Malcolm’s belligerent chin lifted in immodest pride. “Maybe
you’re right.”
“Let’s add thievery and betrayal and a touch of murder, too.” “Go to hell.”
“Who did you call when I came looking for my father’s old files?” Malcolm twisted his head as if his collar had suddenly tightened.
“No one. I didn’t call anyone.”
“If this is the quality of your lying, then I hope your matrimonial
lawyer is a sharp little cheddar, because it means your wife already
knows about you and Sharon and the whoop-de-do.”
“I don’t have the least idea what you are talking about.” “Funny, that’s what Sharon says, too. But adultery is really a minor
matter in the scheme of things. My guess is the senator asked you to
keep an eye on Laszlo Toth, all the while dangling this job as bait.
When Laszlo found the file, you called the senator and chirped away
like a chirpy little cockatoo. But when the senator ended up having
Laszlo shot to death, that made you an accomplice to murder. You’re
here to keep your mouth shut.”
“You’re way off base, Byrne.”
“Maybe, but I’m getting close to something, aren’t I?” “What do you want?”
“I guess that means I’m getting damn close. The senator is coming to Philadelphia tomorrow for an event at the convention center. I
need to meet with him before the fund-raiser.”
“He’s booked. There’s a committee hearing he has to attend in the
morning.”
“Oh, yes, and we all know how important committee meetings
are. Call him and make it happen.”
“Why would I do that? Why would I do anything to help you?” Why indeed? His father had given him the answer, now it was
time to squeeze.
“Because I found it, you dork,” said Kyle. “Because I have what Laszlo
was killed for and what you were undoubtedly searching for even when
I came knocking at my father’s office. I have the O’Malley file.” Malcolm turned his head slightly. “You’re bluffing.”
“Maybe, but can the senator take that chance?”
“If you have it, let me look at it. If it’s real, I’ll see if I can do something for you.”
“Oh, I have it, and it’s real, don’t you worry. And my bet is that
you have no idea what’s inside. I’m sure Senator Truscott would be
thrilled to learn that his new aide has been angling to take a peek.
Trying to blackmail yourself into a chief-of-staff position?” “That’s not what I was doing—”
“Save the lies for your wife and the tears for Sharon. Now, take
out a pencil and a piece of paper. After three years of law school, you
turned yourself into a messenger boy, so here’s the message: Tell the
senator that I have the file.”
“He’ll want proof,” said Malcolm as he plucked a pen off his desk. “Tell him I know what really happened to Colleen. That will spark
his interest. We’ll meet at four o’clock, which will give him plenty of
time to get here from Washington, have our discussion, and still be
able to stick his tongue in the vice president’s ear.”
“Where do you propose to meet?”
Kyle thought for a moment. “There’s a bar called Bubba’s in Queens
Village. Your boy’s a clever fellow, he’ll find it. You tell him to be
there at four and to be there alone. He shows up with a guard, with
his mother, or even someone as weak-kneed as you, and it’s over.” “And you’ll have the file with you?”
“Fuck no. I’m not an idiot. The thing will be in safe hands, ready
to go to the press if anything happens to me. But nothing will happen, right? Just a pleasant meeting with a constituent. I have some
ideas on the immigration issue.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Okay, I got it. Do you have a number where he can reach you if
the plans change?”
“The plans won’t change,” said Kyle, standing. “We’ll meet, we’ll
talk, we’ll do a fox-trot and figure something out. Everyone will go
home happy.”
Malcolm stared at Kyle for a moment. “You’re completely different than you were last week in the office. What the hell’s gotten into
you?”
“It’s the suit,” said Kyle.
CHAPTER 39
HIS NAME WAS Lamar, and Lamar was scared.
It was clear in the way Lamar’s hands shook as he brought the can of soda to his lips, in the way the soda slopped out of his mouth as he tried to drink, the way his jaw trembled as he repeated his improbable story. Ramirez thought the fear was a pretty good indication of guilt. It wouldn’t take much, she knew, to push him into abandoning his cock-and-bull story and signing a confession that would close the case. But Henderson had spent so much time in these rooms with kids who showed nothing but contempt for cops, for their crimes, for the prisons they were headed to, nothing but contempt for themselves, that in Lamar’s fear he saw possibilities for some sort of redemption. Ramirez would consider Henderson’s thoughts about redemption a sign of muddleheaded weakness arising from his severe case of old age. Henderson considered it his only reason for still being a cop.
“Where do you keep your drugs, Lamar?” said Henderson, who was taking the lead in the questioning and kept his voice calm and soft. Ramirez sat with her chair leaning against the wall and glowered.
“I told you, man, I don’t do drugs.”
“Remember that cup you peed in when they picked you up?” said
Ramirez with a sneer. “Well, that says you’re a liar.”
“What they find?” said Lamar.
“Some sticky icky,” said Ramirez.
“Hell, that ain’t drugs. I just took a hit off a buddy’s blunt last
night. But I ain’t got nothing at the house, if that’s what you’re asking. My moms would kill me she finds that crap. Truth is, sad as it is to admit, I don’t got the money for it.”
“The pawnshop said you got seventy-five for the watch,” said Henderson. “What did you spend it on?”