Nightwatcher (Nightwatcher #1)(99)

“What do you want? We’ll get you anything you want.”

“I want cake.”

Detective Manzillo nods. “We can do that. We can get you some cake. But not until you tell us what we need to know.”

“What do I have to say?”

“Just say the truth. Say that you killed your mother, and you killed Kristina Haines, and you killed Marianne Apostolos.”

“But—”

“Say it, Jerry. Tell us what you did.”

“I—”

“We’re not going anywhere, and we’re not having any cake, until you tell us that you killed your mother, and you killed Kristina Haines, and you killed Marianne Apostolos,” Detective Brandewyne says.

“You can do it now, or you can do it tomorrow, or the next day,” Detective Manzillo says, “but sooner or later, you’re going to tell us. Why don’t you make it easier on everyone and do it now?”

“What did you do, Jerry? Just say it!” Detective Brandewyne’s face is so close to his that he can smell her cigarette breath. “Tell us. Say that you killed your mother, and Kristina Haines, and Marianne Apostolos. Say it!”

“What did you do to your mother, Jerry?” Detective Manzillo asks. “What did you do? It’s okay. It’s okay. Just tell us.”

“I killed her,” Jerry says wearily, tears running down his face. “I killed my mother.”

“And Kristina Haines, and Marianne Apostolos? What did you do to them? Say it. You’ll feel better. This will be over.”

“I killed Kristina Haines, and I killed Marianne Apostolos. Please,” he begs. “Please . . . Can I have cake now?”

Standing in the corridor outside the interrogation room, Rocky pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number.

The line goes right into voice mail.

“Vic,” he says triumphantly, “thanks for everything. He confessed. It’s over.”

He hangs up and goes back inside to tell Brandewyne they’re going out for a drink when the paperwork is finished.

Johnnie Walker Blue. And he’s buying.

He walks west, and then north. Eventually, he’ll get on the subway and head up to the Bronx. It’s the safest way off the island of Manhattan right now. There must be police checkpoints at all the bridges and tunnels.

Not because of him, of course. Because of all that’s going on. He doubts anyone will be looking for him, under the circumstances—but just in case.

Anyway, he’s always liked to walk.

Even when he was a boy, when things got bad at home, he would take off walking, sometimes all the way across the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan.

Walking gives you time to think.

Not like running. Running is different.

He’s never really liked to run. But sometimes, you have to.

Sometimes, he feels like he’s been running all his life.

Running from his crazy father, running from the law, running from his own stupid mistakes . . .

Face it. You’ve made a lot of mistakes. That’s why you always have to run away.

Or simply turn your back and walk away, like you did when Lenore got pregnant.

He tried to make it right, once, when he got out of prison ten years ago after spending the better part of his twenties behind bars for a violent felony. It was Christmastime and he was lonely and nostalgic, wishing for something he’d never had. He started to wonder if maybe Lenore had been telling the truth when she said he was the father. He’d never believed her at the time, and God knew she was as crazy as everyone else in his life, but what if . . . ?

He found Lenore and called her and asked if he could see her and the kids for Christmas.

She let him.

“I’m not telling the kids who you are, though,” Lenore said on the phone, before he went over there. “They don’t know anything about you. You’ll just be my friend Sam.”

Fine, he said. He’d just be her friend Sam. That was all he and Lenore had ever been anyway—friends. Oh hell, not even that.

She was older, and easy, when he met her. Like most boys his age, he had one thing on his mind. When she said she was pregnant, he didn’t believe the baby was his—and even if it was, he didn’t want any part of it. Especially after he found out she was expecting twins—even though he knew twins ran in his family. His own father was a twin.

He was batshit crazy, too. Tried to kill his own kid.

They say mental illness runs in families, too. Just like twins.

He never wanted to believe that, either, though.

Anyway, when he saw those kids, there was no doubt in his mind that they were his. The boy, Jerry, looked just like him. Acted like him, too. He was a real hellion, back then, before the injury changed him. He bonded with his mother’s “friend Sam” right away, almost as if he somehow sensed the connection.

The girl—Jamie—she was different. Quiet. Cold. Looked different, too—she had long auburn hair with bangs and big black eyes, the spitting image of Lenore the last time he saw her as a teenager.

Jamie spent a lot of time watching him, looking from him to Jerry, and it gave him the creeps. He got the idea that she, too, knew what was up. Knew he was her daddy.

He sure as hell didn’t want Lenore back in his life. She was mean, and bitter, and crazy, and she looked like shit. But he wanted them. His daughter, his son . . . especially his son.