“We’re not DEA,” Morgan said. “We’re FBI. We came to see you about the killings.”
His eyes huge with fear, Minchell blurted, “I want a lawyer. Now!”
“That’s smart,” Morgan said, patting his arm. “That’s what I’d do if I was in your shoes. Or your hospital bed, anyway.”
Rossi stepped closer to the suspect’s bedside. “My colleague’s right. If you have a lawyer, you can’t get in any more trouble. It’s just that it’s going to take a lot longer to clear all this up.”
“What? Why?”
Rossi gave him a rumpled, seen-it-all smile. “I mean, hell, Eddie—we been through that rattrap where you live. We know you’re not the killer, and we just had a couple of questions for you; but yeah, sure, right, having a lawyer makes more sense. You don’t want to take any chances aiding an investigation.”
Minchell stewed for a long moment.
Then, as Lorenzon plucked his cell phone off his belt, to make the call to the public defender’s office, Minchell said, “I guess I could probably answer a couple of questions, without, you know, an attorney.”
“Good,” Morgan said. “Cooperation is a good thing. That might help me forget what happened in the alley.”
Minchell stared cross-eyed at the bandage on his nose.
“Yeah, I know,” Morgan said, his voice matter-of-fact, no malice at all. “I broke your nose. But remember, you did try to knife me. Attempted murder of a federal officer? Kind of makes a pound of grass seem like so much shit.”
“…Okaaay. What do you wanna know?”
Rossi said, “We need to talk to you about a couple of your friends.”
Minchell shifted excitedly in the bed. “You didn’t say anything about me ratting anybody out!”
Rossi shook his head. “These friends aren’t worried about getting ratted out, Eddie. These friends are dead.”
Minchell looked surprised. “No friends of mine died lately. That I know of.”
“How about Bobby Edels and Stevie Darnell?”
His brow tightened. “Never heard of ’em.”
Rossi and Morgan traded a look.
“We were told different,” Morgan said.
“Who the hell said so? Somebody yankin’ your chain, is who. I never heard of eitherof those guys.”
“A bartender from Hot Rods says you knew them,” Rossi said. “In fact, he says that on one occasion, Bobby left the bar with you, and on another, Stevie did.”
Minchell shrugged. “I go to that bar sometimes, yeah. It’s an okay place. I’ve even left with guys from time to time. I’m what you call bi-curious. But I don’t remember either of those names. Of course, sometimes names don’t enter into it.…”
Lorenzon withdrew pictures from a pocket and passed them to Minchell. “You recognize one or both of these men?”
Minchell studied the photos for a moment. “Well… yeah, actually I do. Yeah, I remember both these dudes… but neither of them was ever with me.”
Rossi frowned at him. “Are you saying that neither of them left the bar with you? Or are you saying that you didn’t sleep with either of them? Be specific, Eddie.”
Minchell had to think about it, but finally he said, “I didn’t have sex with either of those guys. Both were dudes I picked up for this otherguy—uptight character who didn’t want to be seen going into a gay club. Paid me good money to help him out and serve as sort of… an intermediary.”
“Pimp,” Tovar chimed in.
“Hey, I performed a service and was tipped for my trouble. I told each of ’em a really good-looking guy was interested, but he was shy, a closeted type, you know? But he was hot, and he had money to burn. They both went along. That isn’t pimping where I come from.”
“The important question now,” Rossi said, “is not what we call your activity, but the name of your client.”
“Hell, I don’t know,” Minchell said. “Swear to God, I don’t.”
Lorenzon held up the bag of weed. “This is not simple possession, you know. This much weight is intent to deliver—a felony.”
Minchell threw up his hands, nearly pulling out the IV. “Bust me for the pot, bust me for the knife, hell, what can Ido about it? I don’t know the guy’s goddamn name!”
Rossi patted the air in a calming fashion, then asked, “Could you identify the guy?”
“How?”
“If you sawhim,” Rossi said, as if to a slow child, “would you knowhim?”
Minchell nodded. “Like I said, good-looking guy. He’s not very big, though. Still… there’s something kind of… offabout him.”
Morgan asked, “How many other times did you… troll for this guy?”
“Just those two times. Never saw him but on those two occasions.”
“If we brought in a forensic artist,” Rossi said, “would you be able to help develop a picture of this man?”
Minchell’s eyes and nostrils flared. “If this guy’s some kind of killer, and he found out…”
Lorenzon dangled the bag of dope. Morgan watched as Minchell silently calculated how long he would be spending in the Joliet state pen. To nudge him in the correct direction, Morgan got out the evidence bag that held Minchell’s knife.
“The dope is column A,” Morgan said, and then wiggled the bag with the knife. “Column B is federal time.”
Rossi said, “Both is the all-you-can-serve buffet.”
Minchell’s face turned as white as the bandage on his nose.
Then he said, “Sit down with one of those sketch artists? Sounds like fun. Sure. Glad to help.”
Chapter Nine
August 7 Chicago, Illinois
The man some were calling the UnSub prided himself on his planning, on never leaving any detail untended.
Yet here he was doing something simple, checkingto make sure that dolt was still buried if not dead, and now, looking down at the road, he could see that he was about to be interrupted, some moron butting in on his private business.…
Headlights turned into the gravel driveway and started up the long hill to the house, toward the back of which the UnSub had, prior to this intrusion,been heading. The sultry night (actually early morning—the time was one fifteen a.m.) offered up only a few lonely clouds that drifted like lazy smoke, blotting out the moon and a thousand stars. His own car was safely hidden in the barn, so the property should still look vacant.
So who the hell could be wandering up the driveway?
As the vehicle drew closer, he could make out a Ford Bronco.…
“More the merrier,” he said with a shrug, then chuckled, and headed to the backyard just as planned.
There, he saw at once that the grave seemed fine, undisturbed, and the man beneath the earth made no sound. The UnSub found his shovel behind the bushes where he’d left it, then leaned it against the back wall of the house—couldn’t set a trap without a carrot.
Moving back along the far side of the abandoned house, keeping the structure between him and the approaching vehicle, he came around the front as the Bronco eased up into the side yard.
The UnSub had his gun drawn as he knelt next to the corner of the old house, waiting to see who his caller was. If this was some lost tourist seeking directions, who knocked on the door, got no answer,and then headed back to the Bronco, who knows? He might just choose to be merciful. After all, his strong suit was not improvisation, but carefullycalibrated performance.
And if this wasn’t some poor traveler seeking assistance?Well, that was different, wasn’t it?
A man climbed down out of the Bronco. When he appeared at the front fender, he was clearly no lost tourist, not with a pistol drawn and a face as clenched as a fist. The UnSub could barely make out the man, who wore a T-shirt and jeans, and— other than a shaved or possibly bald head—the intruder’s features couldn’t be made out, not distinctly.