“I got somebody on that. The feds are cooperating. Up to a point. For once, they don’t want jurisdiction. But they’re not willing to open their books.”
“Not even for one of their own?”
“Retired. Second-class citizen. It’s our case.”
“Interesting. Anyway, what makes you like a renowned financier more than the mob?”
“The vic’s wife. One night when Overbee was mentioned on the news, Vitole told her they were about to score big on him, something about a better retirement plan.”
“Score how?”
“She didn’t know.”
“That’s not much for an arrest warrant.”
“The judge saw it our way. Overbee can’t account for his whereabouts, so no alibi; a witness saw his car at the vic’s house early this morning; he has a wall full of guns hanging in his study; and he owns a private jet, making him a flight risk.”
“Still sounds circumstantial to me. Weak. How’d the witness know it was Overbee’s car?”
“She didn’t. We made the connection.”
“How?”
“Christ, Stan. It’s a fucking white Rolls Royce. How many of them you see around here?”
“Point taken. Still not on solid ground, though.”
Penrod nodded. The case was shaky and he knew it. “The M.E. will get the bullet out of the vic’s noggin, and the lab can see if it matches one of Overbee’s guns. We confiscated all the small caliber pieces. I’m betting we get a match.”
“I’m betting you don’t.” Buford was too smart to use a personal gun and then keep it. If he shot Vitole, the gun was at the bottom of the river.
“That, and a confession ought to close it,” Penrod said.
“Good luck on that,” I said.
“Well, I’m pretty good in the room.”
He was. The “room” was what we called homicide’s interrogation room. Many cases were closed in the room.
“But you don’t know Overbee,” I said. “Hard case. If he did it, he won’t give it up. Did you meet his wife?”
“Yes. Wow.” He whistled a quiet low tone.
“Uh huh. And his daughter?”
“Didn’t know he had one. What’s she like?”
“Not wow. But devoted to Daddy.”
“The wife didn’t mention her.”
I gave an all-knowing shrug. Bill responded in kind.
“From what I’ve seen,” I said, “they’re not on the best of terms.”
“The daughter live there?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll question her too. When can you talk to Overbee?”
I wanted that talk more than Bill did. I wanted to find out what happened and maybe even keep the meter running a ways past his ten grand retainer.
“Any time. Let me know.”
“I’ll call his lawyer. He wants to be there. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Call me when you know.”
“I will.” Penrod looked me square in the eye. “Then I expect full disclosure.”
“I know.” I also knew that Bill Penrod wouldn’t let up on me. I’d have to spill most of it.
Penrod started to get up to leave. Then I said, “Does the press have the story yet?”
He sat back down.
“Not yet.”
“You got mug shots?”
“Of course.” His tone said that I shouldn’t have had to ask.
“Get yourself copies,” I told him. “You can sell them to one of the tabloids before the other news hawks get them. They’d all kill to get a photo of the elusive Buford Overbee.”
Penrod laughed. “Might just do that, Stan. Then I can retire. Need a partner?”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. The idea of partnering with Bill Penrod again was beyond my wildest hopes. If only the business would support it.
“I wish,” was all I could say. “Seriously, about the mug shots. The mob’s been looking for him for years. He pled out a murder rap with a deal that let him walk in exchange for testifying. They don’t know his name or where he is. You let his picture get out, and his life isn’t worth a rusty Al Gore campaign button.”
“I’ll pass it on,” Penrod said.
Chapter 10
The next morning I stopped at McDonald’s and got coffee and a sausage biscuit. Then I went directly to the police station. My army pals were on my tail again. They knew where I lived. I hoped they’d think I was a cop. So far, both times they’d tailed me, I’d gone to the police station. When I pulled into the parking lot this morning they sped off just as they’d done the previous time.
Whatever they had in mind, they obviously didn’t want to go into action here. Or at the McDonald’s drive-through. Too many cops here, too many witnesses there. It occurred to me that I might have to start carrying Roscoe. The last thing I wanted to do, though, was shoot an army spook. That would be some serious paperwork.
Maybe they were just trying to scare me off so I wouldn’t get on Jeremy’s case if he bothered Amanda again. Fat chance. I might be scared, but I wouldn’t be scared off.
I went into the station. The desk sergeant sent me to the interrogation room where Buford was waiting. He sat on the far side of the table where suspects were interrogated. A thin, greasy-looking guy in a cheap, ill-fitting black suit stood against the wall.
“Stan, this is Sanford, my legal advisor,” Buford said, indicating the skinny guy.
Sanford nodded and I nodded back. He did not look like a lawyer. He looked more like a street hustler, a pimp. The cheap suit didn’t fit him because it wasn’t tailor-made and he was as thin as a barbecue skewer. The pants were baggy and the jacket hung down off his shoulders. A thick watch chain dangling to the floor would have completed the fifties zoot suit persona, but he didn’t have one.
“Did you confess yet?” I asked Buford. He smiled and shook his head.
I told them what Penrod had told me about what he had on Buford so far. Sanford shrugged it off.
“Not much to go on,” he said.
“A witness seeing my car there, that’s kind of incriminating,” Buford said.
I looked Sanford up and down. He returned the examination. Not a guy to mess with. I needed him out of there.
“Buford, Sanford ought to wait out there,” I said, indicating the door.
“I stay,” Sanford said.
“We need someone out there making sure they’re not listening to what we say,” I said.
“I’m Mr. Overbee’s counselor, Bentworth. They can’t listen in. Attorney-client privilege.”
“I don’t know how much you know about police work, Mr. Sanford, but I used to be a detective here. We listened to everything. We couldn’t always use it in court, but sometimes it told us whether we were on the right track, or what track to get on, and shit like that.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “That violates a suspect’s constitutional right to counsel,” Sanford said.
“So it does,” I said.
“I’m staying,” he said again.
“Buford,” I said. “Unless Sanford knows everything there is to know about this case, you need to get him the fuck out of here. I need to be able to talk openly, and so do you.”
“Wait out there,” Buford said to Sanford.
Sanford shrugged and headed for the door without objection.
“Wait in the little cubicle on the other side of that mirror,” I said. “That’s the only place they can eavesdrop. They won’t try it if you’re there.”
“How do you know I won’t listen?”
“You don’t know where the switch is.”
Sanford left.
When he was gone, I said, “He doesn’t look happy.”
“He never looks happy. Even when he’s happy.”
I waited until Sanford had time to be clear of the room and said, “Buford, did you shoot Vitole?”
“No.” He shook his head, and I believed him.
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”