Playing on the fear again.
"Maybe a ratio of ten to one, Mr.
Denker, black to white, Hispanic to white, that's what you're likely to find. Streetwise hoodlums serving hard time, that's what you'll find in a state penitentiary. Running the show.
Calling the tune. A topsy-turvy world, all at once. Your ass'll be grass, Mr.
Denker. Literally.”
"Now see here," Keller said.
"This is all off the record," Nellie said.
"Even so.”
"I think Mr. Denker is listening, though.
Aren't you listening, Mr. Denker?”
"What's the upside?" he said.
Carella saw her eyes flash almost imperceptibly. She knew she had him hooked now, and she was going to reel him in.
"The upside would be a federal penitentiary.”
"Uh-huh.”
“Something like Danbury or Allenwood.”
"Uh-huh.”
"A country club.”
She let this sink in, too.
"Now I don't know what you may have done anyplace else but here," she said. "I know you did that murder last night, and I'm going to nail you for it, believe me. But if we can clear up anything else while we're at it, then maybe we can talk a shorter term in a federal pen, that's entirely up to you.”
"How short?”
"Well, I don't know what you've done yet, do I?”
"Nothing here.”
"Except for last night.”
"I haven't said anything about last night.”
"Okay, so where?”
"Chicago. Mostly.”
"Let's concentrate on Chicago then, okay? Let's say ... I'm not asking you anything yet and I'm not making any promises either ... but let's say you've done some things we can clean up for the feds there ...”
"Like what? I'm not saying I did anything ...”
"I understand. This is all off the record.”
"But like what kind of things did you have in mind?”
"Well, considering your line of work ...”
"I told you I'm a bodyguard, is what my line of work is. What kind of things did you have in mind?”
"Loan-shark collections?" Nellie said, and shrugged. "Laundering drug money? A little extortion here and there?" She shrugged again. "We'd be asking you to testify against anyone you may have done such work for. If there was anything like that, stuff I could talk over with the people in Chicago, it might help me get what you're looking for.”
"What is it you think I'm looking for?”
"Let's say ten to life in a federal pen, how does that sound to you? If I can swing it.”
"I'm not saying I did any of these things, you understand. ...”
"I realize that. Besides, we'd have to clear up all the details of the case here before I could even ...”
"No way. Talk to your people first. Tell them I can maybe give you the kind of stuff you want, and then find out if you can get me a federal pen. And ten to life sounds high.”
"Let me make some phone calls, okay?”
"Sure. I'm in no hurry," Denker said.
Nellie nodded, said, "Give me a few minutes," and left the room. Denker sat with his hands folded on the table before him, studying them. The clock threw minutes into the room. The video-camera operator passed wind, mumbled, "Sorry," and then yawned. When Nellie came back some ten minutes later, she said, "Depending on what you've got for me, I think I can get it down to eight-and-a-third to life.
Want to play?”
"You think you can get it down?”
"I can promise you the eight-and-a-third, okay? Provided this is real meat. The feds don't like being jerked around.”
"Give me a Queen-for-a-Day letter," Denker said, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind about his professionalism.
"Nothing in writing," Nellie said flatly.
"What do you say?”
"How do I know ...?was "We can always go the other route," Nellie said, and shrugged in dismissal. "Some state pens are better than others.”
Denker looked at her.
"So what do you say?" she asked. "Are we done here, or are we just beginning?”
"What do you want to know?" he said.
"The stuff here first.”
"Okay.”
She nodded to the camera operator. He hit the button.
"Did Martin Bowles hire you to kill his wife?" she asked.
"Yes.”
"When was this?”
"I called him from Chicago.”
"When, Mr. Denker?" And then, more gently.
"Please tell us when, won't you?”
"On the thirtieth of December.”
"And said what?”
"That I understood he had a job for me.
Someone had recommended me for a job he needed done down here.”
"You both knew what that meant, did you?”
"Yes, we both knew what that meant.”
"What happened then?”
"We arranged to meet.”
“Where? Here in this city?”
"Yes.”
"When did you actually meet with him?”
"On January third.”
"Where?”
"In a restaurant downtown. In the Old City. Near the Seawall down there ... is that what you call it, the Seawall? His office was down there, he wanted me to meet him down there.
But not in his office. He was too smart for that. It was very cold that day, in fact much colder than Chicago had been when I left, I was surprised. Here in this city ...”
Everything is still decorated for Christmas, the trees still hung with lights, the shop windows brimming with merchandise on sale now that the giving season is over. This is a few days after the start of the new year. The city looks extravagantly beautiful, a dazzling snow princess in silver and white. The restaurant is one of those places that seem phony because they're so real, genuine wooden beams that went back to the British occupancy, or so Bowles tells him, leaded-glass windows, a copper-topped bar, all of it looking exactly the way it must have looked in the eighteenth century. Denker almost expects their waiter to be wearing white stockings, knee breeches, and a powdered wig.
They sit in a booth with high wooden sides, private and apart.
They are here to discuss murder.
Bowles tells him he's an investment broker up for a promotion with his firm, he'll be a partner by the first of May if all goes well. He is a man in his late thirties, Denker guesses, exceedingly handsome, with dark hair and brown eyes, wearing an elegant gray business suit on this very cold night in January, drinking first one martini and then another, looking almost cheerful as he tells Denker that he wants his wife killed.
"Why?" Denker asks.
"You don't need to know that, do you?" Bowles says.
"You're right, I don't," Denker says.
Business is business, he thinks. He himself has been nursing a vodka on the rocks for the past half hour now. When murder is the topic, he likes to keep a clear head. Only amateurs drink when details are being discussed.
Denker is a pro. - They look at the menu ...
Bowles orders the prime ribs, Denker the lamb chops ...
... and return to the problem at hand. It seems that Bowles has been trying to dispose of his wife since shortly after Thanksgiving, having hired a man who claimed to be an expert but who, in fact, turned out to be the world's worst bungler. In the middle of December, the man made a blatant attempt to shove Emma under a goddamn subway train with half a dozen people watching. And just last week-and this is what prompted Bowles to start looking elsewhere-he tried to run her over with a car. Now Emma knows for sure that someone is after her. ...
"What do you mean? Did she suspect before then?”
"She told me she thought someone was following her, yes.”
"I see.”
"And she was right, of course. The man I hired had been following her.”
"Uh-huh.”
"Waiting for his opportunity.”
"To push her under a subway train.”