Read Online Dancer in the Flames by Stephen Solomita - Free Book Online Page B

confirmed Frankie Drago’s, but there were a number of additional details: Vinnie had entered the Nissan shortly before one o’clock; the Nissan’s alarm had briefly sounded when Vinnie unlatched the door with a slim jim; Chris Parker had driven to the meeting in a Grand Cherokee; the shooter’s back was to Vinnie at all times.
    The only description he could offer was of an average-sized man wearing a navy pea coat and a watch cap that covered most of his head, face and neck.
    As Boots drove to the Six-Four, he used the rear-view mirror to keep an eye on Vinnie Booster. Palermo seemed almost cheerful now that he’d come clean, as if he no longer had a care in the world. Unfortunately, in terms of his penal interests, his story could only have been more disastrous if he’d confessed to the murder. Vinnie knew the make and model of Chris Parker’s car, a detail that had never been released to the press – beyond any doubt, he’d been there. The car alarm also hurt him. Wasn’t it possible that the alarm had attracted Parker (who was, after all, a cop) and that a deadly confrontation had followed? And wasn’t it convenient that Palermo hadn’t seen the shooter’s face? That the only alternative to himself was a silhouette?
    It was ten o’clock when the trio walked into the Six-Four. The first order of business was to place Vinnie Palermo in an interview room and instruct him not to leave. Then Kelly used her cellphone to report the successful completion of her mission.
    ‘Inspector, we’ve got him in custody.’ She listened closely for a moment, then said, ‘Got it,’ before hanging up. Finally, she turned to Boots and offered her hand. ‘Boots, it’s been great working with you.’
    ‘Are you telling me that my expertise is no longer required?’
    ‘Afraid so.’
    A few minutes later, Lieutenant Carl Levine summoned Boots to his office. ‘You did good work, Boots. Not that Corcoran will ever give you credit.’ He waved Boots to a seat, took a pint of Wild Turkey bourbon and a pair of plastic cups from the drawer of his desk, poured each of them a short jolt.
    ‘To the bosses,’ he said, forgetting, for the moment, that he himself was a boss.
    ‘May they live long and prosper.’ Boots downed his shot. ‘So, that’s it? I’m done?’
    ‘Corcoran will be here in an hour. You’ll want to have your fives ready. That way, the task force won’t have an excuse to revisit the Six-Four.’
    Levine was right and Boots knew it. The task force would be certain to reserve all credit to itself, so the smart move was to feed the beast, then move on.
    Boots went to his desk and started writing. He included every detail of his confrontations with Frankie Drago, Pete Karakovich and Vinnie Palermo in a series of DD-5s. Ordinarily, this was a task he enjoyed, this imaginary war of wits he played with defense lawyers as he tried to give them as little help as possible. Not this time. Each sentence, as far as he could tell, was another handful of dirt bouncing off the lid of Palermo’s coffin. To anybody who didn’t know him, the man looked guilty as hell. He had motive, opportunity and almost three weeks to dispose of the means.
    Just as Boots finished up, Corcoran entered the squad room, shortly followed by his running dogs from Homicide, Artie Farrahan and Thelonius Tolliver. Corcoran wore a black overcoat, probably cashmere, which he’d thrown over his broad shoulders in a manner usually associated with dead Italian gangsters. When Boots approached, he turned away, leaving Boots to hand his paperwork to Detective Farrahan.
    ‘You gonna try to put this on Palermo?’ Boots asked.
    In his mid-forties, Artie Farrahan had a full head of jet-black hair that he combed across his forehead, leaving only a couple of inches of skin showing above his eyebrows. ‘Why? Did Palermo do it?’
    ‘No, he didn’t, Artie, but in this particular case, I don’t think his innocence will protect him.’
    From inside Levine’s