The 8th Confession

“And even if you get anyone to trial, you’ll never get a conviction. Rodney Booker’s killer is a frickin’ hero.”

Chapter 110

WITH THE HELP of the mob squad, Conklin and I flattened six people against the wall and frisked them. We made sure we had their names, then we had them loaded into cars and vans so they could come to the Hall for questioning.

I wanted to hear all eight of them tell us the story of killing Bagman, how they did it, and why.

I was behind the wheel, still sweating as Conklin and I drove back to the Hall of Justice. That mob scene had shot my heart rate into the stratosphere, and it was still well above my normal sixty-eight beats per minute. But I was happy. Make that exhilarated.

I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw Franklin Morris and “Mercy” behind the grille at my back, chatting as if we were driving them to lunch.

Why should they worry?

The Pincus brothers might be disbarred for confessing to homicide, but someone else would step in to defend this group of conspirators, one or all of whom were guilty of Rodney Booker’s murder. But I thought Neil Pincus’s prediction was right.

If these people stuck to their stories, no jury would convict. Eight confessions were eight times worse than one, each contradicting the other, so reasonable doubt would rule. I wondered if there’d even be a trial.

I said to Conklin, “Cindy’s going to get a movie deal out of this one. ‘From folk hero to mass killer, a drug dealer is brought down by a conspiracy of street vigilantes.’ You should call her.”

“No, you do it. I don’t want to mess with the chain of command.”

I smiled, said, “Okay. After we take care of business, I’ll give her the exclusive.”

I was quiet after that.

As I turned the car onto Bryant Street, I thought about Bagman Jesus, a charming and handsome lowlife who’d sold crack to kids, turned girls into meth addicts, a man who had commissioned a mobile meth lab that had blown up, killing ten people, most of them ordinary citizens on their way to work.

I don’t condone street justice.

If we could nail Booker’s killer, we would. But maybe this time, law enforcement would bow to a different kind of law. Bagman Jesus, the street saint who wasn’t, had been taken out faster and smarter than we could have done it – and without giving him the possibility of parole.

It was indisputable that our city was better off now that he was gone.

“Whatcha thinking, Lindsay?” Conklin asked me.

I turned to look at him, saw that he, too, was feeling fine. I said, “I was thinking that in a fu

Epilogue. HAPPY AT LAST

Chapter 111

AS JOE PILOTED his nice black Mercedes S-Class, I relaxed in the seat beside him. It was great to look to my left and see his gorgeous face, his strong hands on the wheel. Every time he caught me looking at him, he turned to look at me.

We gri

“I want to take that dress off you,” he said.

“I just put it on!”

“I remember,” he said, leering. “Now what was it you were telling me?”

“Yuki.”

“Right. Yuki’s going away for a few weeks.”

“She was going away for a few weeks, then Parisi called her into his office and said, ‘I’ve got a case for you, Ms. Castellano. I think there could be a promotion in it. And a raise.’ ”

Joe turned the wheel, and we swept into the drive leading to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Pacific Heights, an insanely beautiful and kind of creepy old mansion where Joe’s friend the mayor was holding a big fund-raiser for i

It was an A-list event, and Joe was high on that list because he was a government contractor, the former deputy director of Homeland Security, and a specialist in Middle Eastern affairs.

Valet parkers in Flying Dutchman outfits stepped out of the shadows, and spotlights out front transformed the school into an elegant nightspot. Guests wearing Prada-everything emerged from their expensive cars, and Joe got out of ours.

He handed the keys to a valet, then came around and opened the door for me. I took his arm.

“I want to hear the rest of the story,” he said.

We headed toward the arched stone entrance. I was conscious of being dressed up for a change: wearing high-heeled shoes, putting my hair up, zipping into a long, tight red dress, and it felt good knowing that if ever a gown was made for a five-foot-ten-inch blonde, I was wearing it. And if ever there was a good-looking man in a tuxedo, I was on his arm.

“Oh. So Parisi says to Yuki, ‘I’m giving you the Rodney Booker case. Congratulations.’ He handed her a bomb, Joe. Eight defendants, no witnesses, an unmatchable possible murder weapon, and an unsympathetic victim. She’s going to work on this for a year, and then she’s going to get killed in court.”

“Poor frickin’ Yuki.”

“One day she’s going to catch a break. Maybe. I hope.”

We stepped over the threshold into a cocktail party in high gear. Beautiful people were engaged in avid conversation, laughing, their voices echoing in the magnificent Reception Room with its high, coffered ceilings designed to look like the Vatican – sixteenth-century Italian High Renaissance.

A waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes, and Joe and I each took one.

After a sip, Joe set his glass down on a nearby table, reached inside his pocket, and took out a black velvet box I’d seen many times before. He had presented it to me twice, and although I’d never fully accepted it, I’d kept it safe through fire and through moving to Joe’s, and every once in a while I’d opened the box, just to see where I stood in my own mind.

And now Joe was opening that black clamshell case again and holding it so that the five diamonds in the platinum setting twinkled like a crystal chandelier.

I looked up at him, thinking he didn’t need the trappings. I would love him in a spangled spandex bodysuit. I smiled.

“I have this sense of déjà vu,” he said.

My butterflies did cartwheels, but I stood still, holding the gaze of my blue-eyed hunka man.

“Do I have to go back to Queens and live with my mother? Or will you marry me, Lindsay? Will you be my wife?”

As people swirled around us, a band started to play a kind of corny but very sentimental big-band tune from the ’40s. It was utterly perfect.

I put down my glass and held out my hand.

“Is that a yes?” Joe said. “Or are you asking me to dance?”

“Both. It’s a definite double yes.”

Joe’s face buckled with emotion. He said, “I love you, Blondie.” He wiggled the ring onto my finger and kissed me. I felt the power of our kiss, the way it sealed this perfect moment and blessed our future together.

I put my arms around Joe’s neck, and he held me tight. As we swayed to Gle

“Yes, Joe, we will. I love you completely. I truly do.”