Game (Jasper Dent #2)(73)

“It’s not your call to make,” said Montgomery, and Jazz fought off the grin that wanted to blow up on his face. Gotcha, he thought. Finally gotcha, Montgomery.

“Fine. Hughes, you’re on this, then.”

“Let’s do it.”

Moments later, Jazz and Hughes went into the interrogation room. Jazz felt a moment’s frisson of panic/delight. He was in control here.

Saints and sinners, all the same, Billy said. That hard-on cops get from beatin’ down a suspect is the same hard-on ol’ Dahmer got drillin’ holes in boys’ heads.

Shut up, Billy, Jazz thought. Couldn’t he enjoy something—couldn’t he feel something, anything—without Dear Old Dad chiming in from the past?

Belsamo sat at one end of the table, staring down at his fingernails, now picked nearly clean. He had piled a small, disgusting mound of dirt on the table in front of him. Jazz took a seat about halfway down the table, perpendicular to Belsamo. Close enough to converse pleasantly, far enough away to demonstrate the figurative distance between them.

“Oliver,” said Hughes, sitting at the farthest point of the table from Belsamo, “this young man is not affiliated with the NYPD. He’d like to talk to you. Is that okay? You’re not surrendering any of your rights in speaking to him, and you can stop at any time. Do you understand?”

Belsamo looked up for the first time, opening his mouth to speak. He caught a glimpse of Jazz first, and his mouth stayed open, gaping, silent.

Jazz had expected a reaction to his presence. His encounter with the Impressionist educated him as to his position in serial-killer mythology. He was the sole scion of the world’s greatest living serial murderer—that position in history’s most demented hierarchy meant something to a certain class of sociopath. For the Impressionist, it was worship. For Belsamo…

“You’re here,” the man finally said, gasping it as though he’d inhaled tear gas. “You’re him.”

Jazz kept his expression carefully neutral. You show any weakness to a serial killer, he’d once told Connie, and they live inside you after that. He had managed to survive interviews with his father and the Impressionist and come away essentially intact. He wouldn’t let Hat-Dog break that streak.

“Of course I’m here,” he said calmly. “You called to me. You sent me a message. So I came.”

Belsamo’s awed manner cracked, becoming confusion. If it was false, then it was a truly magnificent performance. Jazz almost stood and applauded.

“You sent me a message,” he said again, still calm. “So I came. What did you want to tell me?”

Belsamo tilted his head, an archaeologist finding the wrong fossils.

“Was it about the men?” Jazz whispered, leaning in. “Did you want to tell me why you kept some of their penises, but not others?”

Still nothing.

Desperate, Jazz knew he had two powerful cards to play, his aces in the hole. His trumps. He could mention Billy. Or he could mention the thing that had made the Impressionist fling himself face-first into his cell door….

“Is this all about Ugly J?” Jazz asked. “Do you have a message”—for? to? from?—“about Ugly J?”

Belsamo blinked, then opened his mouth….

And a sound came out.

It wasn’t a word. It was just a noise, loud and sharp and short. Then Belsamo grinned and made the noise again.

“Caaaawwww!” he cried.

Stunned, Jazz sat back in his chair. He thought he had been prepared for anything Belsamo might say. What the hell?

Belsamo jumped up, twirling drunkenly as he warbled to the ceiling. Hughes was up instantly, moving faster than Jazz thought possible, interposing himself between Belsamo and Jazz.

“I think we’re done here,” Hughes muttered.

“Yeah, I think so.” They watched Belsamo for another moment as the man wheeled and spun and tumbled into a corner of the interrogation room, giggling to himself as he hit the wall.

Hughes held the door open, and just as Jazz went to walk through, Belsamo cried out, “Behold my power!”

Jazz turned, hearing Hughes swear vigorously at the sight of Belsamo, his pants and underpants dropped to his ankles, his turgid junk gripped in one hand and waving proudly. “Behold!” Belsamo shouted again, and cawed.

Hughes pushed Jazz through the door and slammed it shut behind them. “Great. Now someone’s gonna have to clean up in there when he’s done choking his chicken.”

“Hughes, that guy… is it just me, or was he totally clueless when I mentioned the message he sent to me?”

Hughes grimaced. “I don’t think I like where this is headed.”

“It’s just that… if he doesn’t know about the message, he couldn’t have—”

“Look, let’s just wait and see what the DNA says. No point burning brain cells over it until then.”

“But—”

The detective shushed him. “We have some time. Ever seen the Statue of Liberty, Jasper?”





CHAPTER 34


That afternoon was cold but sunny in Lobo’s Nod, even on the cursed ground that had once belonged to Billy Dent. Connie had tried calling Jazz—this was big stuff now, she’d decided, and that dream of him buried had rattled her—but the call had gone to voice mail. Just as well, maybe. He was doing something important and most likely dangerous in New York. He didn’t need a distraction.