Chapter 45
PENDERGAST HADN’T SHOWED UP at the meeting they were supposed to have had the evening before.
Just blew it off, going instead to some ridiculous black-tie affair.
As a result, Chambers had not been able to rope his partner into coming along to pay a visit to Lucius Mabley, his prime suspect.
But that was okay with him: Chambers was tired of Pendergast and his argumentative, superior ways.
In contrast, Fleury was an easygoing and compliant partner who put up with Chambers’s shit while dishing out very little of his own.
He was about to tell himself to stuff the sentimental bullshit when he realized that was the wrong attitude. Better to be grateful for what he—what they—had had. Easier said than done, but he was working on it.
He didn’t expect much from this first interview with Mabley, but it would give him a chance to assess the guy, get a feeling for him, see whether he was the kind of man who would order a hit on someone.
They arrived, turning onto Clifton Avenue. It was a nice neighborhood, perhaps a bit run down, but set alongside a bluff with amazing views of the river below. They were early, so Chambers asked Fleury to pull over to the side of the road and wait. It was seven minutes to nine.
“Killer view,” said Fleury.
“Yeah. I wonder what these houses cost.” Chambers looked around. “Some look a little ramshackle, but the view is a million bucks.” He glanced at Fleury. The guy was so eager. “I’m going to do the questioning, okay? When I’m done, if there’s anything you want to ask, go ahead.”
“Yes, sir.” Fleury swallowed. “May I ask, sir, what the routine is going to be? I mean, are we going to do the good-guy, bad-guy thing?”
Chambers shook his head. “No. Someone like Mabley would see through that in a flash. We’re just here to take stock. Best thing is to start out nice and friendly, then narrow the questioning. Just follow my lead.”
“Right, sir.”
Chambers had liked the frequent “sir” in the beginning, but now it was starting to wear thin.
He had the creeping sense Fleury wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box.
Still, he was a lot better than being showered with Pendergast’s deductions, quips, and affectations—or, on the other hand, interminable enigmatic silences.
When nine o’clock rolled around, Chambers started the car and drove up in front of the house. They parked and walked up to the door, rang the bell. Low chimes sounded inside. A moment later, a woman in a crisp domestic uniform answered.
“Mr. Mabley is expecting you.”
They entered the house. It wasn’t shabby inside, but it wasn’t a rich man’s digs, either—more like tasteful upper middle class.
They followed the domestic into the living room, furnished with a nice cherry coffee table, some comfortable sofas and chairs, shelves with real books on them, a rubber plant in the corner, and some Chagall prints on the walls.
All in all, not really a mobster’s digs. But you never could tell.
A moment later a man came in, wheeling himself in a wheelchair. Despite the chair, he radiated strength: stony face, shock of thick black hair swept back, pale-blue eyes. Chambers wondered what had happened. He knew Mabley was only forty—perhaps a stroke.
Chambers proffered his badge. “Mr. Mabley, thank you for seeing us. I’m Agent Chambers, and this is Agent Fleury.”
“Sure. What’s it about? More news on Nick’s murder?” His voice was gravelly and broadcast a no-nonsense attitude.
Chambers slipped out a handheld cassette machine. “May we record?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Right.” Chambers put it away. “So, I’m assuming you heard the news—that your brother was the victim of a serial killer?”
“I certainly did. I mean, back when I first heard about it, I told the sheriff it wasn’t a mob killing, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Why didn’t you think it was a mob killing? It had all the earmarks of one.”
“First of all, damn it, because we’re not mobsters!” His voice rose. “Is everyone in the cigarette vending business a criminal?”
Chambers hesitated. “Yes, I believe they are,” he finally said.
Mabley stared at him and then laughed. “You’re a funny guy. Okay, fine. But here’s the thing: the whole setup of the murder was fake. The torturing of Nick wasn’t serious; it wasn’t how wiseguys do it. It was all superficial—for show.”
“Did you or your brother know of, or have any contact with, Parker Wickman before the killing?”
“Was that the guy’s name—Wickman? Piece of shit.
Not me. And I’m pretty sure Nick didn’t, either.
When I heard the news about him, I couldn’t believe it.
It doesn’t make sense. I mean, serial killers target the weak and defenseless—right?
My brother was in great shape. He carried a piece.
He was alert. I couldn’t—I can’t—believe a serial killer could’ve gotten the drop on him.
Why would this Wickman have even considered him a target?
With all the slope-shouldered girlie men wandering around, why go after a guy like Nicky? ”
“That’s a good question. We don’t have an answer on that yet.”
“You should look into it.”
Chambers tried to move the interview back on track. “So when you heard about Wickman, what was your reaction?”
“The sheriff sent some dipshit over here to tell us the news. He asked a few questions, but he didn’t seem too interested.”
“And when you heard your brother was the victim of a serial killer, what was your reaction?”
“I wanted to find out who the guy was and kill him.”
“Really? You wanted to kill him?”
“Hell, yes! Wouldn’t you? But that fire got him first. Good riddance—the bastard.”
“Did you know that the person who killed Wickman cut off his arm, just as Wickman cut off the arms of his victims?” This, along with Wickman’s name, hadn’t been reported in the papers, and Chambers wanted to see his reaction.
At this, Mabley’s heavy eyebrows rose. “Good for them.”
“It means whoever killed him knew he was a serial killer who cut off people’s arms. In other words, Wickman’s killer knew who he was before law enforcement identified him.”
At this Mabley looked at him steadily. “Okay, so now I get why you’re here. You think it was me or someone in my family. We found him ourselves—and killed him for revenge.”
“We’re looking into the possibility,” he said, careful not to react to this observation, “that a family member or friend of one of the victims was able to identify Wickman and took action on their own. Understandable, when you think about it.” He tried to sound sympathetic.
Mabley pondered a moment, his craggy forehead creasing. “You know,” he said, “Wickman probably was killed by someone as payback. Let me ask you a question: in addition to having his arm cut off, what else did they do to him?”
“You mean, how did they kill him?”
“Yeah. And what did they do before they killed him?”
Chambers decided to tell the truth. “They killed him while he was under anesthesia, by cutting off his flow of air or something similar.”
Mabley nodded. “And before that?”
“Nothing.”
“So they cut off his arm while he was asleep?”
“No, they cut it off after he was dead.”
“Just to make sure I have this right: they put him under, and then suffocated him while he was under anesthesia?”
“That’s what the ME determined.”
At this, Mabley laughed again: a big, booming sound. “Agent Chambers, right there you have proof I didn’t do it.”
“And what proof is that?”
“The way you describe it, Wickman’s killer offed him as sweetly as if he were dying in a hospice.
If I’d gotten my hands on him, I’d have tortured the motherfucker within an inch of his life.
I would’ve made his last moments a perfect hell on earth.
And most of all, I would have cut off his arm while he was wide awake—and could appreciate the message. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point?”