McCoy: “I’ve seen the autopsy report.”
“So have I. It doesn’t say anything about waterboarding because it didn’t happen,” the fed said. “I don’t suppose those documents were given to you by either Mr. Claxson or Mr. Parrish, the very people who’d have the most to gain from Mr. Ritter’s death?”
McCoy sat back, his tongue trailed across his lips, and he asked, “Parrish? What does Parrish have to do with it?”
The interrogator said, “Give me a minute.” He disappeared out the door, leaving McCoy and Bunch in the interview room. A few minutes later, Chase stuck her head in the door of the room where Lucas was watching with Bob and Rae, and said, “Lucas, we think we could use you in the room with McCoy. We want you to give him your theory of Ritter’s death.”
Lucas nodded. “Sure.”
* * *
—
LUCAS WALKED DOWN the hall to the interview room, where the interrogator was waiting. The interrogator asked, “You get the idea?”
“Yeah. Give him a reason to turn.”
Lucas followed the interrogator into the room, and McCoy looked up, frowned, and said, “Hey!”
Lucas said, “Nice to see you again, John.”
McCoy said, “What?”
“The way you reacted to the FBI guys, I thought maybe you’d taken a lesson from me, outside that tailor shop.”
McCoy shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You killed Jim.”
Lucas took a chair across the table across from McCoy, and said, “Couple of things. First, you knew who I was. You’ve never seen me before except outside that tailor shop unless you’ve seen some photograph or have been doing surveillance on me. How’d you know who I was when I came through the door?”
McCoy said, “Fuck you.”
Lucas said, “Second, I didn’t kill Jim Ritter. The most likely candidate for that is Jack Parrish. The next most likely candidates are you and Moore, because we know you’re willing to murder people, and Ritter might have looked like the weak link. We were about to pick him up on the assassination attempt on Senator Smalls and the murder of Cecily Whitehead. He knew that, and he was probably looking to Claxson or Parrish for help. One or both of them decided to get rid of him altogether.”
“That’s bullshit. They wouldn’t—”
“Sure they would,” Lucas said. “They’re not soldiers like you guys. They’re weasels. Suits. Bullshit artists. I have a cop friend back in Minnesota who’d call them douchenozzles. They not only would kill Ritter, they’d kill you. I’ll tell you, John, if Mr. Bunch manages to get you bail, I’d stay far, far away from those guys. They’ll kill you in a minute.”
McCoy shook his head, and turned toward Bunch, who shrugged.
Lucas continued. “I think you know all this, by the way. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a whole bunch of documents and other evidence stashed somewhere to cover you if they start giving you a hard time. Like Jim Ritter did.”
“Jim didn’t—”
“Sure he did. More than a million dollars, and a bunch of documents that are going to hang you and Moore and Claxson. The feds here hate to go to trial without being a hundred percent sure of a conviction. They’ve got you—you’re toast, man—but you might still make a deal for leniency if you help them out.”
“You’re looking for a turncoat.”
The interrogator sighed, and said, “John, you know, you use words like ‘turncoat,’ which makes you sound like a good guy holding out against a bunch of terrorists. Something admirable. What you’re really doing is, you’re protecting a bunch of murderous criminals.” He leaned across the table, and asked, “Have you ever heard of Inter-Core Ballistics?”
McCoy glanced at his attorney, who said, “Don’t answer if you think it might be a problem. We can talk first.”
But McCoy said, “Yeah, I’ve heard of them, but that’s all. I never had anything to do with them.”
“I believe you,” the interrogator said. He told McCoy about Claxson and Parrish fixing the sale of inferior armor to the military. “That’s the folks you’re protecting, John. There are dead soldiers out there, but these guys made a buck off it. Is that where you’re at?”
“Fuck no. I’m not sure I even believe you.”
“I got the paperwork, if you want to see it,” the interrogator said.
McCoy turned to Bunch. “We need to talk. Again.”
* * *
—
LUCAS WAS WALKED BACK to the viewing room, and Rae said, “You look good on TV. Maybe you oughta be one of those talking heads. Interview the Kardashians and shit.”
McCoy and Bunch were out of sight for fifteen minutes, and when they returned, Bunch said, “We’d like to see some evidence about this Inter-Core company. We’d like to see it tomorrow. We’re done for tonight. No more questions.”
McCoy was taken to a holding cell, and Bunch made arrangements to return in the morning. “We’ll ask for bail, and we hope you will recommend something reasonable,” he said. “If you do that, I expect we’ll be able to provide at least limited testimony about Heracles and its activities, if what you say about this Inter-Core company is correct.”
“We’ll see you in the morning,” Chase told him.
* * *
—
LUCAS, BOB, AND RAE went back to the hotel, had a late dinner, agreed that the investigation was looking up, and headed off to their rooms.
Lucas was on the last ten pages of Hiaasen’s Skinny Dip when he took a call from a clerk at the front desk. “Marshal Davenport, we have a gentleman down here who wants to talk to you. He’s a colonel in the Army—um, a lieutenant colonel.”
Lucas knew only one lieutenant colonel, Horace Stout, whom he’d interviewed about Parrish. Had he told Stout that he was at the Watergate? Maybe. He said to the clerk, “Okay. Give him the room number, send him up.”
Five minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. Lucas glanced at his watch: almost eleven o’clock. Bob and Rae were the early-to-bed, early-to-rise sort and would already be in bed. The last time Lucas got a nighttime knock, he’d almost gotten shot. The PPQ was sitting in its holster on the nightstand. Lucas slipped it free, got to his feet, and trotted to the door.
Another knock, harder this time.
One good way to get shot, he’d read in a novel somewhere, or possibly an airport survivalist magazine, or maybe he even made it up himself, was to look out the peephole of your hotel room. The killer on the other side, peering back through the hole, would know precisely where your body was and could shoot you through the door.
Sounded more like a novel; not that survivalist magazines were any less fictional.
In any case, he plucked the spitball out of his peephole and looked out. He could see a man’s shoulder, but that was about all.
Leaving the chain on the door, he brought the muzzle of the gun up, cracked the door, and was startled enough to take an involuntary step back: James Ritter was standing there. Lucas had seen the very same James Ritter dead on a slab at the Medical Examiner’s Office. Unquestionably dead. He blurted, “What the fuck . . . ?”
The man showed both hands: empty. “I’m Tom Ritter,” he said. “Jim’s brother. His twin brother.”
Lucas took a moment to absorb that. “Oh, Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”
Ritter nodded, without smiling. “I understand . . . You Marshal Davenport?”
Lucas was still befuddled: Tom Ritter was an exact duplicate of his brother, and Lucas had never encountered anything quite like it. “Uh, yeah.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I asked around Heracles, and some guys there had an idea where you might be. I came over and asked at the front desk. Can I come in?”
“Are you carrying?” Lucas asked.
“A gun? No.”