Bloody River Blues by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page B

Italian detective called back, “This is official police business, mister.”
    Oh, brother. Pellam cocked his head helplessly at Sloan and said, “They’re just asking me a few questions.”
    Sloan continued to stare for a moment, eyes no longer flitting with artistic distraction but now boring angrily into the cluster of men from the shadow of the crane.
    “The thing is, Mr. Pellam,” the Italian cop continued, “the officer who was shot . . .”
    “He was shot a number of times in the back,” his partner said.
    “God, that’s awful.”
    “. . . said he saw you talking to someone in the car. He—”
    “ He was the one got shot? That policeman? Danny? What was the name?”
    “Donnie Buffett.”
    “That’s terrible. Yeah, I was talking to him. Is he going to be okay?”
    “They don’t know,” the Italian cop said.
    In the thick silence that followed they stared at him. Pellam felt guilty under these gazes. “I didn’t see him. The driver, I mean. I looked. I looked into the car but I wasn’t really talking to him. I was just saying things. It wasn’t like a conversation.”
    “How did you know it was a man?”
    Pellam didn’t speak for a moment. “That’s a good question. I don’t really. I just assumed it was.”
    “You seem pretty sure it was a man,” the WASP said. “You said him .”
    “I was assuming it was a man.”
    The Italian cop said, “It’d just be kind of strange, wouldn’t it, you’re standing a few feet from someone,not to at least see what they were wearing? What their sex was? Whether they were black or white?”
    “I don’t know what’s strange or not, but that’s what happened. It was night—”
    “Adams is lit up like Gateway Park,” the Italian cop said.
    The WASP detective looked at his partner. “All those car accidents. That’s why they put in sodium vapors.”
    “There was glare,” Pellam said. “That was one of the problems. On the windows. I was blinded.”
    “So the fact it was night wasn’t the problem,” said the WASP. “I mean, you said it was night as if you meant it was too dark to see anything. But now what you’re saying is it wasn’t dark at all. It was too bright .”
    “I guess,” Pellam said.
    “What kind of Lincoln was it?”
    “Black.”
    “What kind? ”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Town Car? Continental?”
    “I didn’t notice. I wish I had but I only remember it being big and black.”
    “You’re sure it was black?”
    “Well, it was dark. Navy blue maybe.”
    They asked about license plates, dents, scratches, damage, bumper stickers . . .
    Pellam couldn’t help them.
    The cops fell silent.
    “Do you think I’m lying?”
    “It’s just kind of strange is all we’re saying.”
    “What’s strange?” Pellam rocked on his boot heels.
    “Being so close and all and not seeing anything,” the WASP said. “That’s strange.”
    “It was dark.” Pellam tried to sound as frustrated as they were.
    “And there was a lot of glare,” the Italian added. Sarcastic? Pellman couldn’t tell.
    “Officer Buffett said he saw you talking to whoever was in the car.”
    “I told you, I wasn’t having a conversation with him . . . or her.” Pellam saw, in the distance, the curtain in a window of Sloan’s van pull aside for a moment. A black gap was visible and in that gap Pellam imagined he could see the two tiny, paranoid eyes of an impatient visionary director. He said to the WASP, who though bigger seemed more reasonable, “Look, I’m very busy just now. This is a bad time for this.”
    The blond cop just repeated, “Officer Buffett said you were talking to the driver. What are we supposed to think about that?”
    Pellam sighed. “I was mad. I was just talking to let off steam. I don’t remember what I said. I was muttering.”
    “Why were you mad?”
    “The guy I told you about, the one who got out of the car, bumped into me and I dropped a case of beer.”
    “Why did he do that?”
    “It was an