Джеймс Паттерсон - 14th Deadly Sin:

“Swanson and Vasquez are responsible for the mercado and check-cashing robbery homicides, past, present, and future.

“Whitney and Brand are point men on cases where drug dealers have been shot. Any information about dealers being ripped off or killed by cops, report immediately to me.

“My cell phone number and private e-mail address are posted in the break room. We’re smart enough to put this trouble down, so let’s do that. Vacations are canceled.

“That’s all.”

The meeting broke up, and Brady made his way through the roomful of cops to his office. When Conklin and I reached our desks, I picked up the phone. I called the men’s jail and in just a few minutes had set up a room for a conference with a car thief and former Wicker House stockroom boy by the name of Donald Wolfe.

CHAPTER 66

DONNIE WOLFE LOOKED to be in a pretty good mood when he was brought into the interview room in orange jumpsuit and cuffs.

“Wassup?” he said, sliding into a chair as the guard left the room. He angled around in his seat, getting comfortable, enjoying the attention or maybe just happy to have company. “You making me miss my dinner.”

Conklin said, “I’ve got some bad news for you, Donnie.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Someone took out your friend Rascal.”

“Nuh-uh, no, they didn’t.”

Conklin took his phone out of his pocket and found the photo of Ralph Valdeen lying facedown on his narrow bed, his blood soaking through the baby-blue covers. Conklin put the phone on the table and turned it so that Donnie Wolfe could see the picture.

For a moment, you could see the young kid in Wolfe. His eyes got big, he drew back—and then, only a moment later, he disguised his shock and took on the cocky scowl of a criminal with aspirations to become a bigger, better criminal.

“You faked that picture,” he said. “Trying to scare me.”

“Really,” Conklin said. “You really think we staged this blood and brains on the headboard to shake you up?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Because, Donnie, we don’t need to scare you. You’re in a cell. You’ve got a trial coming up and you’ll be convicted of grand theft and you will go to prison for a long time. You might get out in time to see your unborn baby get married.”

A long minute passed as Donnie seemed to picture that. Then he said, “Or what?”

This is one of the things I love about Conklin. He’s a trustworthy dude. His goodness comes through, even to punks like Donnie.

“Look, we need to know about Valdeen,” my partner said. “Why was he shot and who do you think did it? Help us and we’ll tell the DA you cooperated. That will count at sentencing. I promise you that.”

A lot of quiet time gathered in the small interview room. I did my best not to fidget as Donnie thought over his options. Then he said, “How am I supposed to help you? I wasn’t there. I don’t know why anyone would do that to Rascal.”

I had to step in.

“Donnie. Your friend Rascal Valdeen was executed. You see that, don’t you? He wasn’t shot while holding up a store or stealing a car or screwing someone else’s woman. He was shot in his bed. While he was asleep.”

“No, nuh-uh, no, no.”

“ Yes . And this is what I’m thinking, Donnie. Ralph knew something and someone didn’t want him to talk. ”

After a long pause, Donnie said, “He might have known something that I don’t know.”

I pressed on. “Did he know who shot up Wicker House? Do you?”

Wolfe looked up at the camera, then back at Conklin. He said to Conklin, “Not with that.”

Conklin left the room and when he came back, the red camera light was off.

“Go ahead, Donnie,” Conklin said.

“Cops did that Wicker House deal.”

“What cops?” I asked.

“They was cops. Rascal and me, we told this one of them when the drugs were moving out for distribution. It was just supposed to be a heist. We didn’t know they were going to shoot. They didn’t tell us that, I swear on my baby’s soul. I just needed money to go away and that’s all.”

Real tears were filling his eyes. He wiped them away, and again I saw the kid in him.

“How do you know they were cops?”

“They wearing jackets saying police.”

“That’s all? Did you see a badge? Were they cops you knew?”

“They talk like cops. They walk like cops. They cops,” Donnie said.

“How many?” I asked.

“I only met the one that made the deal with me and Rascal. I hear on the street could be, like, five more in the crew. I told the one that paid me. I say, ‘Watch your ass.’ I say to him, ‘Those drugs belong to the King.’”

“Kingfisher? And what did he say?”

“He say, ‘No problem.’ Like, ‘I got this.’”

Conklin said, “What’s this cop’s name? We need his name.”

The silence went on for long seconds as Donnie Wolfe thought about his odds if he gave us a name, and his odds if he didn’t. I think it came out as a draw.

“What does he look like?” Conklin said.

Donnie shook his head again, then made a decision.

He said, “Both times I see him, he sitting in a car. White guy, wears a police cap and big shades. You can only see, like, his nose. And it’s just a regular nose.”

Conklin asked again in his kind, steady voice, “What’s his name, Donnie?”

“One. That’s what he said. That’s what I call him. Mr. One.”

CHAPTER 67

I’D JUST GOTTEN home when I got a call from Cindy. She was at the airport, just back from her book tour, so I invited her and Richie to come on over to our house for Joe’s sausage lasagna.

A half hour later, Julie was in bed and two of my very favorite people were standing around the kitchen with me and Joe, all of us sampling the fine wine Cindy had picked up at our neighborhood liquor store.

Cindy was wearing a butter-yellow pullover and jeans and had glittery clips in her curly blond hair. She stood hip-to-hip against Richie, and he had his arm around her. They both looked radiant. I loved to see this. Loved it.

While I tossed the salad, Cindy told a story about her last stop, at the Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore in San Diego. A woman had hung back until every one of the thirty people who’d wanted Cindy to sign their books had moved on. Then, said Cindy, “This woman whispered, ‘I have a story I think you’ll want to write.’”

“Really,” Joe said. “A true story?”

“That’s what she said.”

Cindy relayed the woman’s fairly intense tale of a serial polygamist with five wives, each unknown to the other four. The guy posed as a traveling salesman, but in fact was a con man.

Cindy said, “This woman, Nikki, told me, ‘Benny was the sweetest man you’d ever want to meet. Super-kind. Always attentive. He always made me feel like I was the most important person in the world—Oh. I forgot to say Benny was my father.’” Cindy laughed at the shocked expressions all around her. Then she said, “Nikki said her father disappeared ten years ago and is presumed dead, but his body has never been found. She wants me to write an exposé of her own father and his mysterious disappearance. She wants me to find him, dead or alive, and if he was killed, to find the killer. She’s not asking much, right? But I am thinking about it.”

Dinner was hot, tasty, and served with plenty of laughs, which I needed. But I was still feeling crappy about my set-to with Wayne L. Broward and couldn’t wait to tell Joe about it.

I found everything that had happened from the moment I knocked on Broward’s door so embarrassing, I hadn’t even told Conklin. Luckily, Cindy and Rich were eager to take their party home right after dinner. As soon as we’d all hugged and kissed good-bye and I’d checked on Julie, I said to Joe, “I did a tremendously stupid thing today.”