“I know where the guy who killed Adelina is. I know exactly where he lives. I’ve got men watching his place as we speak. We could go there.” Palermo raised his hands to show he meant no threat, maneuvered himself to the edge of the jeep’s seat, let his weight carry him off the edge as gently as he could. Grimaced as his feet touched the ground. Used the open door for support. “Right now. We could go there. If I’m lying, you can do whatever you want to me.”
“Motherfucker, I can do whatever I want to you right now.”
Palermo nodded, tried to catch his breath. “So it would seem.”
“Besides, I already know who killed Adelina: you did. I’ve known it for nearly a year.”
Palermo’s mind scrambled to put the pieces together. Nearly a year? Why don’t I know who this guy is? No time for that now; he needed to convince him it was in his best interest not to take him wherever he had planned. At least if Palermo could get him to an address he knew, he’d have a shot at his guys being able to help him. Now that the knife was away from his neck he didn’t particularly need his men to save him – even with his leg injured, he was fairly certain he could overpower Krebosche – but his curiosity was piqued, and he wanted to know who this guy was, what he knew about Adelina, how he’d been able to retain all this information for nearly a full year. “You think you know all sorts of things, clearly,” Palermo said. “But I’ve already planted a seed of doubt, haven’t I? What if I’m not lying? Don’t you want the guy who actually pulled the trigger, not just the person you think ordered it?”
“Stall tactics, and I don’t give a fuck, Palermo. Get your ass in the car. You can lie to me all you want in there. You can lie until I slice your head off. Oh, and by the way, even if you wrestle the knife from me, my gun’s loaded with hollow points, so you’ll want to think twice. I know your body eats normal bullets, but a well-placed hollow point might just take your head clean off.”
“Why not just kill me now, then? Why are you waiting?”
“I want you to know who I am, and why you’re dying,” Krebosche said. “Once you know that, really understand it, I’ll take your fucking head. Or shoot it off your shoulders. Whatever.”
Palermo shuffled through the ankle-deep snow toward the car, Krebosche within arm’s reach the whole time. As he passed by the back window, Krebosche swept snow off it.
Krebosche was stronger than Palermo had anticipated when he’d found him on the ground outside the warehouse. He probably could overpower him, but he was younger and quick. And very, very angry.
When Palermo reached the passenger side, Krebosche put the gun under his chin, said, “Get in slowly, dickbag. Slide over to the driver’s side.”
Palermo grunted and got in the passenger side, slid behind the wheel. Krebosche kept the gun trained on him as he sat down himself, shut the door. Snow fell in a heap from the window.
Krebosche put the keys in the ignition, said, “Start it. Drive.”
“Where to?”
“Just drive, idiot. I’ll direct you as we go.”
Palermo turned the key, the engine flared to life.
“Windshield,” Krebosche said.
Palermo activated the windshield wipers. Snow fell to either side of the blades.
“Keep the lights off.”
Palermo put the car into gear, drifted away from the curb. “Left or right,” he asked as they approached the first intersection.
“Left. Away from your warehouse. And don’t indicate.”
Palermo came to a complete halt at the stop sign, turned slowly, carefully.
“A little faster would be nice.”
“Just trying to make sure we arrive alive.”
“Not a real concern for you right now, OK?”
Palermo shut up.
They drove on in silence for a couple of minutes, Krebosche directing Palermo at intersections, keeping an eye on the mirrors for lights. Then Palermo said: “Can I have something to stop my leg bleeding?”
Krebosche turned to him, a look of incredulity on his face. “Why would I care if you bled to death?”
Palermo sighed, and they drove on in silence.
The weather combined with the hour made it so there was barely anyone out at all, so spotting a tail would be fairly easy. Losing one on these roads, however, would be a different story.
Krebosche was trying desperately not to let doubts niggle at him, but Palermo’s words had, indeed, taken root. What if Palermo did know where the trigger man was? Krebosche hadn’t actually seen him kill her – and one other man, and a woman, were in the house he’d followed them to. But did it matter? Palermo clearly had something to do with his daughter’s death, was obviously someone – if not the main someone – to blame for it. Wasn’t that enough? Would killing the actual murderer really make that much of a difference? As for his sister, he knew he’d never find her killer, since the person whose bullet ricocheted down that alleyway probably didn’t even know what they’d done.
But did it truly matter who, specifically, was responsible for what happened to Adelina? With each street that went by, each corner turned, each streetlamp flickering by overhead, and the moon bathing him in its weird blue light through the car window, Krebosche knew with a growing certainty that yes, it did matter. It mattered very much.