“He married my sister.”
So Franken, who could have been looking like the mastermind of a burglary ring, was really just a guy trying to do the right thing, hiring his wife’s hapless idiot brother and trying to help out vets and addicts with cash-under-the-table jobs.
“Tell me about Gordon Krauss.”
“What about him? I wouldn’t say I really know the guy. I’ve worked with him a few times, but he’s not one to socialize, you know? I mean, I guess he’s not exactly gonna hit the bar and hoist a few brewskies with the guys after work—him having a substance issue and all,” Verzano said. He sucked in a quick breath and shrugged. “He’s quiet. It’s that Minnesota thing, you know? Like the Vikings—the warriors, not the football team. You know, they don’t say much, but don’t fuck with them.”
“Don’t fuck with Krauss?”
“No, man, the dude knows karate and shit. He was some kind of top-secret Black Ops agent or something in the army.”
“He told you that?”
“Dan told me. Gordon doesn’t talk about it. Like I said: a man of few words. I wouldn’t mess with him. He gets mad, he goes cold, you know? Internal. Scary.”
“How did he react that day when Professor Chamberlain was unhappy with the work?”
“He didn’t like it. The professor or whatever was running his mouth, calling names, calling us idiots and this and that.”
“What did Krauss do?”
“Nothing. He just went cold. I could see it in his eyes. Me? I told the dude he was a douche and he should go fuck himself with his stupid fucking storm windows. Who the hell has storm windows in this day and age anyway? Cheap bastard.”
Kovac pulled a picture of Diana Chamberlain out of a file folder and shoved it across the table. “Have you ever seen her?”
Verzano’s eyes went wide. “Wow! She is hot! Do you know her? Is she crazy? She looks a little crazy. Totally my type.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Kovac muttered. “Are you high?”
“No, not really. Well, I smoked a little weed after the other detective this afternoon, because he made me nervous, you know. I shouldn’t have told you that, should I? I’m just nervous.”
“Why are you nervous if you didn’t do anything?”
“Because I’m a fuck-up,” Verzano admitted. “And I’ve got bad luck. I mean, I didn’t do anything bad, and here I am, see? You’re telling me I put my fingerprints on a sword that killed somebody. Who has that happen? Me, that’s who.”
Kovac rubbed his hands over his face. He should have given this idiot to the kid, and gone home to bed. He leaned over and snapped his fingers in Verzano’s face. “Focus. Have you ever seen that girl?”
Verzano looked at the picture again. “Yeah, sure. She was there that day.”
Kovac sat up straighter, suddenly wide awake. “The day you were at the Chamberlain house, she was there?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure?”
“Dude, seriously?” Verzano said. “I’m stupid; I’m not blind.”
*
TAYLOR PARKED IN A LOADING ZONE in front of Charlie Chamberlain’s apartment building, got out, and took a slow walk around. He was supposed to be on his way home to catch some sleep. He’d lost track of the hours he had been going on nothing more than catnaps. But the questions tickling the back of his mind needed to be addressed. If he could get Charlie Chamberlain to speak to him for just a couple of minutes, he could sleep on the answers and let his subconscious mind work while his body recharged.
The building was a plain blond brick rectangle, probably built in the 1960s, four stories tall, eight units per floor. (He had counted the doors the night they first came to talk to the kid.) A utilitarian kind of place, there were no fancy signs in front naming the building, or lovely landscaping dressing the place up. A narrow parking lot ran along one side of the building, one slot per unit. All others had to take their chances finding parking on the street. Chamberlain’s car was in its assigned slot.
Taylor walked all the way around the building, looking for visible security cameras, seeing none. Visitors had to be buzzed in the front door via an intercom system. He punched buttons until someone assumed he was the pizza guy. He didn’t buzz Charlie Chamberlain’s apartment. It was too easy to say no to a disembodied voice. And when he got to the apartment, he knocked instead of ringing the doorbell. Conscientious people were less likely to ignore knocking because of the potential for upsetting their neighbors. He knocked again, loudly.
On the third knock, the door cracked open and Charlie Chamberlain glared out at him. He looked like he’d run into a wall—and had probably had some help doing it. His face was a bruised and battered mess, with a blackening eye and a swollen split lip. His glasses sat slightly crooked because of the damage.
“What happened to you?” Taylor asked.
“Nothing.”
“Did Sato do that to you?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” he mumbled, talking around the swollen lip.
“Charlie, this is over the line. You popped Sato a good one, but this is assault.”