The giant, I suspect only invited into the interview for decoration and culpability’s sake, begins setting up a video recorder, the lens pointed directly at me. They both remain silent until the little red dot is angrily blinking at me.
“Can you please state your full name for the purposes of the video,” Lowell says.
“Zeth Mayfair.”
“And that’s your legal name?”
I tilt my head to one side, shooting her a very bored look. “That is my legal name.”
“Okay, then. Zeth Mayfair, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
I lean across the table, staring the bitch down. “Perfectly.”
“Good. Then we’ll get started. We want to discuss your involvement with a certain individual known to us only as Rebel. Are you aware of this person?”
I sit back, cracking my knuckles. “I am.”
“Do you know his exact whereabouts?”
“I do not.”
Lowell tilts her head on an angle, pulling a tight smile. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t give a fuck what you believe. It’s the truth.”
“Do you have a contact number for him?”
“Nope.” She must think I’m fucking retarded or something. I walked in here without a cell phone. There was no way I was handing Sloane and Michael’s contact information over to the bitch on a silver platter.
“All right, Zeth.” Lowell takes a deep breath, pressing her fingertips into her forehead. “We’ll come back to Rebel. Right now we’re going to talk about your involvement in a list of offenses that could put you away for a very long time. Are you going to cooperate?”
“What’s given you the impression I’m not going to cooperate, Denise? Didn’t I come here of my own free will?”
She pauses, shooting me a dry look. “Have you ever been to Monterello Farm Markets?
“Yeah. Plenty of times. I buy a lot of fruit there. It’s organic, y’know?” So, they wanna talk about Frankie Monterello, the last job I did for Charlie. The grocery store doesn’t have security cameras inside—more illegal dealings went on inside that place than anywhere else in Seattle—so there’s no way they have footage of me heading in there. I was wearing gloves when I shot Frankie—shot him before he shot me—so there won’t be any prints. But still, better to say I may have been there at some point than deny it altogether and then have Lowell produce evidence to the contrary.
“Did you know Charlie Holsan had the owner of that place killed?”
I rock back on my chair, pulling a surprised face. “No, I did not know that. How do you know that?” I already know how she knows. Rick Lamfetti, the guy I refused to kill for the old man, the guy I sent up to Anaheim, was on Lowell’s payroll for god knows how long. He’ll have squealed and told her anything she wanted to know just to keep his own ass out of jail. Thing is Rick’s dead now, and without his testimony, Lowell’s got little more than a statement that can’t be backed up.
The agent smirks at me. She knows I know she’s got nothing on this one. “You killed Frankie Monterello for your boss.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. When was this event supposed to have taken place? I’m sure I’ll be able to tell you exactly where I was. Who I was with at the time.” I know for a fact the Monterellos never called the cops when Frankie died. No way. If there’s one thing I can count on, it’s that the Italians will have buried their boss and cleaned up the mess without making a report to the authorities. A family like that doesn’t want cops poking around their business. Better to say Frankie moved out of state or something, should anyone ever ask.
“We’re not interested in fake alibis, Mr. Mayfair.”
“Why would I give you a fake alibi? I’m merely trying to help.”
Lowell looks like she’s just swallowed a quart of bleach. “Well, I really hope that sentiment holds, Mr. Mayfair. Because you’re going to be helping us for a very long time.”