CHAPTER 12

 

Vincent was determined to think positive as he left the hospital. Jin would be fine, and that was the most important part. He and Lara would find Ignazio in time. She hunted people down as her job all the time, so this would be a simple task for her. He wasn’t exactly sure how she did it, but he knew he could trust in her expertise. He’d find Lo, and perhaps he could even help him reconcile with his mother. He could take over Vincent’s job at the restaurant, so Vincent could…

Work with Lara? Travel around the world, and hope that his angel of death abilities happened to help with her bounty hunting? He wasn’t exactly sure how that would work, but that didn’t stop him from daydreaming about the idea in general as he hunted for his car. He could have sworn that he parked in the second row, but he didn’t see his scrubby little sedan anywhere. All these SUVs and giant mega-cars dwarfed it; he probably wouldn’t be able to see the car until he was right on top of it. That was the way it usually went.

The car wasn’t in the second row, and he started to have that nagging feeling of worry that usually began to creep in when he couldn’t find his car. He didn’t think he was overreacting; other people had to feel like this. First, there was that confused moment where he walked out to where he thought the car was. Then the craning of the head as he scanned one row in each direction just in case he’d counted wrong. Then the back track. Then, when none of those things worked, the worry came in. He could swear that he’d parked there. Maybe someone had stolen the car. Maybe he’d parked illegally, and now the car had been towed, and how in the heck was he going to get it back? Lara had already left while he was getting instructions from Jin on the things she’d like him to bring her from home.

Just as he was really starting to get worked up, he spotted the car, three rows over and not even remotely where he thought it had been. It figured.

As he walked over to it, he realized that the car next to it was occupied, the windows rolled down. He tended to be cautious about people in cars. Once, when he was delivering a big order to a rough part of town, he’d gotten robbed. They’d tried, anyway, but he hadn’t gotten paid for the food yet, and he only had two dimes in his pockets. The guy with the gun had shot him a look of pity, which seemed somehow offensive. But it wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat, and he knew that sometimes criminals waited in cars and attacked while their mark was looking for their keys.

He needn’t have worried. The person in the car turned out to be the police detective. Papadopoulos. As Vincent approached, he opened the door and stood up. Although Vincent wasn’t exactly happy to see him and his uncomfortable questions, he couldn’t deny that the officer had been a huge help. He was good in a crisis, and he wasn’t afraid of death—that would have been ironic—but his emotions had gotten the best of him and Detective Papadopoulos had stepped in to help.

“Thanks for helping out my boss,” he said, thrusting his hand out toward the detective. “I really appreciate it. She’s a good person.”

The detective looked a bit startled, but he recovered quickly, shaking Vincent’s hand. “How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Stable. They’ll keep her for a couple of days, they said. They’re talking about doing some minor surgery to help keep this from happening again. I don’t really know the details, though.”

Detective Papadopoulos nodded, rubbing his chest. “Had the same thing myself. She’ll be okay.”

“That’s kind of you to say. I hope your health is better now too.”

The detective tilted his head, studying him. “Either you’re the best conman I’ve ever seen, or you really are a good guy.”

Vincent blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I honestly believe you mean everything you’re saying,” said the detective. “So I really hope that this is all a formality.”

“What do you mean?” asked Vincent cautiously.

“I’d like you to come down to the station to answer a few questions. Would you be willing to do that?”

Detective Papadopoulos was watching him closely with those keen eyes of his, and it gave Vincent pause. What exactly was going on here? He wasn’t sure.

“Am I suspected of a crime?” he asked cautiously. “I thought the guy died of a heart attack.”

“We’re waiting on toxicology reports to confirm it, but that’s what it looks like. Still, I’ve got to look into it. The guy’s got all kinds of twisted stuff on his computer, and a receipt with your name on it. You were the last one to see him. What if you knew what he was doing—found out somehow—and decided to put an end to it? You wouldn’t be the first vigilante killer I’ve seen, and you probably won’t be the last.”

Vincent took a moment, trying to keep his face calm and blank. A vigilante killer. Was that what he was? He killed to stop wrongs, but it wasn’t like he chose them. He just chose to listen to the voice, because horrible things happened when he didn’t. Did that absolve him of guilt, or was he exactly what Detective Papadopoulos had said? He wasn’t sure, but this certainly wasn’t the time for a crisis of conscience.

“I wouldn’t have any idea how to fake a heart attack,” he said honestly after a moment. “I don’t even watch those crime shows on TV, and I imagine they aren’t very realistic anyway.” The detective rolled his eyes, and Vincent almost laughed before he realized maybe it wouldn’t look good. “So if there’s a vigilante, it isn’t me. But maybe I noticed something that could help you. So I’ll come.”

The detective nodded. “Normally, you’d ride with me in my car, but I don’t want to strand you without a ride during a crisis. You need to stop anywhere urgently for your boss?”

Vincent thought quickly. “If I could swing by the restaurant and put up a sign, that would be smart. I forgot to do it earlier. I was too worried about Jin to think straight.”

“I’ll follow you to the restaurant, and then you can follow me to the station,” offered Papadopoulos.

“Sure thing.”

Vincent got in his car and took extra care pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street. It wouldn’t do to break the traffic laws with a cop on his tail. Could detectives write traffic tickets? He didn’t know, but he was determined to appear as meek and law abiding as possible. Definitely not the kind of guy who had visions of the criminal that had been found dead in his apartment. That kind of guy wouldn’t follow the traffic laws at all.

Everything would be fine. He’d answer the detective’s questions and get him off his back. Then they’d find Ignazio. And then, although it would hurt, he would leave Las Vegas. If Lara could hook him up with a job, that would be ideal. And if not, he would do as he always had. Start somewhere new. Wait for the visions to show him how to make a difference. This situation with Levante might be inconvenient, but it was a confirmation that the voice was steering him right. If the stuff on Levante’s computer was half as bad as he imagined, he’d done the world a service by killing him.

He pulled into the lot outside the restaurant and hurried inside to post a sign. This wouldn’t take long. Everything would be fine. It was a constant internal mantra running in his head, and it was dead wrong.

 

Detective Papadopoulos had kept him waiting for at least a half hour in the interrogation room. He’d dropped Vincent off with an apologetic smile, explaining that they had to talk in this room because that was where the recording equipment was, and he wanted to make sure to get any clues that Vincent might provide on the record. At least he’d provided coffee first, but he’d forgotten the sugar. Vincent was so desperate that he’d drank it anyway. In all the chaos, the only thing he’d eaten were the snacks that Lara had brought, and now he was regretting it. He wasn’t quite at the stage where he wanted to bang on the one way mirror and demand food, but he might get there if Detective Papadopoulos took much longer. Where had he gone?

As if summoned by magic, the door opened and the detective stepped through. He carried a small paper plate with a donut on it, and Vincent almost leaped to his feet and hugged the man before he realized that maybe the pastry wasn’t for him. Maybe Papadopoulos had brought it from home or something, and demanding to have it would be rude. Vincent was determined to be as polite and upstanding as he could be, just to prove that of course he’d had nothing to do with the death of Maurice Levante.

But the detective held the plate out toward Vincent with arched brows. “You want one?” he asked. “I thought you might appreciate a snack to go with the coffee.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Vincent took the plate and helped himself to a nice big bite of the glazed dough. It wasn’t warm, but it was fresh, and that was enough for him. “I already killed the coffee, though. I don’t want to be a trouble, but is there any way I could get a refill?”

“How about we run through these questions really quickly, and then we’ll fill you up on the way out?” suggested the detective.

“Sounds good to me. What do you need to know?”

“Tell me about the delivery. Walk through it step by step. No detail is too small.”

Detective Papadopoulos sat down, opening his little notebook and setting a pen beside it. But he didn’t write anything down as Vincent told his story. It was all probably being recorded anyway, so the notebook seemed silly. Like a prop in a movie, never to be used. But Vincent didn’t care so long as he got through this questioning in one piece.

He told the detective everything he could remember about that night. He remembered Levante’s call in particular because he’d been waiting for it. The voice had shown him a vision of Levante six days earlier, and usually there wasn’t such a gap between his visions and the appearance of the mark. So he’d been particularly eager to get the order, with Levante’s distinctive choppy speech patterns. He described it all quite clearly, and maybe too much so, because Detective Papadopoulos remarked, “Do you remember all of your customers this clearly, Mr. Malone? Because your memory is quite remarkable.”

Vincent froze for a moment but recovered quickly. “I don’t get much human interaction. I’m a bit of an introvert. Usually, the people I talk to at work are the only ones I talk to all day, so they’re pretty memorable. And Levante was particularly so.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, he made me uncomfortable. I know it seems convenient for me to say that, knowing what I know about him now, but it’s true. Sometimes I get customers like that. There’s this lady who lives with about fifteen cats, and she always orders shrimp with garlic sauce, and she makes me feel the same way. So I can tell you everything about my most recent delivery to her, because she puts me on my guard.”

Papadopoulos nodded, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “Can you think of anything in particular that made you feel this way about Maurice Levante?”

Vincent actually took a moment to think about this one. It was a question that he’d asked himself many times before. He’d delivered to Levante a few times before the voice had pointed him out, and when he’d realized who it was, he hadn’t been surprised. But what exactly had cued him in to the fact that all wasn’t right with Levante? He wasn’t entirely sure now, and he hadn’t been then either, but he had to say something.

“Honestly, I don’t really know,” he said. “He never did anything strange. I’ve had people invite me inside or offer me drugs, but he never did any of those things. He didn’t try and strike up long rambling conversations or make a pass at me. He just gave me the money and took the food. But…maybe it was something in the way he looked at me.”

Detective Papadopoulos arched his brows and gestured for him to go on.

“Like, most people show emotions when you show up. They might be angry if you’re later than they wanted you to be, or if you didn’t bring enough soy sauce, or whatever. They might be excited to spend a night in with their boyfriend or their Netflix. They usually have something going on, you know? But I don’t think he ever showed emotion. Or…maybe he looked at me without emotion. Like I was just a thing that brought the food instead of a person.”

He trailed off, aware that he’d been rambling. Had he gone too far in his effort to justify his actions? The more he thought about it, though, the more he realized he was right. Levante had had dead eyes, from the first time Vincent had delivered to his house. They were the eyes of a man who could do anything and feel nothing. Vincent couldn’t help it. He shivered at the thought, knowing that Papadopoulos wouldn’t miss it. Maybe that was a good thing.

It seemed so, because Papadopoulos said, “Well, I think you’ve given us everything you can about Maurice Levante. I appreciate the help, Mr. Malone. Like I said, we’ve got a tox screen pending, and it’s probably nothing but given the sensitive nature of his crimes, I need to be thorough. I hope you understand and won’t mind letting me know if you intend to leave town.”

“I will. I may end up having to go elsewhere to get work, depending on what happens with the restaurant.”

The detective nodded and watched him as he stood up, shoving the rest of the forgotten donut in his mouth. He’d gotten distracted by all the questions and forgot to eat it. Now that the stress was over, though, his hunger returned with a vengeance.

“One more thing I forgot to ask,” said the detective, leaning toward him on his elbows. “Do you know the name Felicia Garvey?”

Vincent frowned, thinking it over. “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“She also had a heart attack, about three months ago. She was found clutching a delivery receipt with your name on it.”

Vincent tried to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. Papadopoulos had been sitting on this news the whole time, pretending that this interview was just a formality and waiting to see whether he’d dig himself into a hole. But not, the detective leaned forward as if he was sensing blood in the water. His alert eyes locked on Vincent’s, and it took all of his self-control not to blanch.

“That seems like an awfully big coincidence, doesn’t it?” asked Papadopoulos mildly.