Even by Andrew Grant Page B

“Good?”
    “Hope they’re not,” Weston said. “Hope they have to really dig around in there, trying to find one big enough.”
    “You know you’re looking at the needle,” Lavine said. “New York’s a death penalty state. Being English won’t save you.”
    “But hey,” Weston said. “That’s what you get when you start snapping people’s necks.”
    I allowed myself a little smile.
    “Snapping necks?” I said. “Didn’t the NYPD tell you? The guy I found in the alley had been shot.”
    “The guy in the alley had been,” Lavine said. “But the other five guys all had their necks broken.”
    “What five guys?” I said. “The NYPD were only trying to frame me for one. What is this? Rollover week at the bureau?”
    “The guys who were found by the railroad tracks,” Lavine said. “I saw you looking at their pictures, outside.”
    “I’ve never been near one of your railroads.”
    “Don’t waste my time. We’re not here for a confession. Forensics will take care of that. We’re here for something else.”
    “Truth is, we don’t know when things started going wrong for you,” Weston said. “We don’t even know for sure if they did. Maybe you just killed those guys ’cause you liked it.”
    “But either way, we don’t care,” Lavine said.
    “So why are we talking?” I said.
    “Because you have something we want,” Weston said.
    “A name,” Lavine said. “Help us with that, and we can take the death penalty off the table.”
    “We can save your skin,” Weston said. “And we’re the only ones who can.”
    “The only ones,” Lavine said. “You need to understand that. You need to be real clear. Take a moment. Think about it.”
    He leaned back, his fingers moving faster now.
    “You want help with a name?” I said. “Why? Is one of you expecting a baby?”
    “Michael Raab,” Lavine said. “Who gave him up to you?”
    “Who told you how to contact him?” Weston said. “Who he was? How to recognize him?”
    “No idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
    “You’re not thinking straight,” Weston said. “We have you. We can bring the hammer down any time we like.”
    “And believe me, we would like to,” Lavine said. “The only thing we want more than you is the name. Who gave Michael Raab away?”
    “Are we on to weddings, now?” I said.
    “He went to that alley specifically to meet someone,” Weston said.
    “The alley where you were found,” Lavine said.
    “Someone with an English accent,” Weston said.
    I shrugged.
    “You called him,” Lavine said. “You set the meeting up.”
    “Wasn’t me,” I said.
    “We heard the 911 tape,” Lavine said. “You didn’t pick him at random. You targeted him. Why? How did you know who he was?”
    “Someone gave him away,” Weston said. “Who?”
    “You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I said. “The only people in that alley were me, and the tramp. And he was already—”
    “Not ‘the tramp,’ ” Lavine said. “Mike Raab.”
    “No,” I said. “The tramp’s name was Alan McNeil. I saw his Social Security card. His number was—”
    “No idea where that came from,” Lavine said. “Something he must have picked up. We’ll look into it. But get this straight. His name wasn’t McNeil. It was Michael Raab.”
    “And he was no tramp,” Weston said.
    “He looked like a tramp,” I said. “Smelled like one, too.”
    “Because he was undercover,” Weston said.
    “Michael Raab was a Special Agent,” Lavine said. “I knew him for twelve years. He was my partner. And my friend.”

 
     
     
SEVEN
     
     
     
    One year my father organized a fete at the local community center.
    That would have been OK, except that he made me help. It meant he wouldn’t let me buy anything until the customers had finished picking over the stalls, leaving behind only mangled piles of worthless rubbish. He didn’t believe in gambling, so the raffles and lotteries were out of the question. The only thing I