“Now, you’ve got a drug rehab right around the corner,” he went on. “I’m willing to bet a few of the fine upstanding citizens who attend group therapy and whatnot there need to pick up a little pocket money now and again. Am I right?”
He could see Franken weighing his options, and not liking any of them.
“And I’m thinking it doesn’t take a master carpenter to clean the crap out of rain gutters,” Kovac said. “Where’s the harm in throwing a few bucks to a guy down on his luck?”
Franken ran a hand back over his thinning dark hair. “What happens to me if it turns out I hired a guy who did . . . something . . . bad?”
“From where we stand? Nothing—unless you sent him there specifically to do harm. On the other hand, hindering a police investigation will get your ass thrown in jail.”
Franken swore again and rubbed a big hand across his face. He pushed away from the desk and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to pace, but there was no room to do it.
Kovac knew the feeling. He was losing patience, himself. He stepped a little closer to Franken. “If your guy is our guy, and he’s out there right now killing someone else? I will do everything in my power to get you charged as an accessory. How’s that for upping the ante, Dan? You can lose everything and spend the next twenty years in prison, or you can answer us honestly.”
“Fuck this,” Taylor muttered, scowling. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out and moved toward Franken.
Franken held his hands up. “Okay, okay! Yes, I sometimes pick up extra guys from the rehab. I’m a recovering alcoholic myself. I believe in second chances. Is that a crime?”
“I don’t have a problem with that, Dan,” Kovac said, stepping back, lessening the pressure. “It’s karmic. Somebody helped you out, you pay it forward, and the universe lets you save a few bucks. It’s all good—except that you don’t check these guys out, do you?”
He couldn’t look Kovac in the eye. “I’m a good judge of character.”
“They’re addicts. How do you know how recovered they are?” Taylor asked, irritably. “Or what they might have done when they were using? And you’re sending them into people’s homes?”
“Desperate people do desperate things, Dan,” Kovac said. “Drunks don’t generally steal, but drug addicts will do just about anything to get a few bucks for a fix—sell their own body, sell their own kids. I once got a call-out on a guy who tried to cut off his own arm with a chainsaw just to get the pain meds. Stealing is the least of it.”
“Yeah? Well, that’s not who I pick,” Franken barked back.
“No?” Kovac said. “You’re a fucking mind reader? Look at my partner here,” he said, hooking a thumb at Taylor. “Good-looking kid. Nice suit. Polite. Do you think he’s a killer? He doesn’t look like a killer. He looks like freaking Channing Tatum. Do you think Channing Tatum is a killer?”
Franken just glared at him.
“Why would anybody that good-looking and clean-cut be a killer? Right? What’s he got to be pissed off about?” Kovac looked at Taylor. “Kid, how many people have you killed?”
“Seventeen, Sarge,” Taylor answered without the slightest hesitation, his green eyes narrowed and unblinking as he stared at Franken.
Kovac shrugged. “I rest my case. Now, who did you send to the Chamberlain house?”
Franken sighed. “One of my regular guys, Greg Verzano—he’s an idiot, but he’s not a killer—and a guy who works at Rising Wings. He’s a good guy,” he insisted. “He’s a vet. He had a drug problem, went through the program, and now he works there. They hired him; why shouldn’t I? I’ve never had any trouble with him.”
“Name?”
“Gordon Krauss. He’s not your guy. I’m telling you.”
“What does he do at the rehab?” Taylor asked.
“Odd jobs. Security. Janitor-type stuff.”
“Have you seen him today?”
“No, but he’s probably over there now. He stays there nights. They’ve gotten broken into a couple of times.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Taylor muttered, turning for the door. “I’ll start the car,” he said to Kovac on his way out.
“You stay here,” Kovac said, pointing at Franken. “And don’t even think about tipping Krauss off.”
The steady drizzle had picked up, Kovac noticed as he left Franken’s office and got back in the car.
“I called for backup,” Taylor said, putting the car in gear. “They’re three minutes out.”
Kovac looked over at him in the glow of the dash lights. “Have you really killed seventeen people?”
Taylor didn’t answer.