Game (Jasper Dent #2)(71)

Belsamo reacted. He swallowed and shook his head, looking away. “Don’t show me that. I didn’t want that.”

Didn’t want that? “That’s a confession!” Jazz whispered excitedly. “Right?”

“No,” said Montgomery. “He could always claim he just meant he didn’t want to see the picture. But it means we’re on the right path.”

“Why didn’t you want it?” Morales asked calmly. “You mean you didn’t want to hurt her?”

“Or maybe she’s just an it to you,” Hughes snarled. “Maybe you mean you got tired of it, so you threw it away like trash. Is that it?”

Belsamo shook his head violently. “Stop it. Stop talking to me.”

“We’re just talking,” Morales soothed. “It’s just talk.”

“If you talk to me, I have to talk to you, and I don’t want to talk to you!” Belsamo yelled. For an instant, Jazz thought the man would snap, would make a move. But he calmed as quickly as he’d flared, slumping in his seat again. He started picking at the dirt under his fingernails.

A glance between Hughes and Morales. Morales nodded a minute nod. She took over.

“Why don’t you want to talk to us, Oliver?” She slid her chair a little closer, her voice pitched low and comforting. She did everything but take his hand in hers. “Are you afraid of what you might tell us?”

Belsamo shrugged.

“I’ve heard a lot of things, Oliver.” Using his first name. Familiar. Comforting. “I’ve heard a lot. I can handle it. You can tell me whatever you want. This is a safe space. I know you have something to tell me. This is the place. This is the time.”

“Please stop asking,” Belsamo whispered. Montgomery turned up the volume on the speaker from the interrogation room.

“Why? Because you’ll tell me?”

Another shrug.

“You’ll tell me, won’t you, Oliver? You’ll tell me, and you’ll tell me the truth, right? Because you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“I don’t lie,” Belsamo said, with something like pride.

“That’s good. Because you know what’ll happen if you lie to us, don’t you? If you tell us something that’s not true?”

Belsamo contemplated this for a moment, still picking at his fingernails. “I know what will happen,” he said in a low, barely audible voice. “I’ll go to jail.” Then, more strongly: “I’ll go directly to jail.”

“Well, maybe not directly. It might take a little while. But, yeah, you’ll go to jail if you don’t tell the truth.”

“It’s time to open up,” Hughes said in a kind tone, sensing the moment. He pushed the two pictures a little closer. “It’s time to tell us.”

Belsamo sighed, his entire body crumpling and deflating like yesterday’s balloon. “Yeah. I know.” He cleared his throat and pointed to the pictures. “I did it. I killed her.”

Jazz’s heart pounded. Montgomery swore softly under his breath.

“You killed her,” Morales said, her voice controlled and soft. “Just her?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Belsamo did not understand the question. Struggle writhed his features, twisted his lips, and crunched his eyebrows together. But finally he shook his head.

“How many?” Hughes asked. Flat. No expression on his face. No judgment. No excitement. How many?

“A bunch of them,” Belsamo went on. Pause. Then, as if helpless to stop himself, gathering steam: “I killed them all.”





CHAPTER 33


The precinct dropped its pretense of studied, methodical calm and fell right into chaos. As Jazz emerged from the observation room, he felt as though he’d stepped into an evacuation drill. People ran in every direction. Phones blared.

Hughes slid out of the interrogation room, his eyes shining and bright and alive. “Did you hear that? Were you in there? Did you hear that?”

“Yeah.” Jazz accepted a sudden and unexpected bear hug from the detective, who trembled with what Jazz could only assume was joy. Or maybe a massive overload of adrenaline.

“I mean, it’s not definite,” Hughes went on. “He sort of clammed up right away, like he realized what he’d said. And people confess to crap they didn’t do all the time, especially in this city, where the crazy quotient is ridiculous, but—”

“Hughes—”

“—I just have a feeling, you know? He just feels right for it.”

“Hughes, he doesn’t fit the profile.”

Hughes released Jazz and stepped back. “Yeah,” he said, looking for all the world like a toddler whose birthday party has just ended. “I know. I know that. But—”

“I’m just saying. Not married. No kids. No serious relationship at all. A loner. And look at him. Did you really look at him? The hair? The dirty nails? He’s not organized enough to take a shower or wash his hair—how do you expect him to be organized enough to pull off the Hat-Dog murders?”

Hughes frowned. “He confessed. You weren’t in the room. You didn’t see the way he reacted when we showed him the crime-scene photo.”

“I saw. I was watching.”