101

He wasn’t supposed to die, I swear.”

Stevens leaned forward and studied the man across the table. It had been a long night, and he hadn’t slept any. Now, as morning broke over Manhattan, he found himself crowded into a 24th Precinct interview room with Mathers and Detective Erin Nordin—and this man, one Sebastian Morgan, a plump, aging socialite who’d spent most of the last hour in tears.

They’d found Morgan at his West End Avenue townhouse, had roused him out of bed around five in the morning. It had been a long night already by that point; Stevens, Mathers, and Nordin had turned Manhattan upside down looking for the money behind Johnny Thorsson’s loft, leaving Stevens exhausted and half-deaf from a succession of nightclubs and loft parties and drugged-up friends of Thorsson’s, one of whom had finally pointed the finger at Morgan.

Morgan knew the score as soon as he opened the door. He stared out at Nordin, then Mathers and Stevens, and he sighed, his eyes welling with tears. “Let me get dressed,” he told them. “Then I’ll talk.”

Now the big man sat across from Stevens and struggled to keep his composure as he told the story. “He wasn’t supposed to die,” he said. “I swear.”

Stevens leaned forward. “Johnny, you mean.”

Morgan nodded. “He didn’t even like that woman. He was with her for the money. Everyone knew.”

“He liked you, though.”

“Liked me?” Morgan shook his head. “We were in love. I told him I could take care of him. He didn’t need to sleep with that slut anymore. He didn’t listen.”

Stevens sat back. “So you killed her. And Johnny, too.”

“He wasn’t supposed to die,” Morgan said. “I didn’t think the killer would shoot him, too. I just wanted to scare him. Show him he needed me.”

Mathers stepped forward. “Did you pay him?”

Morgan nodded.

“After the killing, I mean.” Mathers looked at Stevens. “You said they paid in installments, right? So did you pay the second installment, or what?”

Morgan looked down at the table. He didn’t say anything. Stevens leaned forward again. “Mr. Morgan, we’ll be looking at your bank statements,” he said. “We’re going to find out, one way or the other.”

Morgan still didn’t answer. He didn’t look up, just sat there in silence, his breath growing ragged, more labored. Finally, he looked up, his eyes wet with tears. “Why couldn’t he have loved me?” he said, stifling a sob. “We could have been so happy together.”

AN HOUR LATER, Stevens stood in an observation room adjoining Sebastian Morgan’s little corner of hell. He drank strong precinct coffee and ate a breakfast sandwich and stared in through the two-way mirror at Morgan as Derek Mathers pressed him for information.

Morgan was guilty. He’d waived the right to an attorney and signed a full confession. Had admitted, tearfully, that he’d paid for both murders. That he’d wanted to punish Johnny Thorsson for spurning him.

He’d found Killswitch, he said, through a musician friend, though everyone knew about it. He had seen Thorsson with Nadeau at a party one night, had tried, one more time, to seduce the young tennis pro. Thorsson had rebuffed him. That night, drunk on champagne and high on cocaine, he’d filed an application with Killswitch. A few weeks later, Johnny Thorsson and Maria Nadeau were dead.

Morgan was guilty. He’d confessed to it all. But he didn’t know a damn thing about Killswitch. He’d found the website easy, had filed the application and transferred the payments, provided Killswitch with the details of Johnny Thorsson’s hotel reservation, but for all of that, he knew less about the program than Comm had, and Comm didn’t know much. In essence, he was no help at all.

Stevens stared through the window. Mathers sat at the table across from Morgan. Detective Nordin stood in a corner, barely able to contain her excitement. She’d close her homicide case; she had reason to be thrilled. For Stevens and Mathers, though, Sebastian Morgan was just another dead end.

Stevens watched Mathers. He hadn’t hated working with the kid. In fact, he’d kind of enjoyed it. The kid was a smart-ass, but sharp. Had a good sense of humor and could talk basketball all day. Didn’t even seem to hold a grudge after the whole Miami fiasco. The kid was a Bulls fan, but nobody was perfect.

Still, though, he wondered about Windermere. She’d spoken to Mathers this morning from Los Angeles, and from what Mathers was saying, she wasn’t having any luck, either. Mathers seemed to think they’d be heading back to Philadelphia pretty quick, joining up with the state cops and canvassing the countryside for Richard O’Brien. Working the phone book. Chasing needles in haystacks.

Philadelphia. Stevens couldn’t help feeling like a third wheel now that Mathers and Windermere were going to be back working together. Certainly they wouldn’t need his help running the manhunt, and with the Pyatt family pretty much removed from the equation, Stevens figured Tim Lesley would want him back on BCA turf. Besides, Nancy was getting impatient back home. She was swamped with work, had been stuck by herself with the kids for nearly a week now. And who knew how Windermere would react when she saw him; he’d pretty much alienated her the last time they’d spoken. Maybe it was time to go home.

Hell, Stevens thought, give Mathers and Windermere a chance to get to know each other. They don’t need me hanging around.

In the interview room, Sebastian Morgan was crying again. Stevens stared through the window and watched the man sob, thinking about Windermere and Killswitch and home.