James Patterson: 10th Anniversary

That grainy picture of Guzman, or someone who looked a lot like him, had launched a fresh search for him. His picture was at airport security checkpoints, on BOLO alerts, in FBI agendas, and on my desktop.

Did we have him?

Was this the man who had met with Ellen Lafferty a few weeks before Dennis Martin was killed? Had Caitlin Martin really killed her father? Or had this hired killer had a hand in Dennis Martin’s death?

“You tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine,” Guzman said.

“Sergeant Boxer,” I said. “SFPD.”

“Nice to meet you, pretty lady,” the killer said.

Sure. He was going to tell me everything, right here on the street. Hardly. I released my grip on his hair and his head dropped to the sidewalk.

I stood by as Lieutenant Hampton arrested Guzman and read him his rights.

GREGOR GUZMAN had been charged with the attempted murder of Nunzio Rinaldi, but even if convicted, it wasn’t enough to lock him up forever. That’s why law enforcement agents from Bryant Street to Rio de Janeiro were digging up charges to throw at him, hoping they had enough Krazy Glue to make something stick.

By just after two in the morning, Guzman had a lawyer and had been interrogated by Lieutenant Hampton. When he spoke, it was only to say, “You’ve got nothing on me,” even though he’d been caught with his loaded semiauto pointed at Nunzio Rinaldi.

Lieutenant Hampton wasn’t bothered by Guzman at all.

Hampton had a lot to show for his work. He’d used the intel, set the trap, and had physically taken the hit man down. It looked like a guaran-damn-teed indictment. And now that we had him, we had his fingerprints, his DNA, and the possibility of linking him to unsolved crimes going back thirty years.

But I was more concerned about a crime that had happened just over a year ago.

I knocked on the glass window of the interview room.

Hampton came out to the hallway, ran his hand across the stubble on his head, and said, “Okay, Lindsay, I’m done. I’ll stay with you if you like, and back you up.”

It had been a long month and a longer night, and Hampton was ready to go home to his wife, but he held the door, followed me into the interview room, and said, “Sergeant Boxer, you’ve met Mr. Guzman?”

I said, “Yep, it was a pleasure.”

“Pleasure was all mine,” Guzman said in his oily voice.

“This is Mr. Ernesto Santana. Attorney-at-law,” said Hampton.

I said hello to Guzman’s lawyer, pulled out a chair, and dropped a file folder down on the table. I opened the cover to the short stack of 8 x 10 photos I had brought over from the squad room.

“Who do you have to screw around here to get coffee?” Guzman asked. No one answered.

I said, “Mr. Guzman, we’re charging you with first-degree murder in the death of Dennis Martin.”

“Who?” Guzman said. “Who the hell is that?”

“Dennis Martin,” I said, showing him the ME’s shot of the dead man lying in the foyer of his multimillion-dollar house, blood forming a dark lake around his body.

“I’ve never seen that guy in my life,” Guzman said.

I took out another photo of Dennis Martin. In this shot, Martin was alive and well on a sailboat, his full head of hair blowing back from his handsome features. A pretty redhead by the name of Ellen Lafferty was under his arm.

“Maybe you recognize him alive,” I said.

I thought I saw recognition flicker in Guzman’s eyes. His irises contracted.

“I still don’t know him,” he said. “Look. Ernie. Do I have to sit here, or can I go to my cell?”

I noted the slight Spanish accent, the well-tended hands, the aggression he didn’t bother to hide.

Santana said, “Sergeant, this isn’t evidence. It’s nothing. So, what’s this about? I don’t get it.”

“See if you get it now,” I said. I took out one of Joseph Podesta’s surveillance photos of Ellen Lafferty in a blond wig, sitting in an SUV with Guzman.

The Cuban peered at the picture. Smiled. Said, “Coffee first.”

Hampton sighed. “How do you like it?”

“ Con leche ,” Guzman said. “No sugar. Served by a topless girl, preferably blond.”

TEN LONG MINUTES went by. I sat staring across the table at a piece-of-garbage contract killer while the killer looked at me and smiled. Just as I was ready to get him his damned coffee myself, the door opened and a cop came in, put a paper cup of milky coffee in front of Guzman, adjusted the camera over the door frame, and left.

Guzman took a sip, then turned the photo I’d brought so that he could see it better.

“Very bad quality,” he said.

“Not so bad,” I said. “Our software matched it to your spanking-new mug shot.”

“Okay, I was sitting in a car with a lady. What the hell is that? You want to charge me with being heterosexual? I plead guilty as charged to liking girls. Ernie, do you believe this?”

“Let’s hear them out,” Santana said.

“The woman in this picture is Dr. Candace Martin,” I said. “And she paid you, Mr. Guzman, to kill her husband. I think she’ll be happy to identify you and cut a better deal for herself.”

Sure, I was lying, but that was strictly within the law. Guzman called me on it — as I hoped he would.

“That’s not Candace Martin,” he said.

“This is Dr. Martin, Guzman. The widow Martin. We both know who she is.”

Guzman drank down his coffee, crumpled the paper cup, and said to his lawyer, “I didn’t kill Dennis Martin. They’re screwing with me. I’ll tell them what I know about it if they drop the charges in this attempted rubout.”

“Drop the charges? Are you nuts?” I said. “We’ve got a witness to the shooting. We’ve got photographic evidence linking you to the woman who hired you to do the hit. And we’ve got a dead body. And since we’ve got you for the attempt on the life of Mr. Rinaldi, we’ve got time to fill in the blanks.”

“You should be an actress, lady. You’ve got nothing.”

I took back the pictures, closed the folder, and said, “Gregor Guzman, you’re under arrest for the murder of Dennis Martin. You have the right to remain silent, as your attorney will tell you.”

Anger crossed Guzman’s face. He looked like he was going to spring across the table, all one hundred and forty pounds of him. I imagined the punch I’d throw if I had the chance.

“Don’t say anything else, Gregor,” said the attorney, putting a hand on his client’s arm.

“Don’t worry about it, Ernie. This is all crap.”

“So straighten me out,” I said. I clasped my hands on top of the folder.

“I can straighten you out, Sergeant Boxer, but I’m not doing it to hear the sound of my voice. I want this crappy murder charge dropped.”

“We’ll consider doing that if you point us to Dennis Martin’s killer,” I said, “and we can prove who did it.”

“Look. I didn’t kill Martin. You’ll never connect me to that killing, and I’m not going to do your job for you, lady. I’m willing to trade information so that I don’t get wrongfully convicted by an unsympathetic jury. That’s it. That’s what I’m willing to do.”

“Okay. Done,” I said to Guzman. “Tell me what you’ve got, and if I like your story, I won’t charge you.”

Santana said, “Sergeant, no offense. If you want Mr. Guzman to give you information leading to the arrest of this man’s killer, we want an agreement in writing. From the DA.”

“It’s two-thirty in the morning,” I said.

“Take your time,” said the lawyer. “We can wait.”

My dad used to say you have to “strike while the iron is hot.” Well, my iron was sizzling.