Smith had always regarded DePrizio as something of a lightweight—a valuable asset, given his position, but not the brightest bulb. Still, Smith wanted some validation for his idea. He needed to hear that someone agreed with him.

Because Smith, himself, was out on a limb. This was a very quiet operation. Carlo turned to Smith not only because of their long-standing relationship, but because he wasn’t telling Smith anything he didn’t already know. They’d borrowed a handful of guys to do the heavy lifting, but those guys didn’t know shit. No, in the end, it was Smith and Carlo, and Carlo, with his sick granddaughter and his daughter in pieces over it, was in no position to decide on details.

This was all on Smith, and it wasn’t going so well.

“Look at it this way,” DePrizio added, helping himself to Smith’s rigatoni. “When this trial was over, you were gonna do it, anyway, right? You were gonna move on the lawyer and his brother. Am I wrong?”

Smith looked away. He hadn’t shared those kinds of details with the detective. DePrizio served a limited role here. Still, Denny was right. After Sammy Cutler’s trial, it was inevitable that Carlo would want the garbage collected. Jason and Pete Kolarich could not remain as threats.

Smith found himself warming to the decision. DePrizio had said it correctly. They’d have to come for Pete Kolarich sooner or later—sooner, in all likelihood, once Cutler’s trial was over. They wouldn’t be doing anything they hadn’t already planned on doing. They’d just be moving up the timetable.

Smith watched DePrizio devour the remainder of his rigatoni. “Jesus, Denny. It’s like you don’t have a care in the world here.”

“I don’t.” The detective sat back and patted his stomach. “Because I did my part. What can blow back on me? Anyone says I pinched that kid on a bogus charge, I say prove it. I say I caught him in the act. Who’s gonna say I didn’t? Now you, my friend, that’s another story.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

DePrizio poised the glass of wine at his mouth. “Not for nothin’, but maybe you should start thinking about what happens if this doesn’t turn out so well. You think Carlo’s gonna remember how good a friend you’ve been?”

Smith made a face. “You’re out of line, Denny. You’re drunk.” But the thought, of course, had been on Smith’s mind. And things were about to escalate. It was one thing to set up the idiot brother on a drug and guns charge. All that took was DePrizio and some money thrown at Pete’s drug supplier, who wouldn’t be able to identify Smith because he’d never laid eyes on him. So far, Smith had remained invisible. Insulated. He wouldn’t be meeting with Kolarich face-to-face any longer, and he was calling him from an untraceable phone. He was clean. So far.

But now, the men he had borrowed would be doing more than scaring Pete Kolarich in an alley outside a bar or surveilling Jason Kolarich around town. Now, if Smith went through with it, they were talking about major felonies. It would be messy. And there would be no turning back.

“Keep an eye on Jason Kolarich,” Smith told DePrizio. “Use all that charm of yours to keep him close to you. Where’s that briefcase with the money?”

“In the trunk of my car.”

“In the trunk of your car. Well, obviously, the briefcase comes back without any traceable prints. But offer to help Kolarich. Keep him close.”

“I can do that.” DePrizio enjoyed the wine. It annoyed Smith, the detective’s calm in the face of this. But then, DePrizio didn’t have to oversee this operation. He didn’t have to answer to Carlo if this whole thing went south.

Smith wiped his forehead with the napkin. “I have no choice,” he said.

44

I WOKE UP MONDAY MORNING with heavy eyes. I’d slept only in fits. Part of me had expected Smith’s boys to come after me. Smith, clearly, was considering his next move, and I’d expected that he might move by coming after me in the middle of the night.

I reached for my cell phone and called Pete at the hotel where he was holed up.

“Bored to tears,” he told me.

“Bored is good,” I told him, again.

I showered, got dressed, and went to the garage. I took care in doing so, to the point of peeking beneath the car and into the backseat before getting in.

I backed the car out of my driveway and checked the rearview mirror as I drove to the office. Strange. Traffic was as plentiful as ever but I didn’t sense that anyone was tracking me. Maybe they were getting better at it. Maybe they were sure I’d be heading straight to the office and felt no need to watch me until I arrived there. Maybe.

I had the same feeling when I pulled into the parking garage—nobody following me. I ran through the same calculus, the possibility that I just couldn’t see them. Weird.

When I got to the office, I found a message from Lester Mapp, the ACA prosecuting Sammy. I hadn’t gotten back to him about a possible plea deal, hoping to show strength in my silence. I figured he could wait a little longer. First, I wanted him to know about Kenny Sanders—that I had a positive ID on the black-guy-fleeing-the-scene from Tommy Butcher. I drafted the disclosure to the prosecution, announcing Sanders as a new witness and the ID from Butcher. I also disclosed the new information regarding Archie Novotny—his absence from his guitar lesson on the night of the murder. I had Marie fax the whole thing to Lester Mapp and imagined the look on his face when he received it.

I made a couple more phone calls to the eyewitnesses from the night of the murder—not Tommy Butcher, but the ones the prosecution would call—once again leaving a voice mail for them. I had been officially stiff-armed by these witnesses and needed to pay them a visit myself or go to the judge for some assistance. It occurred to me that Smith might have something to do with their reluctance.

I worked through lunch, reviewing reports, taking notes, beginning the outline of my closing argument at trial. You always start with the closing argument, your wish list of what you want to be able to say at the end of the trial—and then you work backward to make sure that you’ll be able to do so.

At one o’clock, I received another call from Lester Mapp. This time, I took it.

“You must be joking, Counsel,” he said.

“Good day to you, too, sir. I’m just sitting here trying to decide whether I should call Archie Novotny or Ken Sanders first. Who would you choose, if you were me?”

There was a pause, then an unhappy chuckle from the prosecutor. “The convenient Negro rears his head. I suspect you’ll be shooting for an all-white jury, too? I’m moving to bar. This guy shows up a year after the murder with a story about an African American suspect, and then lo and behold, you find that guy, too?”

It sounded like Lester Mapp wasn’t having a good day.

“This Thursday,” he said. “I got a two o’clock from the judge. I’ll have a motion to bar on file by tomorrow. I’ll send you some fun information on Mr. Butcher, too. Your star witness isn’t such a star.”

That didn’t sound so good, but I didn’t want to let on to being concerned.

“Two o’clock, this Thursday,” he said. “You’ll have my motion to bar by tomorrow.”

“I’ll count the hours.”

I put in a call to Tommy Butcher’s office at Butcher Construction. I left a message with the date and time for this coming Thursday. I’d already warned him of this possibility. The prosecution was right to take a free shot before trial to exclude the testimony—before the jury could hear Tommy Butcher identify Ken Sanders. I was sure that Lester Mapp would put Butcher through the paces. I reached for the phone to call Kenny Sanders, to notify him of the same thing, when the intercom buzzed.

“Detective DePrizio?” Marie said.

I took a breath and punched the button. “This is Jason Kolarich.”