The 9th Judgment (Women's Murder Club 9)

“I understand. I… that’s not my department. What do you want to tell me?”

Vangy asked me to follow her to the laundry room in the basement. When we got there, she turned on a light over the washer and dryer. She put her hands on either side of the dryer and pulled it away from the wall.

She pointed to the exhaust hose, a four-inch-wide flexible tube that vented hot air from the dryer to the outside.

“That’s where he hid it,” she told me. “I heard it rattle. I think what you’re looking for is in there.”

Chapter 107

WE WERE IN Interview Room Number Two, the larger of our interrogation spaces, the one with the better electronics. I’d checked the camera and made sure the tape was rolling before bringing Dowling in and offering him the chair facing the glass.

I wanted a full confession—for me, for Conklin, for Yuki, and for Red Dog Parisi. I wanted swift and certain justice for Casey Dowling. And I wanted to close the case for Jacobi.

Dowling had buttoned his shirt and put on a jacket, and he looked completely in control. I had to admire his cool, since his gun was in a clear plastic evidence bag on the table.

Conklin, too, looked completely at ease. I thought he was doing his best not to grin. He’d earned the right, but I wasn’t doing high fives just yet. Dowling loved himself so much, he’d probably convinced himself that no one could touch him.

“My lawyer is on the way,” Dowling said.

There was a knock on the door. I opened it for Carl Loomis, a ballistics tech at the crime lab. I pointed to the bagged gun, and he picked it up, turned to Dowling, and said, “I really enjoy your work, Mr. Dowling.”

“Loomis, the ballistics test is top priority,” I said.

“You’ll have the results in an hour, Sergeant,” he said as he took the evidence bag out of the room.

I turned to Dowling, who was showing me how nonchalant he was by leaning back in his chair, rocking on its hind legs.

“Mr. Dowling, I want to make sure you understand your situation. When the lab fires your gun, the test bullet is going to match the slugs removed from your wife’s body.”

“So you say.”

Conklin said, “Believe this guy? Let’s just book him on suspicion of murder. We’ve got him. He’s done.”

“Tell us what happened,” I said to Dowling. “If you save us the time and cost of a trial, the DA will take your cooperation into consideration—”

“Oh. Cross your heart?”

“Just so you know, the DA goes home at five. That’s in fifteen minutes. Your window to make a deal is closing fast.”

Dowling snorted derisively, and Conklin laughed.

He went out of the room and came back with three containers of coffee, making a big show of adding milk and sugar to his cup, all the while humming the theme song from Night Watch. It was a catchy little ditty that had made the charts even when Dowling and Cushing’s shoot-’em-up movie had bombed.

I saw something come over Dowling’s face as Richie hummed. The nonchalance evaporated. The chair legs came down. Seemed to me that hearing that tune had focused Dowling as nothing else had.

Chapter 108

DOWLING’S CELL PHONE rang. He looked at the caller ID, opened the phone, and said, “Peyser? Where are you? What are you doing? Walking here?”

Dowling paused for his lawyer’s response, then said, “You’re useless. Useless.” He snapped the phone shut and looked at his watch. It was five on the nose.

“Call the DA. I’m talking to you of my own free will,” Dowling said. “I have nothing to hide. Do I need something in writing from you or the DA?”

“Nope,” I said. I pointed to the camera in the corner over my head. “You’re on the record.”

Dowling nodded. He was on camera. A place he liked to be.

“I lied to protect Casey’s reputation,” he said. “Casey found out that I had a girlfriend. She pulled the gun on me. I wrestled it out of her hands, and the gun went off.”