“My old partner interviewed her,” said Zolot. “So I don’t know. He could have had time. But it doesn’t matter, he killed her, I know it. I fucking know it. I knew it even before the captain called me to shut it down. My last conversation with Skinner, he shook my hand and he thanked me for my time. Said I know it isn’t personal, I know you have to exhaust all avenues, et cetera, et cetera, with that charming fucking charm of his. And I could tell that he knew that I knew. He just smiled at me, and it was like he’d told me himself, that shit-eating grin was his fucking confession.”
Zolot shook his head. “A lot of cops have a hobby case, something you couldn’t solve, something you can’t quite shake. This was going to be my hobby case. I was going to catch that cocksucker. But the captain called me in and told me word had come down, the case was over. Officially open but forever unsolved.”
“And that’s it? You let it go?” Peter couldn’t see Zolot, this furious bear of a cop, letting anything go.
“Hey, listen, I’m no fucking angel. Twenty years on the job, I’ve crossed the line a few times. I get results so they let things go. But this time the captain told me to sit down and shut up or my past would come back to haunt me. I’d lose my pension, everything. As it is, they transferred me to fucking District Five. The shitheap.”
Peter could practically hear the man grinding his teeth.
“My old partner liked financial crimes. He was made for that rarefied air. Very smooth, no ruffled feathers, he knew how to finesse those high-fliers. Nobody had to tell him to lay off the bigwigs. I always figured he’d retire early and go into corporate security, where the money is.” He shook his head. “Not me, though. No way. Give me a good hatchet murder any day. I can’t stand those fucking money guys. Some sociologist did a study, did you hear about this? There are four times as many psychopaths in finance as in the general population. About the same percentage as in prisons. And these are supposed to be the fucking bastions of our society, the bankers and financiers.”
Zolot had taken them in a loop. They were back at Sobelman’s, walking up to Peter’s truck.
“I don’t know how Skinner did it. It was the perfect fucking crime, except he never managed to get anyone else arrested for it. The best way to get away with murder, if you want to know, is find some other poor son of a bitch to take the rap. But the man killed his wife. Personally. And I’m pretty sure he’s done a lot more than that. The fucking thing of it is, he made money when his wife died. You know what selling short is?”
Peter did, but he wanted to hear Zolot tell it. “No.”
“Selling short is like a bet that the value of something will drop. My old partner could explain the details, I’m just a working cop. But basically that fucker used some proxy buyers with a bullshit derivative product to sell her family company short. Legal but barely. Derivatives weren’t regulated. Apparently there was some expectation that she’d take over as chairman. When she died, the stock dropped, and Skinner made another hundred million.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to do that.”
Zolot gave him a look. “Are you supposed to? No. Can you? In about a hundred different ways. And did I mention he inherited a big chunk of her wealth?”
Jesus, thought Peter. “So, any advice?”
“Yeah. Don’t let him come up behind you with something pointy. I would guess he’s capable of anything, but you’ll never catch him at it.”
“Shoot first, is what you’re telling me.”
Zolot flashed a ferocious grin. “Who, me? I never said that.”
The truck shifted on its springs as the dog moved in the back, hearing Peter’s voice.
Zolot peered speculatively at Peter’s rocking Chevy. “What you got in there, a fucking water buffalo?”
“Listen,” said Peter. “Two questions. One, if I get close to something, you want in?”
The heat of rage and violence came off the man in a wave. The grin got wider.
“I thought you’d never ask. What’s your second question?”
Peter said, “Who’s your old partner?”
30
The Riverside Veterans’ Center looked different in the daylight. The masonry shell of the building was badly damaged. The cream-colored brick was cracked and bulging in lumpy waves as it slowly separated from the structure beneath. Chalky white stains cascaded down from the parapets, signs of water leaking through the caps or the roof. Someone would have to take the veneer apart brick by brick to get it right. Do that or tear the whole building down.
But the paint was fresh on the veterans’ center’s windows, and Josie, the helicopter pilot with the ponytail and a different pair of paint-spattered jeans, was cleaning the glass with a mop and a squeegee. Bare wet hands on a cold November day, and intent on her work.
Peter said, “Can I give you a hand with that?”
She looked over her shoulder. “Just like the Marines,” she said. “Showing up when the tough job is done. This is my last window.”
“What about lunch?” he asked. “Have you eaten yet? I’m buying.”
She smiled. “Let me buy you lunch. There’s a pot of chili on the stove inside.” She watched his eyes. “We can haul some chairs out here if you like. Have a picnic.”
Peter took a breath. “Thanks. But I’ll come inside. You were going to give me the tour.”