He hung up, said to me, “Narcs busted a crack whore last night. She was carrying a twenty-two registered to Neil Pincus. They’re holding her for us.”
We drove to the nondescript station house, a former Roto- Rooter plant taking up a quarter of a block on Potrero at Eighteenth. We took the stairs to the third floor at a run.
Skip Wilkinson met us at the gate.
He walked us back to the observation room, where we could see the suspect through the one-way mirror. She was a young black female, bony, dressed in threadbare jeans and
a filthy pink baby-doll top. Her blond weave was coming loose, and judging from her fidgety stare and her shakes, I figured she’d had a bad night in lockup and was in need of a fix.
Wilkinson said, “That’s Lawanda Lewis, age seventeen. Here’s her sheet.”
I read, “Two arrests for prostitution. This is her first drug arrest. You’re looking at her for homicide?”
Anything was possible, but I didn’t see it.
“Did you catch her address?” Wilkinson asked me, stabbing the rap sheet with his finger. “It’s on Cole Street. That’s Bagman’s house.
“She lived there. Maybe she still does. Anyway, she was one of his girls. She could be your doer. Take your shot,” said Wilkinson.
It was one of those can’t-believe-it moments.
That do-gooder attorney Neil Pincus lied when he said he didn’t own a gun. Then he said it was stolen. I thought that was a lie, too, but I never expected his gun to turn up.
I was wrong.
Chapter 107
CONKLIN AND I walked into the interrogation room, Conklin pulling out a chair for me, showing what a gentleman he was. I sat and so did he, and the girl tried to get small in her chair as Conklin told her our names.
“Lawanda,” he said nicely, “is this right? You used to sell drugs for Bagman?”
The girl stared down at the table, picked polish off her nails, didn’t look up at all.
Conklin said, “Look, we don’t care about the drugs. We know what kind of life you were living with him. We know how he used you.”
“Bagman treated me fine.”
“Is that right? So you had no reason to kill him?”
“Kill him? Me? I didn’t kill him. No, no, no. Not me.”
We had no proof that Lawanda Lewis had used the gun or even that Neil Pincus’s weapon had killed Rodney Booker.
The slugs lodged inside Bagman’s head were so soft and so fragmented, they could never be matched to anything. But I was sure Lawanda Lewis couldn’t know that.
“I have to tell you, Lawanda,” I said, “you’re in very serious trouble. Your gun was used to kill Bagman. Unless you give us reason to think otherwise, you’re going down for his murder.”
Lawanda Lewis sprang up from the chair, squatted against the wall in the corner of the room, and covered her head with her hands. She was in withdrawal to the max. In a minute, she’d be screaming, foaming at the mouth.
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t kill anyone!”
“That gun says different,” Conklin said.
“I need something. I’m dying.”
“Talk first, then we’ll get you fixed up.”
As Lawanda crouched in the corner, rocking and wailing, I was running the crime in my head, trying to put it together.