Wilde tried not to sneer back. “You can speed it up by telling me the truth, Pappy.”
The slits grew feral. “Have you been listenin‘, man? I am telling you the truth.” His hands were inked with tattoos. Barely visible against the dark skin. Why bother?
Probably his arms, too, but Wilde couldn’t see that. Pappy was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt. He’d taken off his olive-green silk suit jacket. It hung over his chair, smooth and gleaming. So long it puddled on the floor.
“I’ve been listening.” Wilde shrugged. “But I don’t believe you. You know why I don’t believe you? Because you’re not credible.”
“I didn’t shoot no one.” Delveccio crossed his arms over his chest.
“See, there you go again with that truth problem. We tested your hands for gunpowder residue, Pappy. You fired a gun.”
“I didn’t shoot no one at the club,” he amended. “I was fooling around with a gun yesterday.”
It was all Wilde could do not to snort. “When yesterday?”
“In the morning.”
“And you haven’t washed your hands since you fired that gun?”
“Matter of fact, I didn’t.”
“Haven’t wiped your hands with a napkin after you’ve eaten?”
“No.”
Wilde stared at him.
The kid retorted, “I’m a neat eater.”
“You know, Pappy, last night’s game was televised. All that sweat on your face and hands, just dripping and dripping and dripping. Not only did I see you wiping down your face and hands with a towel about twenty times, so did everyone who was watching the game. You want to change your story?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“You lawyer up, Pap, but then I can’t work with you. Then we can’t work out a deal. And you know if you’re gonna get out of this, you’re gonna have to work up a deal.”
Dorothy was watching from the other side of the interview room’s one-way mirror. She looked at D-4’s night captain. Phil O’Toole was beefy, florid, and white-haired, a third-generation Basic Irish Cop. He’d seen lots of changes in Back Bay: more immigrants, more drugs, more transients, and a lot more students. That meant more parties and more alcohol-related incidents. The upside was professionals coming back, fixing up old Victorian homes. No perps, those, just occasional victims.
“A Ducaine lawyer will be here any minute,” she said. “How long do you think we can stall before the lawyer starts making demands to see the client?”
“We can put it off for ten minutes at the most,” O’Toole replied. “What do we got on Delveccio-specifi-cally?”
“Witnesses that saw him pull out a gun.”
“How many witnesses?”
“Three or four and we’re still looking.”
“What else?”
“Residue on his hands. He obviously discharged a weapon, and it had to have been after the game.”
“But you don’t have anyone who saw him fire, right?”
“We’re still looking,” Dorothy repeated. “It’s hard to get witnesses to talk.”
“So you’ll work on them.”
“Of course.”
O’Toole said, “Discharging a weapon… We have enough to keep him locked up until someone schedules an arraignment and makes bail. What’s that? Three hours?”
“About.”
They both regarded Wilde through the window. The detective rubbed his eyes and said, “Tell me about the shooting, Pappy. Tell me what happened. If it was self-defense, I want to know about it. The DA will want to know about it. Self-defense is a whole different thing.”
The forward stared at Wilde, appearing to weigh his options. Then he said, “Your eyes are two different colors. What happen? Your mama bang two men at the same time?”
Wilde smiled. “I’ll ask her the next time I see her.”
“I’ve had enough.” O’Toole picked up the phone and called Wilde out of the interview room. As soon as Wilde emerged, he started to defend himself. But O’Toole interrupted. “He asked for his lawyer, Cory. We’re gonna have to book him based on what we have: witnesses to the fight, witnesses who saw him pullin‘ out a weapon, the residue on his hands.”
“Give me a few more minutes with him,” Wilde pleaded.
O’Toole’s pink face turned the color of rare steak. “You deaf, Detective? He already asked for his lawyer. And some suit from Ducaine is on the way.”
“So I’ll tell him that. I’ll tell him he don’t have to talk to me. But let me keep him company, okay?”
O’Toole didn’t answer.
“Just company,” said Wilde. “Nothing that’ll fuck up Miranda.” He crossed himself.
“Fine,” said O’Toole. “Company. Just until the suit gets here.”
At that moment, McCain walked into the room. The captain stared at him. “Where have you been?”
“Talking to witnesses.”
“And?”
“After much cajoling and threatening, I got two young ladies to admit they saw Pappy pull out and discharge a weapon-a handgun.”
“Hallelujah!” Wilde said.
O’Toole said, “How reliable are they?”
“As reliable as anyone at the club. Which means they’re shaky right now. We’re gonna have to babysit them for a while.”
“Did either one see Pappy point the gun in Julius’s direction?”
“We’re still nailing down the details.”
“Anyone see what kind of gun Pappy fired?”
“No, sir, no one was paying that close attention. Too many people panicking when the bullets started flying. Everyone hit the floor.” McCain consulted his notes. “I’ve also got a lead on a woman who was possibly with Julius on the upper level when he was shot. Her name is Spring Mathers, and she lives with her parents in Rox-bury.” McCain checked his watch. “It’s a little after five. I figure I’ll go over there in a few hours.”
“No, you’ll go over there now and wake them up,” O’Toole said. “We need all the help we can get because our bad boy isn’t saying much.”
The door to the interview room opened. Officer Rias Adajinian was young and cute except for the dark circles under her eyes. A newcomer, she had been assigned the graveyard shift. It didn’t agree with her biorhythm. “Someone from Ducaine University has arrived, demanding to speak with Mr. Delveccio. Also…” She sighed. “Ellen Van Beest is here, too.”
O’Toole looked at Dorothy. Immediately, she said, “I know her. I’ll do it.” She looked at the young officer. “Where’d you set her up?”
“Five.”
“I’ll need a full pitcher of water, two glasses, and a big box of tissues.” Dorothy paused. “Make that two boxes of tissues. Tell her I’ll be there in just a second. I need a moment to myself.”
“How did this happen?” Ellen grabbed Dorothy’s arm, squeezing her fingers until her knuckles blanched. She was shaking, her voice wet with tears and profound sadness. “How did this happen? How could…” She broke into sobs that would no longer allow speech.
Tears in her own eyes, Dorothy reached out to embrace her, and the distraught woman permitted herself to take comfort. Like Dorothy, Ellen was a large woman-tall and heavy-but in grief, she was insubstantial.
“How could this happen? How could this happen? How could it, Dorothy, how could it?”
Water overflowed Dorothy’s eyes. “We’re going to find out everything, Ellen. I promise you, personally, I will not rest until we have the perpetrator behind bars.”
“Just tell me this: Was it the pig who fouled my Julius? Did he take him down?”
“From what I heard, that boy wasn’t even at the club.”
“Boy.” Ellen looked ready to spit. “It wasn’t anyone from Ducaine?”
At Dorothy’s silence, Ellen became fierce. “It wasn’t him, it was his friend, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? A Ducaine pig. Tell me the truth, Dorothy. Tell me! Tell me!”
“There were some players from Ducaine-”
“I knew it!” Ellen broke away. “I knew it! I knew it! The game! It’s not a game when they allow monsters and thugs to play. This world’s insane!” She was shouting now. “Insane!”