Page 81 of The 24th Hour

“Did you have anything to do with Jamie Fricke’s murder, Padre? Yes or no. If yes, tell me your role.”

“I wish. I wish I had seen his face when he knew he was about to die. I wish I could have caused him mortal pain. I heard about it on the block.”

“On which block?”

“This one. Cell block. I was here when he was gunned down, babe. I mean, Inspector. I was in a cell when Jamie Fricke was killed, and I had no foreknowledge or nothing. Snitches were playing a game with Detective Bailey. I think so.”

Alvarez looked up at Bailey, who came over to the cage and said, “Padre. You shitting me?”

“You weren’t here,” Padre said. “But I was. Corcoran picked me up the night before.Estupido.”

Bailey opened the cage door and said, “Come on outta there, Alvarez.”

To Rochas he said, “Be right back.”

Alvarez followed Bailey down to booking on the first floor.

The desk sergeant opened a computer file, said, “He’s right, Rob. Checked in on Sunday, never checked out.”

“I love to look stupid in front of a dirtbag. Sorry about this, Sonia.”

Alvarez laughed. She said, “Tell Padre I said it was good meeting him. And he has a perfect alibi for Jamie’s murder.”

“What about you? What are you going to do?”

“Ask you to run me out to the airport.” She reached up, tousled his hair, and said, “Good seeing you, Bailey. Goinghome without a suspect, a confession, any kind of evidence, or even lunch, but it’s been great.”

“We’ll have to do this again,” he said.

Just before Alvarez boarded her plane, he kissed her goodbye. She stowed her carry-on bag in the overhead rack. She thought about Padre. There was nothing, not even circumstantial evidence, suggesting that he’d killed Holly. He hadn’t killed Jamie, either, having the perfect alibi. He was in jail at the time. Now he was going to jail in Mexico … where he would surely get jailhouse justice.

TUESDAY

CHAPTER 106

CHRISTOPHE TEXTED ME the following morning, inviting me to lunch again, saying he needed to talk to me. The word “need” hooked me. I was 95 percent sure that the restaurateur had fobbed me off on Moira the day before so that he could avoid telling me something I had to know. I hoped we would have time alone without distraction and bull. If Christophe had inside knowledge of the Fricke murders, I was determined to learn something that would advance the investigation. Or God willing, close these open cases.

I agreed to be at Bonhomie at one. I spent the morning meeting with the team, a somber group of detectives who had nothing to bring to the war room but hope. Even Brady was pinning hope on me getting the name of a killer from Christophe Picard.

I arrived at a crowded Bonhomie on time and Chris greeted me at the door. He looked different than he had a day ago. The ebullience was gone. His face was drawn and he had dark smudges under his eyes.

He led me to an inside table, in a nook between the kitchen and the dining room. The table was up against the wall and the light was low. Chris opened a bottle of wine. I refused the drink but encouraged him to go ahead. Not a problem.

Once Chris had downed his glass and poured another, I crossed my arms on the table, leaned in, and said, “Chris. I need you to tell me the truth. What do you know or surmise about Holly’s and Jamie’s killers? No ping-pong—”

“Ping-pong?”

“No games. No diversions. I need information. Understand?”

He nodded miserably. Filled my glass with something I’m sure was rare and wonderful, but I pushed the glass aside and waited.

“If I knew,” he said, “I would tell you.”

I placed the flats of my palms on the table, pushed off, and got to my feet. “That’s too bad, Chris. If something comes to you, call or write.”

I edged out of the privacy booth and was heading to the exit when he said, “Wait. Please.”

I turned and looked into his sorry hound-dog face and walked back to the booth.

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