Ken Bruen - Bust

“This isn’t a vacation day,” Max said, above all the other voices, using a tone of authority, of steel. “Come on everybody, let’s get back to work.”

A few people went back to their desks, but a large group remained near the front of the office. No one seemed to feel sorry for Max. Actually, the bastards seemed happy to watch him being taken away. Max couldn’t understand this. He’d always been a good boss. He only fired people when they deserved to be fired and hadn’t he just announced a ten-percent raise?

On the way to the precinct, Max remembered the appointment he had made with Mr. Takahashi for this evening at six-thirty. Sitting in the back of the car, Max asked the detectives up front how long this questioning was going to take.

“As long as it needs to,” Ortiz said.

“Seriously,” Max said. “I have an important appointment with a client in less than two hours. Am I gonna have to reschedule it or not?”

The detectives looked at each other as Max reached into his jacket for his Blackberry. The car stopped short. Ortiz got out and opened the back door.

“Give me that fucking thing.”

“What’s the big deal?” Max said. “I’m just making one call.”

Ortiz reached for the Blackberry. Max wouldn’t let go and, turning away, he elbowed Ortiz in the face.

“You fucked up big-time now,” Ortiz said. “I’m gonna book you for disorderly conduct and assaulting a police officer.”

Max thought Ortiz was kidding until he pulled him out of the car and cuffed him.

At the precinct, after he was booked, Max used his one phone call to call McCullough. McCullough was still in the office, thank God, but he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. Max screamed at the secretary, demanding to speak with him. The secretary said, “I don’t enjoy being spoken to this way” and was about to hang up. Max begged her to stay on the line and then he left a message that he had been taken into police custody and to please come to the precinct as soon as possible.

Max was put in a holding cell with two other men who looked homeless. One of them was lying on the bench, passed out, handcuffed to the bars. The other guy was squatting in the back of the cell, his hands crossed in front of his knees, mumbling to himself. They were both wearing ripped, dirty clothes. The whole place smelled like piss.

Max had been waiting in the cell for nearly two hours when McCullough finally showed up. Max was disappointed by how he looked. He was expecting an older, seasoned guy, but McCullough looked like he was right out of law school. He had short blond hair and light blue eyes and he didn’t look a day over thirty. He pulled a chair up outside the cell and spoke to Max through the bars.

“Sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner,” McCullough explained, “but I’ve had a chance to speak with a couple of detectives, so hopefully I can give you an idea what’s going on.”

“Just get me the hell out of here,” Max said.

“I’m working on that, but legally they can hold you overnight, or until a judge can see you downtown.”

“If you think I’m spending a night in jail-”

“Let’s not worry about that right now. The important thing right now is why you’re here. I understand you assaulted Detective Ortiz.”

“I didn’t assault anybody,” Max said. “I was just trying to use my Blackberry and I accidentally elbowed the guy in the face.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve got bigger problems anyway,” McCullough said. “The detectives seem to think you had something to do with the murders of your wife and your niece and Detective Kenneth Simmons, as well as the attempted murder of Angela Petrakos. Now before I can agree to represent you I need to know the truth – did you have anything to do with any of those crimes?”

Max remembered The Godfather, Diane Keaton asking Al Pacino if he was in the Mob. Max stared into McCullough’s eyes for a few seconds, trying to get his face to look like Pacino’s, then said, “Absolutely not.”

“Alrighty,” McCullough said, opening a small notepad, “so now we can get down to business. Let’s talk about Angela Petrakos first – she’s your executive assistant, I understand?”

Max nodded.

“She was shot this afternoon in Riverside Park, a little after two o’clock.” Max thought there was a prissy tone in McCullough’s voice and he noticed that the man’s teeth were capped. The caps were bad news. They were a sign of self-absorption, the last quality in the world you wanted from your lawyer.

“Who shot her?” Max asked

“They don’t know yet. They haven’t had a chance to speak with her. She’s still in critical condition at Columbia Presbyterian.”

Fuck, Max had been hoping she was dead. If she lived, it would be a freakin’ disaster. The police would grill her and, in her condition, she’d probably spill everything. Wasn’t he ever gonna catch a break?

“So, do they think she’s gonna make it?” Max asked, praying the answer would be no.

“It’s hard to say,” McCullough said. “Her injuries are quite severe.”

“Shit,” Max said, hoping “severe” meant brain damage or something like that.

“Unfortunately, that’s not all the bad news,” McCullough continued, reading from his pad. “About an hour ago, the police entered Angela’s apartment on East Twenty-fifth Street and discovered a body decomposing in her bathtub.”

Max blinked. “A body?”

“Apparently the neighbors had complained about the smell. According to the police, she or someone else had poured Drano all over the corpse.”

Jesus Fucking Christ. She was a psycho. It was as simple as that. Max couldn’t believe he’d fallen for her. If he’d just had a thing for flat-chested women none of this would have happened.

“The police haven’t been able to get a positive ID on the body yet,” McCullough said, “but going by some other evidence they found in the apartment, they’re almost certain the dead guy is Thomas Dillon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

Max tried not to have a reaction. If he’d learnt one lesson in business, it was never show the person sitting across the table from you what you were thinking. He shook his head slowly.

“They’ve talked to some people who’d seen Dillon around the neighborhood, and they said he used to carry a book around with him, a book about Zen. They think it’s the same book they found on your desk in your office.”

“Wait a minute!” Max said. “Angela gave me that! This morning, she said it was a fucking gift.”

“Unfortunately, she’s not in a position to corroborate that right now. In the eyes of the police, it’s a connection between you and Dillon.”

Max shook his head miserably, thinking, What next?

“The police also found a gun in the apartment,” McCullough said. “A Colt Lady. 38. They think this was the gun that was used in the three murders.”

“So Angela killed my wife?”

“Or Dillon,” McCullough said, “or both of them. The police definitely don’t think it was just a coincidence that Angela works for you. They think you were having an affair with her and conspired with her, or with her and Dillon, to kill your wife.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max said.

“Well, we’ll have to convince a judge of that,” McCullough said. “Which means we need a better explanation for what happened. For instance, maybe Angela had the idea to rob your house, talked Dillon into doing it, and gave him the code to your alarm, but then your wife and niece came home during the robbery and everything went to hell. I don’t know how that cop got killed, but I’m sure he’ll fit into the picture somehow.”

Max hesitated for a second, then said, “There’s one problem you need to know about. A big one.”