City Dark(34)

“You need to think, Joe,” Hernandez said. “Think about where you were all night. This is very serious for you.”

“I . . . I must have been here,” he said, shaking his head for the hundredth time. “At least after some point.” He was beyond bewildered. It wasn’t really sinking in, though—not like it would in a few hours.

Halle.

Dead.

Murdered.

It would get in, though, and it would shatter him. In the meantime, he was a prime suspect. Underneath all that, still scratching through, was the image he knew he was projecting, sitting potbellied in shorts and a T-shirt like some piece of trailer trash, unable to explain his whereabouts because of a half dozen mismatched bottles behind him.

“That’s not good enough,” Hernandez said. She spoke low and smooth, but there was something blunt and steely underneath it. “I know you cared for her. Now something terrible has happened to her, and we need to figure out what.”

“I just saw her,” he said, aware of how spaced out he probably sounded. “I mean . . . for the first time in months.”

“What day was that?”

“The day I found out Lois was dead. Saturday, I guess. The fifteenth. She went with me to identify the body.”

“How did she know about your mother’s death?” She was taking notes.

He sighed. “I had called her . . . a few hours before. I . . . I didn’t remember calling her, because I was drunk, but that’s what happened. I called her after you found me, you and the other detective.”

“Detective Dougherty,” she said.

“Yes, exactly. Anyway, I don’t remember making the call, but she was at my house the next day, around 11:45 a.m. We spent a few hours together, went to OCME, and then had lunch. When we got home, my brother, Robbie, was there, waiting for me. She left. Robbie and I talked for a few minutes. He wanted to give me some money for the cremation costs.”

“Did you see Miss Rossi again after that?”

“No.”

“Did you speak, text, or communicate at all after that?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“There was nothing to say. It was over between us a while ago. She was just . . . being Halle. Being a really good friend.” Now it was starting—just starting—to sink through him. This vivacious, funny, flinty, wonderful woman was dead. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“You’re sure about that?” Gallagher asked. It was the first time he had asked a question.

“Honestly, I’m not sure about anything,” Joe said, spitting it out without thinking. His head was spinning, his heart breaking. “I mean, look around. I’ve got bottles everywhere. I’m a sweaty, stinking mess. And you’re telling me Halle’s dead?” His breaths were coming faster and sharper. He was angry, he was sad, he was pathetic. He slammed his hand on the little table.

“Hey,” Gallagher said, battle-ready rigid in the blink of an eye, “stay calm.” Joe lifted the hand from the table and placed it in his lap with the other one. He sat before them like a chastened child, drowning in shame, fear, and budding grief.

Slipping through circles of hell, that’s what this is. Just slid through four, now down to five.

“You’ll have to come with us,” Hernandez said. “We’ll talk more at the precinct. I know this is awful, Joe, and I’m sorry. But you really need to think about what happened last night—where you were and why. Go ahead and gather your keys and such. We’ll wait here.”

You really need to think about what happened. And why.

This, he figured, was Hernandez’s next move, after asking for the simple alibi he could not provide. At first she seemed sympathetic, just trying to help Joe clear himself. Joe couldn’t help with that, though, so maybe she was starting to see things differently. Maybe he, Joseph DeSantos, deserved to be a prime murder suspect after all.

As far as they’re concerned, maybe I did it.

Yes, as far as they’re concerned.





CHAPTER 30


Sixty-First Precinct


Brooklyn

8:55 p.m.

Zochi’s neck and back ached. The day had been endless, beginning with the predawn search for DeSantos, and it wasn’t over yet. It was nearly dark out, the last of the light fading in a baked sky. Joe had been in an interview room, just off the squad room at the Six-One, for more than ten hours, with just a few breaks. He had not cracked, and no arrest warrant had been issued. There wasn’t enough evidence yet.

A little before 9:00 p.m., Brad Gallagher, the Six-One detective, walked Joe out of the precinct, releasing him with the usual “don’t leave town.” Joe nodded and padded off down the block like he was going to walk home, which maybe he was. Like most people who had been through the relative torture of an all-day interview as a murder suspect, Joe seemed enervated and a little loopy. He was sad, too, Zochi could tell. Really sad, like a part of him was dying as the reality of Holly’s death sank in.

He’s guilty. Keep your eyes open.

She was doing that, searching for the thing that would make her 100 percent on him as a suspect. It had been her job to break Joe during that long, hot day. The squad lieutenant had insisted that she stay in the room with him, and to his credit, Gallagher seemed to have no problem letting her lead the interrogation. Joe hadn’t broken, though. He wasn’t admitting anything, but he also hadn’t tossed out something desperate and plausible, like “Oh, wait—I do remember where I was around midnight.” Nothing like that. He made no excuses. He was drunk and blacked out all night; that was all he could offer.