Jeffery Deaver - Bloody River Blues

"The attack that you say-"

Pellam was on his feet. "I say?… My friend-"

Peterson held up a hand. "Excuse me. My mistake. I apologize. Please-have a seat."

Pellam sat down.

The U.S. Attorney said, "What exactly do you want?"

"I want protection. I keep saying that."

"I suppose we could put one man on it for a while. But what happened to your friend isn't a federal crime. It's an assault. There's no federal jurisdiction-"

"You mean it's not a crime to threaten a federal witness?" His voice faded in reverse proportion to Petersons smile.

"We come back to that again. See what I'm saying? You're not a witness. No jurisdiction. There's nothing we can do."

Pellam's voice was soft. 'That's the kind of technicality you people like to use."

Peterson paused a moment, maybe wondering which category the you people described. The point is, even if we got a conviction for this attack, the best we could do is put him away for a year, tops. He'd be out and after you again twice as mad. Or after your friend."

"Bullshit."

Peterson pressed an intercom button. A middle-aged woman in a white blouse and tan skirt appeared in the doorway. "Yessir?"

"Bring me the Crimmins file, please."

"All of it, Mr. Peterson?"

"No, sorry. Just the background file. The first Redweld." He looked at Pellam. "You really don't know who Peter Crimmins is? Well, let me tell you. Second-generation Russian. Ukrainian, I mean. I suppose we have to be careful with that nowadays. He made a lot of money in the trucking business and we know that he's built up a huge money-laundering operation. It was some people that work for him got into a battle with a Jamaican street gang in East St. Louis."

Pellam pictured the windup toys strolling off the edge of the desk and some young assistant attorney scurrying to retrieve them from the floor. "What exactly-"

'Twelve people were killed." Peterson frowned but did not seem to be particularly shocked or mournful.

"What's that got to do with me?"

" 'Massacre.' That's what the Post-Dispatch said. Not exactly hyperbole. Seven of them were bystanders."

"Tough luck in an election year."

Peterson was immobile for a moment. He lifted a very white finger to his earlobe and stroked it absently three times. When he spoke his voice was temperate. 'The office of U.S. Attorney is an appointed position."

Pellam gazed at him skeptically.

"I have no aspirations to be mayor of this city. Or governor of the state or senator. I have yet to understand why anyone would want to be a representative."

The secretary appeared and set a large, bartered red-brown file folder on Peterson's desk. The U.S. Attorney opened the file and pulled out a number of stacks of papers and clippings. He upended one stack on his lap and began flipping through it, squinting.

The pictures spun out, flying like Frisbees. Pellam glanced at them. He was surprised they were in color. For some reason he had assumed police photographers used black-and-white film. He was surprised at how bright the blood was. He had seen bodies before; blood in real life seemed darker.

"Those were ten-year-old boys. Though it's hard to tell after what happened to them."

Pellam picked up the glossy photos and tossed them back to Peterson. One fell on the floor. The U.S. Attorney picked it up and stared at it. "Two years ago, we were very close to indicting Peter Crimmins on several racketeering counts. We had a material witness. A young woman, a secretary, who could implicate Crimmins. There was a freak accident. Somehow a pot of boiling water fell off the stove. Third-degree burns on her groin and thighs. She said she was cooking." Peterson s voice rose into an eerie wail. "Third-degree burns. Her skin was like cooked steak!" The eyes glowed. "But you know what was odd, what was very odd? The accident happened at midnight." Peterson lifted his palms. "My wife doesn't cook at midnight. Do you know anybody who cooks at midnight?"

Pellam was silent. Petersons head bobbled with rage. Slowly he calmed. He took a Kleenex and wiped his face. "The woman recanted her testimony before trial."

"So what you're telling me is that Crimmins is a bad man who has a track record of scaring witnesses."

"Mr. Pellam, there is no doubt in my mind that he was the person who killed Vince Gaudia. He had the motive. He does not have a convincing alibi. He has ordered people threatened, beaten and killed in the past. Look what he did to your girlfriend. The fact is that the RICO charges I've got against Crimmins are nothing without Gaudia. He'll get three or four years at the most." Pellam saw more sweat on the dome of Peterson's head. He saw the finger and thumb rubbing together compulsively, trembling.

Pellams voice was patient and tired. "I can't help you."

Peterson came back to earth. He opened another file folder and, preoccupied, dug inside.

Pellam asked, "What about protecting Nina?"

"I think she'd be safer if she left town. There isn't much we can do."

"I know some reporters," Pellam said ominously. "They might be interested in this story. You refusing to protect people unless they testify for you."

Peterson slipped an utterly good-natured smile into position on his egg-shaped face. "Oh, I don't think that'd be a very good story."

"You never know."

Peterson lifted several pieces of paper out of the file. "The problem with reporters," he said, flipping through the sheets, "is that they like the lowest denominators of any situation. This witness story of yours isn't really a grabber."

Pellam waved an arm in frustration and started toward the door.

"This story," the U.S. Attorney said with a smile, "would be much better."

The bulletin left Peterson's hand and floated down to the desk. The California bear seal was in the upper left-hand corner and in the center of the white, wrinkled sheet were two photos and several brief paragraphs.

The photos weren't of Peter Crimmins or of live gangsters or dead bystanders but were of John Pellam himself.

He looked exhausted, puffy-eyed, unshaven. They showed him from two angles-straight on and in profile. Beneath them were words in slightly uneven lines, suggesting that they were typed by a cheap typewriter. Among these words were Pellam's name, vital statistics, the date the photo was taken and the names of several Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department deputies. At the bottom of the bulletin was this information: Charged with: murder, manslaughter, sale/possession of controlled substances.

"Does your boss know you did time?"

Pellam lowered his hand from the doorknob. He returned to Peterson's desk and sat down. He stared at the picture.

Turn your head… We want a profile. Turn your head… Him? Yeah, he's the one killed that actor. Yep, sure is."

Peterson said cheerfully, "You know, I seem to remember something of surety law. Wouldn't your film company's bond get lifted if an ex-felon was on the payroll? Especially with a drug charge?"

"I was acquitted on the drug and murder charges."

"Don't quibble, Mr. Pellam. The victim died because you delivered two ounces of cocaine to him, didn't you? This Tommy Bernstein, the young man in question."

The best friend in question.

Pellam reached forward and touched the photo of himself.

"Put this here jumpsuit on, then we cuff you and take you downstairs. You hassle us, we hassle you and we got batons and you don't, you know what I'm saying? Now, move."

The reason that he had not been able to attend Tommy's memorial service was that he was in a Los Angeles County Sheriffs Department holding cell, pending arraignment.