Read Online Bloody River Blues by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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he had. He’ll be a bitch in heat. Mark my words.”
“This is selective prosecution.” Crimmins believed he knew enough law to be a lawyer himself.
“I’ve got your closing statement all prepared, Pete. I don’t need to hear your version of it.”
Why was Crimmins putting his life—well, his liberty and pursuit of happiness, at least—into the hands of this slick man with a resonant belly and a vicious backhand?
“ If —for the sake of argument—you had to have an alibi—”
“I—”
“Humor me, Pete. If, if you had to have an alibi for the time that Gaudia was shot, would you have one?”
Crimmins did not answer.
The lawyer sighed. “All right. What I’m going to do is ask around some. See who knows what. See what Peterson’s going to do about this. I’ve got some friends’re cops. They owe me. Supposedly there’s a witness nobody’s found yet.”
“A witness?”
“It’s just a rumor. Some guy who saw the shooter.”
The lawyer stood up. “Another thing: They think the getaway car was a Lincoln.”
Crimmins was silent for a moment. He said softly, “I drive a Lincoln.”
“A dark-colored Lincoln is what they said.”
Peter Crimmins had selected Midnight Blue. He found it a comforting color.
The lawyer walked to the door, pulling his short-brimmed hat on his bullet-shaped head.
“Wait,” Peter Crimmins said.
The lawyer stopped and turned.
“This witness. I don’t care what you have to do. What it costs . . .”
The lawyer was suddenly very uncomfortable. His hand went to his belly and he rubbed the spot where presumably his sumptuous breakfast was being digested. “You want me to—”
“Find out who he is.”
“And?”
“Just find out,” Peter Crimmins whispered very softly as if every lampshade and picture frame in the room contained a microphone.
Chapter 5
“HE’S LYING,” DONNIE Buffett said into the telephone.
Detective Bob Gianno said, “No doubt about it.”
“What he did,” Buffett continued, “he bent down and looked into the car from just three feet away . . . No, not even. One foot away. If he says he didn’t see anything he’s lying.”
Gianno said, “All he’s gotta do is talk and the case’s a grounder. Nothing to it. A hose job.”
Buffet said, “You’ll keep on him?”
“Oh, you bet, Donnie boy. You bet.”
They hung up. Buffett’s stomach was growling regularly but he didn’t feel hungry. They were giving him something from a thick plastic bag, a clear liquid that dripped into his arm. Maybe glucose. He wondered if that was a good idea, because glucose was sugar and before the shooting he had been meaning to lose a few pounds.
He thought about the doughnut and coffee Pellam had brought him. Was it just last night? Two nights ago? It could have been a week. Why was Pellam lying about seeing the killer’s partner? Afraid probably.
The door pushed wider open and a doctor cameinto the room. He was a compact man, about forty, with thick black hair. Trim, with muscular forearms, which made Buffett think that he was an orthopedics man. Buffett loved sports, all kinds of sports, every sport and he knew jock docs; they were always in good shape. He pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down and introduced himself. His name was Gould. He had a low, pleasing voice.
“I guess I met you before,” Buffett said. “You operated on me?”
“I was one of the neurosurgeons, yes.”
Gould lifted the chart from the rack and flipped it open. He skimmed it, set it down. He leaned forward and, with a penlight, looked into Buffett’s eyes. He asked the policeman to watch the doctor’s finger as it did figure eights then to extend his arms and touch his nose.
Donnie Buffett did as he was told.
The doctor said, “Good.” Which did not mean good or anything else, then he asked, “How you feeling, Officer?”
“Okay, I guess. My shoulder stings.”
“Ah.” He examined Buffett’s chart again and he examined it for a very long
“This is selective prosecution.” Crimmins believed he knew enough law to be a lawyer himself.
“I’ve got your closing statement all prepared, Pete. I don’t need to hear your version of it.”
Why was Crimmins putting his life—well, his liberty and pursuit of happiness, at least—into the hands of this slick man with a resonant belly and a vicious backhand?
“ If —for the sake of argument—you had to have an alibi—”
“I—”
“Humor me, Pete. If, if you had to have an alibi for the time that Gaudia was shot, would you have one?”
Crimmins did not answer.
The lawyer sighed. “All right. What I’m going to do is ask around some. See who knows what. See what Peterson’s going to do about this. I’ve got some friends’re cops. They owe me. Supposedly there’s a witness nobody’s found yet.”
“A witness?”
“It’s just a rumor. Some guy who saw the shooter.”
The lawyer stood up. “Another thing: They think the getaway car was a Lincoln.”
Crimmins was silent for a moment. He said softly, “I drive a Lincoln.”
“A dark-colored Lincoln is what they said.”
Peter Crimmins had selected Midnight Blue. He found it a comforting color.
The lawyer walked to the door, pulling his short-brimmed hat on his bullet-shaped head.
“Wait,” Peter Crimmins said.
The lawyer stopped and turned.
“This witness. I don’t care what you have to do. What it costs . . .”
The lawyer was suddenly very uncomfortable. His hand went to his belly and he rubbed the spot where presumably his sumptuous breakfast was being digested. “You want me to—”
“Find out who he is.”
“And?”
“Just find out,” Peter Crimmins whispered very softly as if every lampshade and picture frame in the room contained a microphone.
Chapter 5
“HE’S LYING,” DONNIE Buffett said into the telephone.
Detective Bob Gianno said, “No doubt about it.”
“What he did,” Buffett continued, “he bent down and looked into the car from just three feet away . . . No, not even. One foot away. If he says he didn’t see anything he’s lying.”
Gianno said, “All he’s gotta do is talk and the case’s a grounder. Nothing to it. A hose job.”
Buffet said, “You’ll keep on him?”
“Oh, you bet, Donnie boy. You bet.”
They hung up. Buffett’s stomach was growling regularly but he didn’t feel hungry. They were giving him something from a thick plastic bag, a clear liquid that dripped into his arm. Maybe glucose. He wondered if that was a good idea, because glucose was sugar and before the shooting he had been meaning to lose a few pounds.
He thought about the doughnut and coffee Pellam had brought him. Was it just last night? Two nights ago? It could have been a week. Why was Pellam lying about seeing the killer’s partner? Afraid probably.
The door pushed wider open and a doctor cameinto the room. He was a compact man, about forty, with thick black hair. Trim, with muscular forearms, which made Buffett think that he was an orthopedics man. Buffett loved sports, all kinds of sports, every sport and he knew jock docs; they were always in good shape. He pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down and introduced himself. His name was Gould. He had a low, pleasing voice.
“I guess I met you before,” Buffett said. “You operated on me?”
“I was one of the neurosurgeons, yes.”
Gould lifted the chart from the rack and flipped it open. He skimmed it, set it down. He leaned forward and, with a penlight, looked into Buffett’s eyes. He asked the policeman to watch the doctor’s finger as it did figure eights then to extend his arms and touch his nose.
Donnie Buffett did as he was told.
The doctor said, “Good.” Which did not mean good or anything else, then he asked, “How you feeling, Officer?”
“Okay, I guess. My shoulder stings.”
“Ah.” He examined Buffett’s chart again and he examined it for a very long
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