Page 112 of What's Left of Us

His jaw grinds.

“That’s what I thought.”

We sit in silence.

His eyes go to the camera, then to me.

“So,” I press. “Michael Welsh.”

Volley’s eyes close for a second. “I’ve sold him shit before,” he murmurs. “Heroin mostly. Coke sometimes. He was a repeat customer.”

None of that is surprising information. “And where do you get your supply?”

“Here and there.”

Vague. “That’s not getting you out of Rikers.”

He snorts, meeting my eyes. “We both know I’m not getting out of here.”

One of my eyebrows arches. “Why are you so sure? Your attorney has gotten a lot of people out of shit that, frankly, they don’t deserve to get out of. Used to piss me off. But that’s what makes him damn good at his job.”

Volley stares at the wall. “I have a feeling he’s not going to be successful this time around.”

“He got you out of the death sentence.”

“And he put mehere.”

That wasn’t up to Estep, but his tone backs up what I already suspected. “And if you help me connect some dots, there’s a solid chance I can work with him to get you put somewhere else.”

Anger flashes on his face. “You don’t get it.” He leans forward, a vein popping in his forehead as he grinds his teeth. “The people that put me here don’t want me out. And what they want, they get.”

I have a feeling he’s not talking about the judge and jury. “You said you were told to open fire that day.” It’s hard to keep a straight face, but I do. “Who told you we were coming?”

He’s quiet.

“You said it was the devil, but we both know you didn’t mean that literally. Now is your chance to tell the truth. You wanted to talk, so talk. I’m listening.”

His arms move, causing the short chain links of his cuffs to jerk him back. “You have no clue what you’re getting yourself into. You know that?”

I’ve been told that a time or two before. “I think I have a pretty good idea. Does this have to do with Del Rossi?”

Color drains from his face.

Bull’s-eye.

I sit up, leaning my arms on the edge of the table and softening my voice. “I’m not going to lie to you, Volley. I don’t like you, and it’s safe to say you don’t like me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to help. There are bigger fish to fry, am I right?Theyare the people we should be locking in here. You know it. I know it. Trouble is, I don’t have anybody willing to give me a name.”

“That’s because we’re dead if we do.”

I’m getting closer. “Is Michael Welsh working for Del Rossi? Or someone else?”

The question gives him the chance to pass the blame fully onto somebody else. If he throws Welsh under the bus, he stays safe. There’s no indication that he’s on Del Rossi’s payroll.

“No,” he says, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Welsh just knows the wrong people who like to talk. But that isn’t the question you really want to ask me, is it?”

I don’t answer.

“Michael Welsh is a druggie with a big mouth,” he adds. “If we’re talking hypotheticals, a guy like Del Rossi and the personheworks for would never trust him with any kind of intel. Not firsthand. He’d go through the channels. Make Welsh report to somebody else. Have a fall guy if something happens that he doesn’t plan for.”

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