…There’s nasty violence raging all over the place. New York, Detroit, L.A., over in Europe. I know about these gang wars, but not too much. Not too much anymore. I just finished a real book, Sarah… The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Am I rehabilitated now?”
Sarah remained patient, always the good listener. The reporter. She’d reread all of Nicky Wilson’s prison files before meeting with him again.
“No, I don’t know anything more than you do about the mob war, the assassinations that are going down,” Wilson finally went on.
“One of the guinea families, the old-line guineas around New Jersey, has a million-dollar reward out for whoever hit the Grave Dancer. Alexandre St.-Germain was immortal, Sarah. He was supposed to be untouchable. The bosses are nervous.”
“I hadn’t heard about that,” Sarah said. “You see, you do still get good information. You were right earlier, though—that I wanted to talk about something serious. I have some questions.”
Nicky Wilson lit up an English cigarette, a Silk Cut. “I always enjoyed our talks. Even the one we had up here. I have all the time in the world. What kind of questions?” Wilson used a Cartier lighter, which seemed out of place in the austere visiting cell.
“The first question is whether you still have your nerve.”
Wilson’s eyes were beacons. They searched into Sarah’s eyes. “If you’ve got something on your mind, say it.”
“I can help you get out of here. We can make a trade. If you’re willing to cooperate with the investigation into the murders of Alexandre St.-Germain and Oliver Barnwell.”
A physical shock traveled through Wilson’s body. His hands curled into stiff clubs. Sarah realized that she was looking at the real Nicky Wilson.
“We want you to look at some videotapes,” she said. “A lot of films were shot at Allure. I don’t think many of the customers knew they were being filmed.”
Wilson said nothing; the corners of his jaw quivered. He was good at not giving away too much.
“We need identification, but most of all, connections. We know about federal judges, important politicians who went to parties at Allure. Entertainers, wise guys, went there regularly. Influential businessmen visited Allure. You were there yourself, Nicky.”
“No, I was never at Allure,” Nicky Wilson said. A hard tone had come into his voice.
“You were on one of the videotapes, Nicky. I watched the tape several times.”
Nicky Wilson stared at Sarah. To be sitting eighteen inches away from a murderer was such a strange, chilling experience. To stare into eyes that were tiny mirrors. Watching her. Revealing nothing.
Finally, Wilson spoke again. “You better leave now. If that’s what you wanted, you wasted a long trip.”
Sarah decided to keep pushing, although the look on Nicky Wilson’s face told her to back off.
“I can help, Nicky. What is the Midnight Club? ‘They think of everything, don