Before I knew it, I was in an interview room—one of those institutional-green boxes with a table, two chairs, and a big mirror. The kind you know the cops are watching from behind. They left me there for twenty minutes, hoping I’d get more nervous the longer I waited. Maybe I’d crack and be willing to spill my guts in return for a reduced sentence.
Yeah, let’s take a few years off twenty-six life sentences…
I knew all the tricks. I’d pulled them on scum-sucking perps myself for more than a decade. I wasn’t about to crack. Besides, as I kept reminding myself, I was innocent. So I had nothing to worry about. Right?
My first inkling that things weren’t going to go my way came when Joseph Friday entered the room. When my partner was ambushed and gunned down, Friday was the first to point a finger at me. I’m sure he took great pleasure in seeing me drummed off the force after that long and humiliating investigation. There wasn’t any hard evidence that I was involved. Certainly not enough for a DA to seek prosecution, but there was enough circumstantial evidence, vague testimony, and innuendo for the whole thing to be a giant embarrassment for the city and the police force. The official reason for my dismissal was “irregularities” in the handling of some confiscated drug money, but the real reason was that the city needed to get the entire fiasco swept under the rug before someone dug too deep and uncovered a whole big, stinking cesspool under city hall.
Now Friday sat before me, doing a piss-poor job of hiding a smirk as he eased his fat donut-eating ass into the chair across from me.
“Well, well, well. I knew I’d be seeing you again, Sunrise. Once a scumbag, always a scumbag.”
“You oughta know, Friday. Shaken down any little old ladies lately?”
“Why you—!” He jumped half out of his seat before catching himself. I guess he remembered that the holo pickups were all-seeing and—more importantly—all-recording.
He composed himself and started again. “What happened to your face?” He pointed at the scrapes and bandages.
His expression of concern was laughable. In fact, I almost did laugh, until I remembered my situation. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to let Friday control the interrogation. “I ran into a couple of doorknobs—called Tiny and Weasel. What’s your excuse?”
I guess he decided to give up on the civility shtick. He went right for the kill. “Fine. Play the tough guy. We’ll see how long that lasts.”
His face grew hard as granite. “So, why’d ya do it?”
“Well, somebody had to return those poor girls. I couldn’t let them keep suffering once I’d found them.”
I kept my tone light, knowing it would drive Friday crazy.
“So you admit you took them.” Friday was never particularly quick on the uptake.
“No, you idiot, I only returned them. Someone else took them.”
“Oh really. Now who might that be?”
I opened my mouth and then shut it. What could I say? ‘Oh, the women were taken by a bunch of four-foot-tall, eyeless, earless, water-breathing, peacenik alien protesters from another planet who were fleeing their oppressive government. They were attacked and irradiated to the point where they needed human blood to treat them. They kept the women in their living ship under the sea in suspended animation. And, oh, by the way, the ship’s gone and so are the aliens, so there’s no one to back up my story but my accomplice, Lola.’
I pictured Friday’s jaw hitting the floor, right before he had the best laugh of his life, at my expense. Without any proof I’d sound like a fruitcake. It seemed my choices were between the Big House and the Nut House. I didn’t favor being drugged up to my eyeballs.
The smartest approach would have been to simply shut up until I talked with a lawyer. But, of course, this is me we’re talking about. Besides, I was innocent, right?
“I don’t know who took them. I just found the abandoned warehouse where they were being kept.” I was treading on thin ice here. There was no abandoned warehouse I could point Friday to that would contain any evidence of kidnappings.
“Really. How did you just happen to find the warehouse with all those women?”
“I didn’t ‘just happen’ to find anyone. I was hired to locate a particular girl who had disappeared. In the course of my investigation, I found that she wasn’t the only one. I kept looking and eventually found twenty-six missing girls. Some were in really bad shape, so I rushed them to the hospital first.”
“You claim you were hired to find a girl. Which girl, and who hired you?”
“Her name is Sara Scarpacci. I was hired by her father.”
“Antonio Scarpacci, the Mob boss?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“So, you admit you have Mob connections.”
I didn’t like where this was heading. “No, I don’t admit I have Mob connections. He hired me to do a job, that’s all.”
“Really. And why would he do that, out of all the PIs in the city? He could afford to hire the best. So why you?”
I ignored the implied knock on my sleuthing abilities.
“I owed him some money. Some nags that didn’t come through. I didn’t really have any choice. It was find his daughter or get an ‘up close and personal’ view of the bay, from the bottom up. That was his way of ensuring discretion.”
“So you admit you were working for a mob boss.”
Brother… The idiot had a one-track mind.
“Not by choice. Like I said, it was find his daughter or wake up dead.”
“You said you found twenty-six girls, including Scarpacci’s daughter.”
“That’s right. They’ve all been returned safely.”
“Really. Because the hospitals only reported receiving twenty-five women.”
“That’s because I took Sara directly to Scarpacci. I imagine he took her to a private hospital, or had a doctor come visit her at home.”
“Or maybe you got carried away with her and had to dispose of the body. How many other bodies are we going to find if we look hard enough?”
“Bodies? What are you talking about? There aren’t any bodies. Sara’s fine and she’s with her father.”
“So you say. Don’t worry, if she’s not, we’ll find out.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You also said that you tracked Sara Scarpacci to a warehouse. How did you find the warehouse?”
“I found it by following the evidence, talking to witnesses, and pounding the pavement. In short, I acted like a detective. You oughta try it sometime.”
Friday’s face clouded up and the knuckles on his right fist went white. It wasn’t hard to guess that he wanted to put those knuckles through my face. Tough. I wasn’t going to back down and let him steamroll me with his questions and implications.
After a moment, he regained his composure. “So where is this supposed warehouse?”
I gave him the directions to Scar’s warehouse, the one where Weasel and Tiny had tried to take me apart, piece by piece. There wouldn’t be any evidence of the women’s kidnappings, but with any luck there would be something there that would keep the cops busy for a while. If it got Scar and his goons in trouble, even better.
“And you say you didn’t kidnap those women.”
“Right.”
“So who did? You must have found a name to trace to the warehouse. What was the name?”
“I—” Again, I closed my mouth. There was nothing I could say. I couldn’t implicate Karsh.
“A witness told me he saw something suspicious in the area, like a woman was being dragged from a car. I nosed around a bit and found the warehouse.”
Friday’s eyes narrowed. It was obvious he didn’t believe a word I was saying. Cops develop a talent for reading faces and body language and he knew damn well I was lying.
“Look, Sunrise, I’m in a position to help you. This would go a lot easier on you if you’d just admit your guilt, write out a confession and express remorse.”
Given our history, it was ludicrous
that he’d try the “good cop” routine on me.
I laughed in his face. “Easier on me? Yeah, sure. It’s your number-one goal to make life easier for me, is it?”
Even if I had been guilty, I wouldn’t have given the fat SOB the satisfaction of a confession.
Friday’s face tightened. He stood and turned for the door. “Wait here while we check out your story.”
Sure. Why not? My pedicure appointment wasn’t for a couple of hours yet.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, Friday returned. He had a scowl on his face. I sensed he wasn’t pissed that my story checked out and he’d have to let me go. It was something else. Revulsion?
“I spoke with Scarpacci.”
“And? Let me guess. He said Sara was safe and you should pin a medal on me.”
“He said he didn’t know you from Adam. He said his daughter is off in boarding school and was perfectly fine. He said he was disgusted that perverts like you existed. He said he hoped you’d fry.”
Once again, I opened my mouth and words failed to emerge. What the hell? I knew Scar didn’t like me, but I didn’t expect this. Clearly, he’d decided I was going down and he didn’t want me to drag him down with me. Being connected with a serial kidnapper probably wasn’t good for business—even his business. With no evidence that Sara had been kidnapped, any association with me would be bad for him.
Friday continued. “We also checked out that warehouse you mentioned. It’s owned by a company Scarpacci owns. You’re determined to try to shift your guilt onto him, ain’tcha? You figured we’d go after a Mob kingpin given the opportunity. Maybe offer you immunity in exchange for ratting him out. Fat chance. We had a squad car swing by and check out the warehouse. It was empty. No sign that anyone had been there in months. Certainly no evidence of any kidnappings.”
He shook his head. “You were a bad cop, Sunrise. They should have fried your ass instead of just booting you off the force. But all this is just sick. I didn’t think even you could sink this low.”
I was speechless. This interrogation wasn’t quite going like I’d expected. I hadn’t expected a cakewalk, but this was getting out of hand.
“So what happened, Sunrise, huh? You couldn’t get it up anymore with your dried-up whore girlfriend—yeah, we know all about her—so you went after some fresher meat? Is that it? You thought maybe with some young pieces you’d feel like a man again? But your pecker still wouldn’t cooperate, so you kidnapped more and more girls, hoping you’d find one to make you feel like a man again? Was that it?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Friday? My pecker works just fine, thank you very much. I didn’t rape anybody, and I didn’t kidnap anybody. I guarantee you they weren’t sexually assaulted. All I did was try to rescue them. You oughta be presenting me the key to the city, not prosecuting me!”
Friday stood and leaned over the table, his face inches from mine. “Oh, you guarantee they weren’t sexually assaulted, do you? Just how would you know that, if you weren’t the one who kidnapped them? Did you examine each of them ‘in depth’? Is that how you get your rocks off, you sick bastard?”
Shit. I’d really stepped in it. I had no answer to that question. My mouth worked, but nothing came out. Friday wasn’t quite as stupid as I thought. Damn.
“I-I-I just meant that I didn’t rape them.”
Apparently deciding that my pitiful, stammering answer was as good as a confession, Friday straightened and headed for the door with a look of victory on his mug. As he waited for the door to be unlocked from the outside, he looked back at me over his shoulder.
“Believe me,” he said with a nasty smirk, “we’re going to do a lot more than just prosecute you. We’re going to convict you, execute you, and plant you six feet under, where you belong, scumbag. I might even piss on your grave for good measure.”
My blood ran cold at his words. I hadn’t set out to be a hero by finding and recovering the missing girls. I just wanted to repay my debt to Scar. I did my job well. Everyone was safe and sound. Sara was home with her father. Even the Azarti had benefited from my help without having to kidnap anyone else and perhaps kill someone. They’d be heading for safer surroundings any time now.
But instead of receiving a medal, it looked like all I was going to get for my trouble was a needle in my arm. Worst of all was knowing that Joseph Friday was going to be there to gloat.
What’s that old saying? Life sucks, and then you die. I was certainly living proof of that.
Chapter Nine
I called a lawyer, Terry Jackson, who owed me a favor. He wasn’t optimistic about my chances, but he took the case—right after reading me the riot act for putting my size thirteen shoes in my big fat yap during the interrogation.
Then he informed me that Friday had picked up Lola for questioning. That worried me.
I knew she wouldn’t say anything about Karsh. Aside from not being one to rat out a friend, she’d realize that no one would believe a story about aliens kidnapping women for their blood. That meant she’d have to tap dance around it, just as I had. Problem was, without a chance to compare notes, there was no telling how our stories would differ, and the more discrepancies Friday found, the guiltier I’d look.
The next morning, my arraignment went about as well as expected. The prosecutor painted me as a cross between Jack the Ripper and Hitler’s Dr. Mengele—and the biggest flight risk since the Wright brothers. The judge wasn’t inclined to be lenient. Not after all the hysteria to catch the monster who took the city’s “best and brightest,” and certainly not in an election year.
Terry did his best, but he didn’t stand a chance. Bail was set at four million. No way did I have that kind of money. Nor did I have any hope of raising it. Not even the ten percent fee a bail bondsman would charge to front the money. Even Lola couldn’t pull off that sort of miracle.
It looked like I was going to rot in jail until the trial, after which I’d probably rot in prison until I ran out of appeals and took that long, last walk.
The frustrating thing was that I’d probably never know whether Karsh and his people made it to a safe haven or got blown out of space. If I was going to die, I would have at least liked to know that it was for a good cause, and not all just a big waste.
* * * *
While in jail, I had plenty of time to consider my options. That took all of five minutes: I didn’t have any options that I could think of. There was nothing to appeal until I was convicted and the trial wouldn’t begin for months. In the meantime, I was stuck in that overcrowded black hole. A facility-wide jamming signal prevented me from using my implant to connect to the outside world.
I was truly cut off from everyone and everything I knew.
Over the first few weeks, I got to know my cellmate pretty well. Buford Jump was a likeable enough guy, for a cold-blooded murderer. Make that “alleged” cold-blooded murderer. He allegedly put three alleged bullets through the alleged heart of the alleged victim who was allegedly porking his alleged wife.
We got along well enough, although it made me a trifle nervous when he started blowing kisses my way. His name might make him sound like some big, dumb Southern hick, but fortunately for me Buford was a wiry half-pint, not someone I had to worry about bending me over a bunk. Still, I kept an eye peeled whenever I dropped the soap in the shower.
For a while, I held out hope that Lola might be able to work some magic on my behalf. The cops interrogated her, as I’d expected, looking for holes in my story. When the details of her story didn’t match mine, they took a closer look at her, too. Eventually, they determined that the men who ferried the remaining missing girls to various emergency care facilities were friends or associates of Lola’s.
As a result, the bluecoats arrested her as an accessory-after-the-fact to more than two dozen counts of kidnapping. She was sitting in the female compound on the other side of the jail awaiting her own trial. That sure wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I asked her for help retur
ning the girls.
No good deed goes unpunished.
I used my weekly call to phone my friend, Detective McCready, to see if there was anything he could do for me.
“Joel McCready, 15th precinct.”
“Joel, this is Sunrise.”
In a hiss, under his breath: “Sunrise? You insane? You can’t call me here like this. If anyone finds out we’ve kept in touch, there goes any chance of my making Detective 1st. And that’s assumin’ I even still have a job afterwards.”
“Joel, I need help. I didn’t do it. Someone needs to speak on my behalf.”
“Sorry, Sunrise. You’re a toxic waste dump right now. Anyone gets too close to you, they wither and die. I got a wife and a pension ta think about. I wish ya luck, but don’t call me again.”
“But Joel— Joel?” The dial tone on the other end was his reply.
Funny how a little thing like being arrested on twenty-five felony counts can turn “How are you?” into “Who are you?”
I’ve never been one to make many close friends. For the past few years, snitches and casual acquaintances seemed like plenty. No close friends meant no one to disappoint you, no one to break your heart, no one to leave you. When the bomb took Jeannie and her mother from me, I swore I’d never let anyone get that close to me again. I couldn’t take that kind of pain twice.
Still, there are times when it sure is nice to have a friend you can count on. All I had was Lola, and she was in no position to help either of us.
I wouldn’t exactly call Buford a friend, either. But after I pulled two guys off him and saved him from a “serious ass-whuppin’,” as he put it, he swore he had my back, “if’n” I ever needed it. I was worried at first that he might get the wrong impression from my actions, but I couldn’t just stand by and watch a couple of swastika-tattooed skinheads beat up on him just because they didn’t like “limp-wristed faggots.”
Sunrise Destiny Page 12
