Page 51 of The Night Of
“Water-activated flash powder. I knocked over the cup when I came through the front door.”
Silva’s lips thinned. “What are you hoping to get out of telling me this? None of this connects to Jonathan Sharp. Why are you still shielding him?”
“I’m not shielding him, goddamn it! There’s nothing to shield. Jonathan didn’t kill his best friend!”
“Then why are his prints on the inside of the gun that did?”
“I…” I deflated. Exhaled. “I don’t know.”
“What would you do in my shoes, Sean?”
I’d arrest me. I’d haul me in, drag me down to the Hoover Building, leave me to sweat for hours. I’d try to get me to flip on Jonathan, because how the fuck did this look? Jonathan’s prints on the murder weapon, Jonathan giving me orders to investigate Baker’s murder. Jonathan misdirecting that investigation. Was he trying to muddy the waters on purpose? Keep tabs through me? Was I his own boy Friday?
“It looks like a cover-up,” Silva said. “Are you a part of a cover-up, Sean?”
“No.” At least, I fucking hoped I wasn’t. Jonathan wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t be part of that. He fucking wouldn’t.
I wouldn’t have thought he’d lie to me, either. I didn’t think he was capable of lying.
“Look, give me twenty-four hours to sort this out. There’s got to be an explanation. Jonathan didn’t kill his best friend. He wasn’t involved. Let me find out why his prints are on the gun. Give me until tomorrow morning.”
Silva’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “And why should we trust you?”
“Because we’re on the same side. I want to find out who killed Baker as much as you. More, even. Goddamn it, I was there. I saw what happened.” The images from that night flashed like gunshots behind my eyes. “Arrest me if you want. Go ahead. You’re not going to get anything from me, because there’s nothing to get. And if you go in there this morning and arrest Jonathan Sharp, perp-walk the president of the United States, you will destroy this investigation, and you’ll never know, ever, what really happened.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, it’s a fucking promise. Jonathan won’t talk to you, but he’ll talk to me. I can get through to him. And I can put what happened together. I’m ahead of you on this one. I’ve got more information than you do. Let me keep going on this.”
“You didn’t have the gun.”
“You didn’t have the note, and you’ve been wasting your time jerking off thinking Jonathan arranged a hit on his best friend.” I shook my head, disgusted. “Fucking FBI.”
We sat in that car for five minutes before Silva made his decision. He judged me the whole time, sizing me up, as if he could weigh my entire character in the force of his stare. Decide if I was trustworthy or if I would run, if I would really try to find out what was going on or if I was going to grab Jonathan and sneak out the back of the Observatory, steal a car, and make our way overland down to Belize.
It was an option.
But not without answers. I wasn’t escaping the country with a man who lied to my face.
“You have fourteen hours,” Silva said. “Until six tonight. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’m arresting you both. Keith will be keeping a close eye on you.” He nodded to his boy Friday, still glowering through the window. I thought I saw drool drip from the corner of his mouth. He was waiting to fuck me up. All he was needed was the command from Silva.
I grabbed the door handle. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”
Silva’s hand landed on my shoulder. I nearly elbowed him, almost swung around and decked him with a right hook. “Do not run, Sean,” Silva said. His voice was ice cold. “We’ll catch you. And him.”
I shoved out of the car, opening the door so fast it bounced off Mr. Clean’s chest. He snarled at me, stepping forward like he wanted to throw down right there, right then. I could feel my destiny with him coming closer, and my fingers tingled. “You ready, big boy? Let’s go.” He bared his teeth, fisted his hands—
“Keith.” Silva’s voice stopped Mr. Clean. He shook his head, looked me up and down, and then turned his back on me.
“Prick,” I hissed.
He flipped me off as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
They drove away, leaving the headlights off as they made their way toward Observatory Circle and then out to Massachusetts Ave. I listened to the hum of their tires, the purr of the engine, the shocks of the armored car rocking and rolling in the silent morning as the SUV made a right and headed for downtown.
And then I was all alone.
Fuck, I did not want to do this. I wanted to go back in time, back to when I was curled up in bed and Jonathan’s arms were around me. Before the phone call, before this conversation. Back to when I knew Jonathan and I were on the same page, when we’d finally found each other. I did not want to walk into his house, look him in the eye, and ask him if he’d been lying to me.
