“I was home.”
“Anyone who can verify that?”
“My daughter.”
York and Dillon looked back at the school. “That’s the girl who was tumbling in there?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“I don’t think so. What’s this about?”
York was the one who was doing all the talking. He ignored my question. “Do you know a man named Manolo Santiago?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Why only pretty sure?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Yep,” York said. He coughed into his fist. “You want us to maybe take a knee or kiss your ring or something?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Good, then we’re on the same page.” I did not like his attitude, but I let it slide. “So why are you only ‘pretty sure’ you don’t know Manolo Santiago?”
“I mean, the name isn’t familiar. I don’t think I know him. But maybe it’s someone I prosecuted or was a witness in one of my cases, or hell, maybe I met him at a fund-raiser ten years ago.”
York nodded, encouraging me to blabber more. I didn’t.
“Do you mind coming with us?”
“Where?”
“It won’t take long.”
“Won’t take long,” I repeated. “That doesn’t sound like a place.”
The two cops exchanged a glance. I tried to look as if I would hold my ground.
“A man named Manolo Santiago was murdered last night.”
“Where?”
“His body was in Manhattan. Washington Heights area.”
“And what does this have to do with me?”
“We think you might be able to help.”
“Help how? I already told you. I don’t know him.”
“You said”—York actually referred to his pad, but it was only for effect; he hadn’t written anything while I was talking—“that you were ‘pretty sure’ you didn’t know him.”
“I’m sure then. Okay? I’m sure.”
He snapped the pad closed with dramatic flare. “Mr. Santiago knew you.”
“How do you know that?”
“We’d prefer to show you.”
“And I’d prefer you tell me.”
“Mr. Santiago”—York hesitated as though choosing his next words by hand—“had certain items on him.”
“Items?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Items,” he said, “that point to you.”
“Point to me as what?”
“Yo, Mr. DA?”
Dillon—the Cinder Block—had finally spoken.
“It’s County Prosecutor,” I said.
“Whatever.” He cracked his neck and pointed at my chest. “You’re really starting to itch my ass.”
“Excuse me?”
Dillon stepped into my face. “Do we look like we’re here for a goddamn semantics lesson?”
I thought the question was rhetorical, but he waited. Finally I said, “No.”
“Then listen up. We got a dead body. The guy is linked to you in a big way. Do you want to come and help clear this up, or do you want to play more word games that make you look suspicious as hell?”
“Who exactly do you think you’re talking to, Detective?”
“A guy running for office who wouldn’t want us to take this directly to the press.”
“Are you threatening me?”
York stepped in. “Nobody is threatening anything.”
But Dillon had hit me where I lived. The truth was, my appointment was still only temporary. My friend, the current governor of the Garden State, had made me acting county prosecutor. There was also serious talk of my running for Congress, maybe even the vacant Senate seat. I would be lying if I said I didn’t have political ambitions. A scandal, even the fake whiff of one, would not play well.
“I can’t see how I can help,” I said.
“Maybe you can’t, maybe you can.” Dillon rotated the cinder block. “But you want to help if you can, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I said. “I mean, I don’t want your ass itching any more than it has to.”
He almost smiled at that one. “Then get in the car.”
“I have an important meeting this afternoon.”
“We’ll have you back by then.”
I expected a beat-up Chevy Caprice, but the car was a clean Ford. I sat in the back. My two new friends sat in the front. We did not speak for the ride. There was traffic at the George Washington Bridge, but we just hit our siren and sliced through it. When we were on the Manhattan side, York spoke.
“We think Manolo Santiago might be an alias.”
I said, “Uh-huh,” because I didn’t know what else to say.
“You see, we don’t have a positive ID on the victim. We found him last night. His driver’s license reads Manolo Santiago. We checked it out. It doesn’t appear to be his real name. We ran his prints. No hits. So we don’t know who he is.”
“And you think I will?”
They did not bother answering.
York’s voice was as casual as a spring day. “You’re a widower, Mr.
Copeland, right?”
“Right,” I said.
“Must be tough. Raising a kid on your own.”
I said nothing.
“Your wife had cancer, we understand. You’re very involved in some organization to find a cure.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Admirable.”
They should only know.
“This must be weird for you,” York said.
“How’s that?”
“Being on the other side. You’re usually the one asking the questions, not answering them. That’s gotta be a little strange.”
He smiled at me in the rearview mirror.
“Hey, York?” I said.
“What?”
“Do you have a playbill or a program?” I asked.
“A what?”
“A playbill,” I said. “So I can see your past credits, you know—before you landed the coveted role of Good Cop.”
York chuckled at that. “I’m just saying, it’s weird is all. I mean, have you ever been questioned by the police before?”
It was a setup question. They had to know. When I was eighteen years old, I worked as a counselor at a summer camp. Four campers—Gil Perez and his girlfriend, Margot Green, Doug Billingham and his girlfriend, Camille Copeland (aka my sister)—sneaked into the woods late one night.