The Racketeer Page 0,41

asked, hands in the air.

"Where did you get all that cash, Quinn?"

"I'm a drug dealer. I've been a drug dealer most of my life. I've spent time in prison because I'm a drug dealer. We burn cash. We eat cash. Don't you understand this?"

Pankovits was shaking his head. "But, Quinn, according to your story, you were not working much for the family after your escape. They were afraid of you, right? Am I right about this?" he asked, looking at Delocke, who quickly confirmed that, yes, his partner was right about this.

Delocke said, "The family shunned you, so you began making runs down south and back. You say you earned about $46,000, which we now know is a lie, because you spent $24,000 on the Hummer and we found $41,000 in your storage unit."

Pankovits said, "You came across some cash, Quinn. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you lying?"

"Everybody's lying. I thought we all agreed on that."

Delocke tapped the table and said, "Let's go back a few years, Quinn. Your nephew Jakeel Staley is in jail, here in Roanoke, waiting on a trial. You paid his lawyer some amount in cash for legal services, right?"

"Right."

"Was there more cash? A little extra to help grease the system? Maybe a bribe so the court would go easy on the kid? Anything like that, Quinn?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"Come on, Quinn."

"I paid the lawyer in cash. I assumed he kept the money for his fee. That's all I know."

"Who was the judge?"

"I don't remember."

"Does Judge Fawcett ring a bell?"

Quinn shrugged. "Maybe."

"Did you ever go to court with Jakeel?"

"I was there when he was sentenced to eighteen years."

"Were you surprised when he got eighteen years?"

"Yes, matter of fact I was."

"He was supposed to get a lot less, wasn't he?"

"According to his lawyer, yes."

"And you were in court so you could get a good look at Judge Fawcett, right?"

"I was in court for my nephew. That's all."

The tag team paused at the same moment. Delocke took a sip of his Red Bull. Pankovits said, "I need to go to the men's room. You okay, Quinn?"

Quinn was pinching his forehead. "Sure," he replied.

"Get you something to drink?"

"How about a Sprite?"

"You got it."

Pankovits took his time. Quinn sipped his drink. At 4:30, the interrogation was resumed when Delocke asked, "So, Quinn, have you kept up with the news during the past three months? Read any newspapers? Surely you've been curious about your own escape and whether or not it's made the news?"

Quinn said, "Not really."

"Did you hear about Judge Fawcett?"

"Nope. What about him?"

"Murdered, shot twice in the back of the head."

No reaction from Quinn. No surprise. No pity. Nothing.

"You didn't know that, Quinn?" Pankovits asked.

"No."

"Two hollow-point bullets, fired from a .38-caliber handgun identical to the one we found in your trailer. Preliminary ballistics report says there's a 90 percent chance your gun was used to kill the judge."

Quinn began smiling and nodding. "Now I get it, this is all about a dead judge. You boys think I killed Judge Fawcett, right?"

"That's right."

"Great. So we have wasted, what, seven hours with this bullshit. You're wasting my time, your time, Dee Ray's time, everybody's time. I ain't killed nobody."

"Have you ever been to Ripplemead, Virginia, population five hundred, deep in the mountains west of Roanoke?"

"No."

"It's the nearest town to a small lake where the judge was murdered. There are no black people in Ripplemead, and when one shows up, he gets noticed. The day before the judge was murdered, a black man matching your description was in town, according to the owner of a gas station."

"A positive ID, or just a wild guess?"

"Something in between. We'll show him a better photo of you tomorrow."

"I'm sure you will, and I'll bet his memory improves greatly."

"It usually does," Delocke said. "Four miles west of Ripplemead the world comes to an end. The asphalt stops, and a series of gravel roads disappear into the mountains. There's an old country store called Peacock's, and Mr. Peacock sees everything. The day before the murder, he says a black man stopped by asking for directions. Mr. Peacock can't remember the last time he saw a black man in his part of the world. He gave a description. Matches you very well."

Quinn shrugged and said, "I'm not that stupid."

"Really? Then why did you hang on to the Smith & Wesson? When we get the final ballistics report, you're dead, Quinn."

"The gun's stolen, okay? Stolen guns make the rounds. I bought it from a pawnshop in