Louis, still seeming unimpressed, said, “What’s his story?”
“He said he was sleeping in the underpass in Carl Schurz Park the other night when Barnett came walking by. He said he was hungry, asked Barnett for money. Barnett was rude to him, so he got pissed off and strangled him.”
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“Franco. Franky Franco.”
“Cute.”
“Yeah, sounded like bullshit to me, too. He had no ID on him, but that’s the name he’s been using at the shelters. He said he’s from Argentina.”
Louis rolled his eyes.
“Hey, I’m right with you, man,” Himoto said. “He has no priors, at least no priors under the name Franky Franco, or Frank Franco, or anything fuckin’ Franco. I’m waiting for a callback from Immigration, see if they got anything. He said he lived in Califormia for a while, so I got calls in, checking with the DMV, but got
nada
so far. Thing is, the guy doesn’t have a hint of an accent, speaks better English than I do.”
“So why the fuck do you believe his story? You don’t even know who he fuckin’ is.”
“Because right now there’s no reason not to believe him, that’s why. A guy walks in, confesses, I’m supposed to ignore it?”
“He’s schizo.”
“So schizos don’t kill people? David Berkowitz. Should’ve let him walk too?”
Louis rolled his eyes, then said, “Why do you believe this guy killed Barnett?”
“He gave me details. Gave a time of attack that fit with the ME’s—”
“So? That was on the news.”
“There were other details. Like I asked how much money he took from Barnett, right? And he said one hundred dollars. Barnett’s girlfriend told me she saw at least a few bills in Barnett’s wallet, so Franco’s story might hold up.”
“Yeah, and it might not,” Louis said. “What else?”
“He described how he killed him,” John said, “how long it
took Barnett to die, and it all meshed. And the biggest thing—he passed the polygraph. Look, you asking me if I have my doubts? You bet your ass I do. I want the final report from the ME, I want to talk to people who know Franco and hear what they have to say, and I want to get the results of the psych eval. I also want to make sure Franky Franco is who he says he is. If the story still washes, I want to go public with it, see if we can get a witness who puts Franco at the scene.”
“Your case is still thin,” Louis said. “I mean, what do you got? A confession from a nutjob, that’s it. You got no physical evidence, no witnesses. You got zero, zilch.”
“That’s why I’m not going public with any of this yet.” John hated how Louis was laying into him. “I’m still looking into Barnett’s background, maybe there’s something there. But Franco passed the polygraph—what am I supposed to do, ignore that?”
“Psychos pass polygraphs all the time.”
“But you gotta think about motive. Guy can confess to anything, why this?”
“Crazy people do crazy shit,” Louis said. “Maybe he just wants to see his name in the newspaper.”
“You might be right, but it’s not like killing JFK. You think anybody’s gonna remember this case next year?”
“You will if you fuck it up,” Louis said.
John glared at Louis, then said, “Look, you want to take me off this thing that badly, go ahead. But if you think I’m gonna get on my knees and lick the shit off the bottoms of your shoes, you’re out of your mind.”
“I’m thinking about you, you stupid fuck,” Louis said. “You didn’t know this, but I was supposed to demote your ass last month. But I put my
cojones
on the line for you, and you better fuckin’ come through for me. I don’t know what’s going on lately, but you better get your shit together.”
Someone knocked and Louis shouted, “What?!”
Mike Grissom, a detective, opened the door and said, “The guy who was whacked in Carl Schurz—his parents are here.”
“I’ll be right there,” John said.
“He’s going now,” Louis said.
Grissom left.
As John got up, Louis added, “And next time you’re eating breakfast in your office, I want to see you doing something else at the same time. Multitasking. That’s what being a good cop’s all about.”
John wanted to tell Louis to go fuck himself, but managed to leave without saying anything. Man, though, reining it in around Louis and the other boneheads at the precinct was taking its toll. No wonder his doctor had him on pressure pills.
Heading toward his office, he braced himself, preparing what to say to Barnett’s parents. He’d talked to mothers and fathers who’d lost children before, and it was never pretty. They usually took their anger and frustration out on him, and getting ripped apart by grieving parents was about the last thing he needed right now.
In front of his office, John stopped and took a couple of breaths when a stocky man with messy gray hair came out and said, “You Detective Himoto?”
Boy, John wanted to say no. The guy was unshaven, wearing a wrinkled suit, and looked angry as hell.
“Yeah,” John said. “You must be—”
“Where is he? Where’s the son of a bitch who killed my son?”
“He’s not here. He’s downtown.”
Why am I here?
John wondered.
How come I’m not out on a fishing boat, going for fluke, or playing blackjack at goddamn Foxwoods?
Mrs. Barnett, looking like she’d had zero sleep, with streaks of mascara on her cheeks, came out of the office and said, “Where’s the killer? Where is he?”
“He’s not here,” John said.
“I want to see him, goddamn it,” Mr. Barnett said.
A few cops were looking over, including Delaney, the guy John had decked for making the sushi comment.
“Let’s talk in my office,” John said to the Barnetts.
“I don’t want to talk,” Mr. Barnett said. “I want to see the man who killed my son.”
“I understand your frustration.”
“Like hell you do.”
“Did he do it or not?” Mrs. Barnett asked.
John went by the Barnetts, into his office, figuring they’d follow him, and they did.
Mr. Barnett said, “Why won’t you tell us what the hell’s—”
“Look,” John said, cutting him off, “the investigation’s ongoing. The suspect’s undergoing a psych eval; he hasn’t even been booked. So both of you need to be patient…as patient as possible.”
“They told us he confessed,” Mrs. Barnett said. “That’s what they told us.”
“Who told you?” John said. “That information isn’t supposed to be public.”
“We’re not the public; we’re the fucking parents,” Mr. Barnett said. “I don’t have a right to know who killed my fucking son? Are you guys fucking kidding me?”
“The investigation’s ongoing,” John said again. “It’s true we have a confession, but we haven’t confirmed the suspect’s identity yet.”
“And why the fuck is that?”
“You’re really going to have to calm down, sir.”
“He’s not calming down,” Mrs. Barnett said.
“I know how you must feel,” Himoto said, straining to get the right tone.
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Barnett said. “Was your son murdered?”
Although John’s son was alive and well and living with his boyfriend in Chelsea, he had felt sonless for years.
“Of course I don’t know how you feel,” John said. “It was wrong of me to say that. But I sympathize with you and I want you to know I’m going to do everything I possibly can to solve this case as quickly as possible.”
“Yeah?” Mr. Barnett said. “Well, we want a real detective working on this.”
John glared at him and said, “What do you mean by that?”
“We understand that you’re not exactly the best detective in the New York City Police Department,” Mrs. Barnett said.
“Where’d you hear that?” John asked, trying to stay calm, but he was seething, ready to explode.
“An officer at the desk told us,” Mrs. Barnett said.
Fucking Delaney. John was going to kick the living shit out of that racist scumbag.
After taking a moment to collect himself, John said, “I’m on top of this case. I’m going to do everything in my power to bring the person or persons who committed this crime to justice. But you have to understand, it’s a process.”
“So it’s true then,” Mrs. Barnett said. “You
are
the worst detective in New York.”
“As I said,” John said, “I’m going to do everything in my pow—”
“We want someone else on this case,” Mr. Barnett said. “I want to speak to your supervisor.”
“Be my guest,” John said. “His name’s Deputy Inspector Louis Morales—his office is down the hall. But, trust me, he won’t take me off the case. He put me on it because he knows I’m the best man for the job. I’ve been working my ass off for nearly twenty-four hours straight and, trust me, I’m not gonna stop working till there’s a resolution. We have a suspect in custody right now and there’s a strong possibility that he killed your son. If we can confirm this, you’ll be the first to know. If not, I won’t stop searching until I find the guy. That I can promise you.”
John managed to keep his cool; he was good, all right. He had to be, because he knew if the Barnetts went to Louis and complained loud enough, there was an excellent chance that he
would
be taken off the case.
The Barnetts held John’s serious gaze for a few seconds, then exchanged looks. John wasn’t sure he’d won them over until Mr. Barnett said, “We want to be kept in the loop. Last night, driving here, we had no idea what the hell was going on. That’s not gonna happen again.”
“I apologize for that,” John said. “Take my card. Call whenever you like or call Alyssa Hernandez, the woman at the desk right outside, and she can give you the latest.”
“Who’s the suspect you have in custody?” Mrs. Barnett asked. “Why hasn’t he been arrested?”
John didn’t tell them the suspect’s name, but he told them most of the other information he’d told Louis. When he was
through, he could tell that he’d gained more of their confidence. Then he told them that he needed to get back to work and suggested that they check into a hotel and try to get some rest, if at all possible. Mr. Barnett even shook John’s hand before he and his wife left.
John immediately put in a call to Milton Friedman, the forensic psychologist who was interviewing Franky Franco. While he was waiting for the callback he got a call from Immigration, from an officer who had dealt with Franco. The guy didn’t supply any eye-opening info, but said as far as he recalled it was a very run-of-the-mill case. He did, however, give John the number of a woman, Carlita Wilkinson, Franco’s sister, who lived in Fort Myers, Florida. John was able to reach Carlita on the phone. She confirmed that she was Franco’s sister, but was uncooperative. She said Franco had been estranged from the family for years. She said she wasn’t surprised to hear he was in trouble and didn’t give “a flying fuck” what happened to him.
John immediately called Louis and told him the news.
“So he is who he says he is,” Louis said.
“Looks that way,” John said. “Of course, there’s the possibility that his sister’s covering for him. Then again, I doubt it. I mean, if what Franco says is true and he killed Barnett impulsively, it’s doubtful he let his sister know about it.”
“Gotta agree with you there,” Louis said.
“Still waiting for Psych to get back to me, but it looks like he’s been giving us nothing but the truth so far.”
“Hey, let’s hope so.”
John hung up, feeling antsy. Something about all this still didn’t feel right. If Franco did it, there had to be more to the story. Strangulation was typically a sexual, intimate way to kill somebody, and was usually associated with crimes of passion. John had worked on two cases in his career where people had been strangled—and one attempted strangulation—and they’d all had sexual components. During the interrogation, Franco had claimed to be straight, but he could’ve lied about his sexuality and there could’ve been a homoerotic motive for the killing.
The phone rang and John saw Dr. Milton Friedman on the caller JD.
“Hey, Milt, what you got for me?”
“Well, this guy’s a character, that’s for sure. Big talker. I think I was in there two hours.”
“What’s your take on him?”
“He’s delusional, John. And going by his behavior, I’d say he’s been off his meds for a long time. He claims he was institutionalized at Patton in California. Have you been in contact with them?”
“No, but I will be.”
“Yeah, anyway, he has a very strong conviction about everything he says and presents himself in a very self-assured manner that can be very convincing. I’m not surprised that he was able to pass the lie detector because he really does believe that he’s being truthful. But he has a very limited sense of reality. I should say extremely limited.”
“So do you think he has any credibility?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. Unless you have some solid evidence against this guy, I wouldn’t pay much attention to anything he tells you.”
Himoto thanked Milton for the info, then slammed the phone down. He would’ve loved to wrap up this case quickly, but apparently that wasn’t going to happen. He either needed something on Franco or he had to continue looking in other directions.
Leaving the precinct, John made sure not to run into Louis. The last thing he needed was to have to tell his boss that they could be back to square one. He wanted to put off that conversation for as long as possible.
NINETEEN
On his way to Katie’s, Peter stopped
at a florist’s and bought a bouquet of sterling silver roses, the same kind that Christian Slater gave Mary Stuart Masterson in
Bed of Roses
. He’d already stopped at Eli’s on Third Avenue and bought truffle mousse and duck liver paté, water crackers, prosciutto, seafood salad, red and green grapes, several varieties of olives, a nice ripe brie, baguettes, and an expensive bottle of chardonnay.
When he arrived at Katie’s and she saw him holding the flowers at his side, her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand.
“My God,” she said. “They’re so amazing. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” Peter said. “You’ve been through so much lately, I wanted to do something nice for you. They’re very rare roses. Notice how they have no thorns.”