“She’s always drinking,” said Nolan.
“Did you see her have a drink?”
“No, but she was clumsy, falling over stuff.”
The way things were going, if Nolan thought his wife was drunk, Sykes was willing to bet she’d been stone-cold sober.
“Do you think Russo will ask me any questions?”
Is the sun coming up tomorrow? “Probably. Don’t sweat it; just follow the plan.”
“Should I warn Mr. Phillips?”
“I wouldn’t. Let this blow over, and he’ll never know anything about it. We’ll handle this shipment of Russians and he’ll be happy as a clam.”
“Shit, I forgot about the shipment.”
“No problem. I’ve got it covered,” said Sykes, and disconnected.
What he had here, he thought, was a major fuckup. The mayor’s wife had his, Sykes’s, name, and Mitchell’s. If Russo was half the cop Nolan thought he was, he had Mrs. Nolan’s statement and was checking out everything she said. Mitchell hadn’t been found in his jurisdiction, but with goddamn computers every-where, all Russo had to do was a search and, lo and behold, there was a dead man named Mitchell. That would really get things stirred up, and when they began wondering what a dead man named Mitchell had to do with Daisy Minor, they’d show her Mitchell’s photograph and she just might remember where she’d seen him—and the three men who had been with him.
There were times when there was nothing else to do but cut your losses and do damage control. This was one of those times.
Sykes pondered his options. He could cut out; he had his alternate identity in place. But he’d always thought he’d save the alternate identity for a life-and-death situation, and this didn’t qualify. He’d have to take a hit, maybe do a year or so of hard time, but maybe not even that. He hadn’t been the guy with the knife; they could get him for conspiracy to commit, obstruction, things like that, but not murder one.
Besides, he had a powerful weapon to use: information. Information was what made the world go round, and prosecutors make deals.
He had no faith in Temple Nolan; the man would roll over on a dime. Within a few hours, Glenn Sykes would be a wanted man.
But not if he rolled first.
Calmly, the way he did everything, Sykes drove to the Hillsboro Police Department. For a P.D. in a sleepy little town, the place looked unusually busy; there were a lot of cars in the parking lot. He walked in through the automatic glass doors, noting the officers standing in clumps talking in low voices, the air of tension. Patrol officers should be out in their cars, patrolling, so these guys were probably the first shift, hanging around. Again, a telling detail.
He went up to the desk sergeant, his hands at his sides, obviously empty. “I’d like to speak to Chief Russo, please.”
“The chief’s busy. What can I help you with?”
Sykes looked to his left, down a long hall. He briefly saw a very pretty woman, distraught, accepting a cup of coffee from a plainclothes guy, probably an investigator. Because he’d made it his business to know things about Temple Nolan, he recognized Mrs. Nolan right off. She certainly didn’t look or act drunk; so much for Nolan’s theory.
He turned back to the desk sergeant. “I’m Glenn Sykes. I think y’all are looking for me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Of all the things Jack had never expected to happen, having Glenn Sykes walk into the station, introduce himself, and ask to speak to him was number two on the list. Number one was his reaction every time he got close to Miss Daisy, but he was learning to live with that. He was also beginning to think nothing was impossible.
Sykes was of average height, a little stocky, and neatly dressed. His sandy hair was short and neat; he was clean-shaven, his nails pared and clean, clothes pressed. He didn’t look like anyone’s version of a hit man, but then Ted Bundy hadn’t looked like a monster, either. Criminals came in all shapes, sizes, colors, and could be wearing rags or diamonds. The smart ones wore diamonds. The really smart ones looked like this man.
Sykes was also very calm, and certain of what he wanted. “I want to cut a deal,” he said. “I can give you Mayor Nolan, the man who stabbed Chad Mitchell, a man named Elton Phillips, and a lot more. Let’s get the D.A. in here and talk.”
“We know who stabbed Mitchell,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “Buddy Lemmons.”
Sykes didn’t even blink. “Miss Minor identified him, didn’t she?”
“She got a good look at all three of you.”
“So you’ve got her stashed someplace safe.”
Jack didn’t respond, just watched Sykes. The man had an excellent poker face, giving away nothing.
“There’s something a lot bigger than just a stupid piece of trash getting offed.” Sykes leaned back, too, as relaxed as Jack.
“I was wondering how the mayor is tied in.”
“There’s a lot of money in the sex trade,” Sykes said obliquely. “You going to call the D.A. or not? You need to move fast; there’s something big going down tonight.”
“The Russians,” said Jack.
Sykes whistled softly through his teeth, not even trying to hide his surprise. “Guess you know a lot more than I thought. But you don’t know where and you don’t know who.”
“I’m guessing Mayor Nolan does, though.”
“He’ll sing like Tweety Bird,” Sykes agreed.
“So why would the D.A. want to deal with you?”
“Because trust is a rare commodity, and I don’t have much of it.”