I nodded. He was saying he spotted J.D. heading toward the entrance to the warehouse, where he was to meet Mace—Marcus Mason.

“So I called it in,” DePrizio continued. “Possible 401 in progress, request assistance. Then I see your boy, driving right up to the damn place—and he pops in. So I’m a curious guy, right? I go take a peek.” He shook his head. “Problem is, one of ’em looked like they got spooked—rattled. I had to go in and freeze it. So I did.” He waved a hand. “Maybe five minutes later, a patrol has my back. So yeah, one asshole got away, two assholes got collared.”

“What happened to the other guy you collared?” I asked, referring to Marcus Mason without letting on that I knew anything about him. “He wasn’t in lockup.”

A look of recognition crossed DePrizio’s face. “Oh, so that’s why you’re thinking he was my CI. No, this guy was one of the Tenth Street Crew. And we already had a few of those in lockup that night. We didn’t need to turn that jail cell into a reunion.”

That was true. One of the T-Streeters, Cameron, watched over Pete that night.

“Plus, I figured, I put your preppy little brother in with that guy—well, he’d see your brother as a witness against him. Might not have been such a fun night for your boy. I sent the T-Streeter over to the one-five”—the neighboring precinct—“to cool his jets. You should thank me, Counselor.”

I didn’t thank him. I was watching him, looking for a crack in the armor. I was alternatively enraged and despairing. The detective’s story was entirely believable. I struggled for a minute, not hiding my distress, dropping my shoulders, blowing out air, shaking my head.

Then I took another look at Detective Denny DePrizio, who was observing me with some interest. So much of this was going with your gut, trusting your instincts. I had a plan. It was the whole reason I’d made this trip today, but still I found myself second-guessing it. I thought again about the story DePrizio had laid out, sized him up, and made a decision that I hoped I wouldn’t regret.

I decided to test DePrizio.

“I think my brother was set up,” I told him.

36

DEPRIZIO WATCHED ME closely as I laid out my story—the part, at least, I was willing to share with him. When I was done, he shook his head slowly. “You’re telling me there’s a guy who’s extorting you. He wants you to perform a legal service for him, but you don’t want to do it.”

“Correct.”

“So this guy, he set your brother up for this bust. If you don’t do what he wants, your brother goes to jail.”

“Right again.”

“But you don’t know this guy’s name.”

“I don’t.”

“All you can tell me is he’s five-ten, maybe two hundred, graying hair, maybe fifty, fifty-five. Which describes about two or three million people in this city.”

“Best I can do.”

“What’s the nature of this legal service the mystery man wants you to perform?”

“I can’t say,” I told him. “Attorney-client privilege.”

DePrizio was silent a moment, like he was awaiting a punch line, before letting out a small burst that was akin to a laugh. “And you expect me to believe all of this.”

“Actually, I don’t. But I’m hoping you’ll keep an open mind.”

DePrizio moaned, seemingly conflicted between openly rejecting a far-fetched story and showing me some courtesy. Seemingly, I say, because the more he played along with me, the clearer it became that Detective Denny DePrizio was full of shit. He was Smith’s partner, part of the entire plan to frame my brother, and I had to tread carefully here.

Luckily, nobody was fuller of shit than me, so I kept going. “I can stand in your shoes, Detective. People lie to you every day. You get so you don’t believe anything. But I figure you for a guy who still cares about the job. I mean, how many cops would check out that warehouse when they’re off-duty past midnight, when they’ve got a couple of pops in them, when they’re on shift the next morning—how many would say fuck it and walk away? But you didn’t. The job still matters to you.”

It was hard to say this with a straight face, but I thought I sold it. DePrizio studied me, and slowly nodded. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a fella.”

I opened my hands. “This guy has me boxed in. I don’t have the resources to take on this guy. I don’t have private investigators or even associates to help me. I just need to know who this guy is.”

That point was an important one. I needed to show him that I wasn’t a threat to him or Smith.

The detective made a big show of doubt, rubbing his face, shaking the head, an Oscar-worthy performance. What he was really doing was thinking hard about this unexpected development. He’d performed a task for Smith and probably thought his job was done. What now? he was wondering. Do I tell this lawyer to take a hike, or do I use him?

My guess, he’d come to the conclusion, very quickly, that he and Smith would benefit if I took him into my confidence. Keep your enemies closer, and all that.

“Look,” he said, “I’m not saying I believe you, Kolarich. Right? But even if I did, what could I do?”

Well done. Inching closer to me, but feigning reluctance.

I needed to reel him all the way in.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Like you said, three million people fit his description. It’s not like I have a picture of him.” I tapped my hand on the desk. “Forget it. You’re probably the wrong guy to ask, anyway. You’re the arresting officer. I can’t ask you to work against your own case. I’ll find some other cop—”

He raised a hand. The mention of some other cop was my ace. The last thing DePrizio and Smith wanted was for me to start sobbing to another cop about all of this.

“No,” he said. “It’s my case. If there’s something wrong with it, it’s my problem.”

I got out of my chair. “I appreciate that. If I think of anything, maybe I’ll—I don’t know.”

“Well, hang on here,” he said. “I’m not saying there’s anything to this. But you seem like a pretty straight-up guy here, Mr. Kolarich. If I can help you find this guy, maybe I’ll see what it’s all about. Maybe it affects your brother’s case, maybe not. But I’ll listen.”

Good. I’d reeled him in. It’s always more fun when the person you’re playing thinks he’s playing you.

“Well, there might be one thing,” I said, “but we’d have to be discreet.”

37

TEN YEARS. TEN YEARS.” Sammy Cutler played the idea over in his head. “Out in five, hopefully. Already got one in. So—four more.”

“I can get you better,” I said. “They don’t want the publicity, now that Griffin Perlini’s notorious. It puts the county attorney in an uncomfortable spot, having to prosecute his killer, especially when that guy was avenging his sister’s death.”

Sammy nodded along.

“Allegedly,” I added.

“Well, I ain’t doing four more here.”

“I can get you a better deal. But we’d be dumb to rule it out entirely, Sam.”

He wasn’t inclined to fight me. “What about Archie Novotny?”

“Haven’t checked out his alibi yet for the night of the murder—the guitar lesson. I will. Meantime, we’ve been looking all over him and not finding much of anything.”

“Right.” Sammy fiddled with the smoldering cigarette between his fingers. “Been thinking more ’bout that. I could see it. I could see Archie doing this.”

I couldn’t decide if this was an innocent man talking, or a man trying to see things through the eyes of a jury. I was also beginning to doubt my perception. I was bone tired. I’d managed about four hours last night, but the previous forty-eight hours of sleep deprivation were taking their toll. Sometimes a few hours’ sleep is worse than none.

“Novotny fits your general description,” I said. “Put the green stocking cap on him so you can’t account for the difference in hair color—he’s got about the same build. He could work. I could sell that to a jury, I think. But that’s not the problem, Sam. You know what the problem is?”