Dark Web (27 page)
“You’re done, Swifty,” said the Captain. “You’re done.”
Swift felt a hand clamp down on his arm and he shrugged it off. He strode out of the interrogation room and stalked down the hallway, putting the phone to his ear.
“Swift!” The Captain chased after him into the corridor. Swift looked around but didn’t stop what he was doing, checking the message from Silas.
“You’re done, I said, Swift.” Tuggey was closing in on him. There was a dangerous edge to his voice. Swift knew he was one step away from being forced to resign. This was it. His new job might possibly be salvageable, if he stopped right now, if Tuggey could be convinced, after all this, to provide a glowing letter of recommendation to the Attorney General. But if Swift didn’t press, didn’t go for broke, the kid would walk. He knew it. If he gave in now, if he turned and bowed out gracefully, saving what little face he had left, then Robert Darring would get away.
He held a finger up to the Captain, who stood fuming. Swift listened to Brittney Silas’ recorded voice.
“John, it’s me. Listen, we found the headlamp. Two days out here in this shit, but we found it. Way down the road, like it was lost maybe while the victim was dragged behind the car. PETZL brand. I’ve checked it for latent prints. There’s prints we cleared, which are Braxton’s. And then there are a second set of prints, but they’re nowhere in our database. Nothing. We’ve got clear-prints on the Simpkins family, and it’s none of them, so . . .. Anyway, we’ve got it logged into evidence. Call me.”
He hung up.
* * *
Swift gathered all the cops into the room they had all been watching from earlier. He was surprised to see Janine Poehler there. He gave her a brief smile and touched her shoulder before turning to the others. Tuggey, Mathis, Escher, all there. Dunleavy was busy elsewhere; Lieutenant Timberlake was out commanding the manhunt for Tori McAfferty.
Swift told them all about the headlamp.
Mathis spoke up first. The ADA looked like he was choking on a piece of meat.
“It’s too late, Swift. Darring’s PD has the gag on him. We’re not getting another word, you’re not getting another second with him. This thing with the headlamp? My God. What a screw up. What an epic screw up. No way to enter that into the evidence file now. I’m sorry, man. I know you’re a legend around here and I’m just the shitty new guy with the attitude, but you fucked up.”
“Listen, Sean, I don’t think so.”
Mathis waved his hand in the air and turned away.
“The headlamp was dusted for latents,” Swift said. “And nothing.”
Mathis spun back around with raised eyebrows.
“Nothing? Well, what the fuck? We booked and printed him two days ago. He’s in the system.” Mathis pulled on his hair and paced. “Ah, shit.”
Swift looked from Mathis to Tuggey, Escher and Janine Poehler, then glanced at the monitor. He watched Darring sitting there in the interrogation room along with his lawyer. He looked small from here, nothing like the big, unshakable personality of the past few days. From this distance he was just a kid, alone.
But, not entirely. He’d never been alone.
“He’s not showing up for the prints because he’s not who he says he is.”
“What? Swift, you’re losing it. You already lost it.”
“I want to get the Feds on this,” Swift said.
Mathis rolled his eyes. He plopped down into a swivel chair in front of the monitor and recording gear. He waved his hands. “Swift, we talked about this . . .”
Swift looked at him, cutting him off. “I know you want this one. But I’m sorry, Mathis.” He looked around. “And the rest of you. I’ve got a feeling about something. I’ve had it for a little while.”
Tuggey gaped. “For Christ’s sake, John . . .”
Swift pointed at the screen, and they all turned to look at Darring’s small, digital shape there in the center of it. “The prints don’t match? That’s because he’s not who he says he is.”
Mathis scowled. “What are you talking about?”
“Who the hell is he?” asked Tuggey.
“I’m going to find that out.”
“We go to
court
in less than an hour,” Mathis bellowed.
“I know,” said Swift. He caught the scent of Janine Poehler beside him, her perfume, shampoo, aromatic traces of good coffee. He let his thoughts rest there for a moment. Escher was giving him a dirty look — he’d just had to unlock a room and haul Swift out. Tuggey had been riding him since the beginning. Mathis wanting to run the show. Swift was trying to keep it all in the pocket. It wasn’t easy. Goddammit, it wasn’t easy. A cushy job in Albany would be much better. Time with Kady. Time to think. To get out from under all of this.
“Tricia Eggleston,” said Swift.
“Yeah? What about her?”
“You said you’d work on her.”
Escher spoke up. “She got picked up in Plattsburgh, over the line, Clinton County. So she’s up there.”
Swift was looking sharply at Mathis, waiting.
Mathis raised his palms. “Swift, you think Remy LaCroix and DA Cobleskill haven’t thrown everything at her? She’s not talking. If she knows where McAfferty is, she’s not going to say. Warren has got her locked up like Rapunzel. Anyway, we’re talking about two different things here. I’m here because of the kid in that room, okay? Your case, the Braxton Simpkins case. We can’t stick anything to this kid, headlamp or no. We cannot introduce anything else at this point. We’re done. Over.” He enunciated every word.
“Call her.”
“Cobleskill?”
“We need to talk to Tricia right now.”
“Swift,” Tuggey said, “We’re at the end of the line. Time’s up.”
Swift looked them all over. Mathis was rumpled with doubt and something like jealousy; he didn’t want Federal involved, stealing his glory. Tuggey just looked bewildered, his mouth hanging open a little. Janine had a slight smile playing over her lips. Swift saw she had just a touch of lipstick on, or maybe lip balm, so that they shone. To hell with what they said about younger women. Janine Poehler was where it was at.
Swift pressed on. “We’re going to need Kim Yom, too. Let’s get her in here. We’re going to meet tonight.” Swift glanced at his watch. “Right now we need to have Tricia Eggleston tell us where McAfferty is.”
Janine spoke for the first time. “What makes you think she’s just going to open up?”
Swift looked at her and smiled. “I have that way,” he said.
Back out in the cold. The frigid wind edged into Mike’s coat. Bull Camoine’s Pathfinder sat in the middle of the driveway, the engine still running, the headlights turned off. Mike thought he saw someone sitting in the passenger seat.
“Who’s that?”
“That’s Linda.”
Mike stopped walking, halfway to the car. Now he’d thrown up he felt empty, as if someone had taken a steel wool brush and swiped it through his insides. His thoughts were still nebulous; things in his peripheral vision danced and darted. “Jesus, Bull. You brought Linda?”
Bull kept his voice low. His breath puffed out between his lips. “She’s my wife, Mikey. We do everything together.”
It had been years since Mike had seen Linda Epstein. He hadn’t gone to Bull’s wedding — no one had; the two of them had run off and married in Vegas, much to Bull’s mother’s endless chagrin. Linda had been a year behind Bull in school, and Mike remembered her coming to some of the old football games, a mousy girl with glasses who clutched her books against a flat chest.
The woman who greeted him as he piled into the back of the Pathfinder was very different. Now Linda Camoine, as she turned and smiled and held out her hand, Mike could see the tattoos that started from between her thumb and forefinger and wound around her wrist and disappeared beneath the sleeve of her black, body-hugging shirt. She’d either developed breasts, or bought some, and they bulged against a taut sweater. More tats rose from the collar, one tine of some probably tribal design snaked up and came to a point right between the back of her jaw and her neck. Her hair was no longer dull brown, but dirty-blonde, with a streak of purple or blue in it — he couldn’t tell beneath the dome light.
“Hiya Mike,” Linda said. “Been a long time.”
Inside the Pathfinder the heat was blasting. And it smelled like lamb gyros and falafel sandwiches, odors which immediately called up in Mike a cascade of images and feelings; the hot rush of the subway tunnel, the streets around Washington Square Park, the warm linoleum of the third floor walk-up apartment kitchen where the afternoon sun hit it.
Bull got in and snugged himself behind the wheel. His weight rocked the vehicle on its axles. He turned and looked back, and a second later Mike thought that Bull Camoine must have supernatural powers, as he seemed to read his thoughts.
“The city misses you, Mikey. You woulda stayed? Oh man, we’d-ah had things wired.”
Bull glanced at his wife. “I mean, me and Linda, we do alright. We do real good. We’ve got a couple of businesses, and we make a comfortable living.”
“I thought you lived at home, Bull.”
The husband and wife team exchanged another glance, and Linda seemed to shoot Bull a look of encouragement.
“After Bull’s last incarceration,” Linda said in a soft voice, “he was on parole when he got out. The parole officer was on him every second. We decided to base operations at his home for a while. We got him a job at the dry cleaners on Hylan Boulevard. We laid low for a year, didn’t we, honey?”
“We did.”
“And we just got used to running operations from there. Katrina liked having us. A mother likes her son around, you know? To help out. So we turned Bull’s old bedroom into an office and we keep that, plus our space in the city.”
Mike nodded “That’s good, you guys.”
Now Bull twisted around further to face Mike directly. “Listen, Mikey. This is about the life of your kid that was taken from you.”
“I know.”
“But, you know, if you don’t want to do this, you say the word.”
“You’re sure he’s there?”
“Sure as the Pope wears a funny hat.”
Linda’s hand darted out, quick as a snake bite, whacking Bull on the shoulder. “Hey. Ow.”
“Watch the blasphemy.”
“That ain’t blasphemy.”
“Of course it is. Making fun of the papal wardrobe is the same thing as taking the Lord’s name in vain.”
“No it ain’t.”
“Remember? Remember the smoke watch? Remember how long we waited? What did you pray for during that time, Bull?”
“Linda, come on . . ..”
“What did you pray for?”
“I prayed to be more kind. Okay? You happy?”
Linda faced the back, looking at Mike with an apologetic smile. “We’ve been doing a lot of work on Bull’s anger, his social interactions. It’s the little things that matter most.”
“Right,” said Bull, clearly eager to dismiss the subject. “Now, Mikey, what do you say? This son of a bitch pops up out of nowhere soon as you try to start a new life, starts trying to coerce your son to leave you, leave the family — he’s a home-wrecker. And when he can’t have the kid, he . . . So you tell me, Mikey. We gonna do this?”
Mike sat in the middle of the backseat. The heat blasted in his face, and he liked it. He was so sick of the cold. He liked it hot. He ran hot. That was who he was.
“Yes,” said Mike. “We’re going to kill him.”
“Booya!” said Bull, and spun back around, dropped the gear shift in reverse, and started backing out of the driveway and into the night.
Swift made the drive to the Clinton County Sherriff’s Department in forty minutes. But the weather was worsening, it was going to be hard driving as the night came on and the temperature dropped.
Tricia Eggleston was wearing the red and white fatigues worn by females at Clinton. Her face had a pinched, fuck-you quality that Swift could see even around the girth of Warren Eggleston. Eggleston, her uncle and lawyer, stood between Swift and the girl like he was her sovereign protector. Beside Swift stood the District Attorney, Elena Cobleskill. She was in her fifties, with short grey hair and a sharp navy blue pants suit. She dropped her briefcase on the table and invited Swift to sit down.
Warren, his eyes on Swift, walked around the table and sat on the other side next to his client. Swift turned to Cobleskill and Warren, and gave them his most pleasant smile.
“I’d like to sit with her alone, please.”
Warren barked a laugh that wobbled his greasy double-chin. “I don’t think so, John.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Swift said, his smile gone. “I’ll reverse my claim in the Frank Duso case. I’ll go on record and say that I was a party to unwarranted use of force against Duso. You can appeal the court’s decision to throw out your claim.”
Eggleston’s lips and cheeks sagged in disbelief. Beside him, Tricia wrinkled her nose in a scowl, her upper lip peeling back to reveal her stained and rotting teeth. She would have been pretty if it weren’t for the ravages of the drug, Swift thought. “What is he talking about?” she said.
Swift watched Eggleston work it through. There was no way the man was going to be able to resist. He’d taken a pounding in court over the excessive force claim. It had sullied his reputation and humiliated him. The chance of vindication was too enticing to pass up. Swift could see his decision already forming. Then he turned and whispered into his niece’s ear. Swift took the opportunity to look at Cobleskill. Her eyes widened and her thin lips curved into a grin.
“Alright,” Eggleston said getting to his feet. It took some effort. “You have fifteen minutes. But I’ve advised my client not to say anything. So you’re going to sit here and gaze lovingly at one another for the duration.” His eyes darted towards Cobleskill, his expression urgent. “And you’ve got paperwork for me?”
Cobleskill opened her briefcase and pulled out a document. “I had to do it quickly,” she said. “The detective didn’t allow much time. But here is his sworn statement.” She gave Swift a pen and he signed. Eggleston leaned in, his belly pressing into the table, and snatched up the paper. Swift watched his eyes work it over. Then he glanced across, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes, and left.
Cobleskill stood up.
“Good luck,” she said, a hand on Swift’s shoulder. The door closed behind her, and he and Tricia were alone.
“I’d offer you a smoke, but, you know how that goes,” Swift said. She looked away from him. Her hands were on the table, fingers drumming. She kept tonguing her teeth. He wondered how bad her withdrawal symptoms were. She seemed to be holding up well enough. When an inmate first came in, they wore solid colors until they had been medically evaluated. She was wearing the stripes, so she had already been seen by a doctor. Maybe she’d been given something.
He thought of Callie Simpkins, also sedated. It seemed so long ago, Swift thought, but it was just a few days. The wreckage caused by that one body in the snow. He looked at Tricia and waited until she met his gaze.
“You know where your boyfriend is,” he said.
“Oh yeah?”
“And you’re going to tell me.”
“I am?”
“Not because Cobleskill out there and your Uncle will bid back and forth for how much less time you get in prison, because you probably don’t care.”
She didn’t have anything to say to that. She looked down.
“But because,” Swift continued, “I’m the one you’re supposed to tell.”
Her eyes came back up. Swift leaned back from the table. “Tell me about Robert Darring.”
“Who?”
“Whoever called you. Set this whole thing up. Whoever told you the cops would be coming, and to ready explosives, be prepared to run, whoever gave Tori the address of a safe place to hide out.”
She ran a tongue across her mottled front teeth again. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re pretty cocky. But, you’re a cop. Not surprising.”
“You’re supposed to tell me because your boyfriend is supposed to look guilty of murdering his biological son, Braxton Simpkins. The person who’s doing this isn’t looking out for his interests, or for yours. So whatever you were promised, it’s a lie.”
Her face changed dramatically. Her tongue fell away from her teeth, and she reached up and hugged her thin frame.
“Somebody called, yeah. Said our place was going to be raided. Task force; all that shit. State Police, DEA working together. Told us if we wanted out, we had to blow the place soon as the cops showed. There was a place for Tori. Me too, but I didn’t want it.”
“What place?”
“I got told an address.”
“An address.” Swift leaned forward again, slipping his notebook from his pocket and clicking a pen.
“Some old farm.”
“Give it to me.”
“I just wanted to cook, you know? I just wanted to fucking get small. I didn’t love Tori no more. He’s an asshole.”
“Give me the address, Tricia.”
“You gonna do this right? With the lawyers?”
He stared at her. “Now, or you get nothing.”
She told him, and Swift started to write, and then his hand stopped, and he set the pen down, and he just looked at her again.
A moment later Swift got up and banged out of the room, leaving his pen and notebook behind.
