“SO YOU’RE confessing?” Haagen said. “You killed Anthony?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But you wanted to.”
“But I didn’t.”
She brought an open palm down hard on the table, looked at me as if I was a toddler refusing to eat my peas.
“Can you believe this?” she asked Nuñes.
Nuñes just rolled her eyes. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was meant for me or her partner.
“All I’m hearing from you is motive,” Haagen said. “A damn good motive, too. Maybe even self-defense. Hell, if you told this story to a jury, you might get off with a slap on the wrist. Maybe the judge would deport you and let that be the end of it. So why not cut to the confession? What happened in that kitchen? Tell me and I’ll put in a good word with the DA.”
“You aren’t listening to me,” I said.
I wanted to cry—not out of fear or anger or anything like remorse, but out of pure, deep-in-my-bones frustration. Talking with Haagen could do that to you. She’d bat your words around like cat toys, tune out whatever she didn’t want to hear, and keep pushing until you broke. I guess that’s her job, but beneath the hard-nosed facade she seemed to be enjoying herself a little too much.
“Oh, I’m listening,” she said. “And you know what I think? I think somebody hired you to help them kill Anthony Costello. He deserved it, right? He was a bad guy. He did horrible things. To you. To people you cared about. Anyone in your position would have wanted him dead. So who was it you let in the house? Who did the stabbing?”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know, don’t you? You could solve this for us right now.”
I nodded. We’d been squared off on opposite sides of a cold metal table for hours. It was time to bring the day to an end.
“I know,” I said. “But he didn’t pay me, and I didn’t let him in. He did what he did all by himself.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“Tell me anyway,” Haagen said. “Tell me all of it.”
I started to look for Sarah, but I knew, I could feel it—something was off in the house. Something very bad was about to happen. Then I heard it: shouting, coming from the kitchen. Tony and another man. They were fighting over what sounded like the end of a business arrangement. It must have been their arguing that woke me.
“Sorry,” Tony said, “but things don’t work that way. They only work the way I want them to work.”
“Oh, that’s all changed,” the other man said. “You’ve played your name for all it’s worth. It’s open season now. Uncle Vincent won’t come to your rescue. Not this time. You’re an embarrassment. You’ll be lucky if you get a shallow grave.”
The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Not at first.
“You think he’ll believe you?” Tony said. “You think you can ruin me without ruining yourself?”
I crept out of the den and tiptoed into the dining room. From there, I could see part of the kitchen through the open doorway—the part Tony was standing in. I watched him raise his fist, watched the veins bulge in his neck. He lunged forward. I heard a body slam into the refrigerator. I heard glass shatter. I heard cursing and stomping. And then I heard a gasp as Tony came staggering back into view, clutching his gut.
“You son of a bitch,” he said, his voice strained and wet, as if his mouth was clogged with soup.
I saw the blade before I saw Sean. He held it out in front of him like a bayonet and charged. Tony fell to the floor but Sean kept stabbing him, his arm rising and thrusting, rising and thrusting. I clamped my hands over my mouth, ducked under the dining room table.
When Sean was done, he wiped the blade on Tony’s pants, stood for a while with his hands on his knees, then straightened up and walked down the long entrance hallway as if he was in no hurry at all. I didn’t dare move until I heard the front door pull shut.
“By Sean,” Haagen said, “you mean Detective Sean Walsh?”
I nodded.
“The one who works in this building? The one who’s married to your friend Sarah?”
I nodded again. Her voice was calm and even. It seemed as if she’d known all along, as if this was the very story she’d been pushing me to tell. She exchanged a look with Nuñes, then turned back to me.
“You can prove it?” she asked. “You have proof that it was him?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t have—”
“You’re saying Detective Sean Walsh committed murder, and you’re saying it on the record. You better be damn sure you’re right. Sean’s cleared a lot of cases in this department. Every one of them will be opened again. We’re talking untold man-hours. Criminals will go free. So let me ask you again: do you have proof?”
I leaned forward, looked her dead in the eyes.
“No,” I said. “I don’t have proof. But I saw where the proof went.”