Part 24 (1/2)
”Some are.”
”Yeah,” he said. ”They're the ones who keep me in business.”
”So,” I said, ”are we done?”
”Not yet.”
He took off his gla.s.ses, rubbed his eyes, and put them back on again.
”In fifteen years as a detective, I never had a homicide case with a p.o.r.nographer as the intended victim. Now I've got two of them.”
”Think this case and the hit on Maniella's double are related?” I asked.
”There's no evidence tying them together, but I don't believe in coincidences.”
”Why do cops always say that? Coincidences happen every day.”
We sat quietly and thought about that for a minute.
”So,” I said, ”are we done now?”
”Not just yet. Sit tight.”
He s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone from my hand to stop me from calling the Dispatch with what I knew, sprang to his feet, and went through the door.
Time crawled. My ulcer growled. Someone had left a newspaper on the floor. I picked it up, opened it to the sports section to pa.s.s the time, and found a feature on the Boston Bruins' new forward, a Slovak named Miro Satan. The third paragraph read: Satan looks fit and is skating fluidly.
After today, I couldn't argue with that.
It was nearly an hour before Parisi returned and placed my phone, car keys, and camera on the table. He took the Nikon out of its case, switched it on, examined all the photos on the LED screen, said, ”Humph,” and put it back in the case.
”Mulligan,” he said, ”I'm going to ask you not to write about what you saw inside that apartment.”
”But you know I have to.”
He sighed. ”Would it kill you to omit a few details-some things only the perps could know?”
”Perps? You think there was more than one?”
”Slip of the tongue,” he said. ”Don't read anything into it.”
”Okay.”
”So can you leave some things out for me?”
”Such as?”
”The snuff film.”
”Sorry, but I have to mention that.”
”Ah, s.h.i.+t. Well, how about this? Can you leave out the smashed laptops? And the note that was left for you? And the fact that there were no sh.e.l.l casings at the scene?”
”Meaning the killer used a revolver or picked up his bra.s.s,” I said.
”Yeah.”
I'd been too much in shock to notice that. ”Sure,” I said, ”I can leave those things out.”
”Screw me on this, and you and I are done.”
”Understood,” I said. ”Can you release the names of the shooting victims?”
A five-second pause. ”Local lowlifes. Can't release the names till we notify their lowlife next of kin. And no way we're gonna release the names of the kids we pulled out of there alive.”
”We wouldn't print them if you did,” I said. ”What about the little girl in the snuff film?”
”Not a clue.”
”Think maybe she got fed to Scalici's pigs?”
”I won't speculate.”
”So, can I go now?”
”Not yet. Wargat and Freitas want a crack at you. When they finish playing detective, I'll have a trooper drive you back to your car.”
By the time I got back to the newsroom that evening, it was too late to update the sketchy murder story Mason had written for the next day's paper.
”The cops are keeping a lid on this one,” Lomax said. ”All they're saying is they've got three bodies, and foul play is suspected.”
”I've got a few details I can add,” I said.
”Give it to Mason so he can update our Web site.”
”You don't want me to write it?”
”No way,” Lomax said. ”You found the bodies, so you're part of the story now. Mason's gonna interview you-treat you as a source.”
”Okay,” I said. ”Soon as I get something in my stomach.”
The something was Maalox chugged straight from the bottle. Earlier, I'd retrieved my Nikon's memory card from its hiding place. Now I carried my laptop to a vacant office off the newsroom for privacy, slipped the card in a card reader, plugged it into the computer, and downloaded the photographs. I spent ten minutes studying them, jotting down a few notes for my chat with Mason. When I was done, I sprinted for the bathroom. The dry heaves reminded me I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
When I finally got home it was after ten. I picked up a Michael Connelly novel, hoping it would take my mind off the snuff film. It didn't work, but I kept reading anyway. Harry Bosch was about to lose his temper with his by-the-book boss when ”b.i.t.c.h” started playing on my cell phone. Not even Dorcas could make this day any worse, so I picked up the phone and said, ”h.e.l.lo.”