“The hatchet, Mr. Flamont. I didn’t know the suspected weapon used in Mr. Logan’s assault had been released to the public.”

Booker swallowed hard enough for Curtis to hear it. He pointed across the table. “You know, I ain’t dumb. Don’t think that gettin’ all NYPD Blue on me is gonna make me fuck up my story.”

“Is that what it is, a story?”

“All’s I know is that’s what I heard.”

Curtis twisted a chewed matchstick between his fingers. He let Booker sweat for a full minute, then said, “You’re full of crap, aren’t you, son?”

“Do what?”

“Mr. Flamont, so far this morning we’ve questioned fourteen of your thirty-seven teammates as to their whereabouts Friday night. To a man we discovered that they all had muddy sneakers just like yours. They also all claimed to have been at the Scagnetti residence playing video games, eating pizza … and keeping a receipt.”

“Right. So there you have it. That receipt’s our alimony.”

“I think you mean alibi.”

“Whatever the fuck. We were at Dougie’s all night, just like we told you. How could we have had anything to do with that bus falling off that damn bridge?”

“Who’s accusing you of having anything to do with that?”

“Huh?”

“What makes you think this interrogation is about the bus accident?”

“Isn’t that … I mean … you just said a minute ago . . .”

“I asked if you knew about the bus accident. I didn’t say that’s what we brought you in here for.”

Booker stood. “Look, I know exactly what you’re trying to do, so you can just cut the—”

“Sit down.” Curtis said coolly.

“Kiss my ass!”

“I said sit down … before I get the dogs.” It was an empty threat, of course, but it succeeded in getting Booker back in the chair. Curtis took a minicassette recorder out of his shirt pocket and placed it on the table between them. “Mr. Flamont, it strikes me as a little strange that you could have been at the Scagnetti house all night, given what’s on this tape, which was delivered to us yesterday afternoon by a Miss Savannah Hickham.”

Booker’s eyes narrowed at the player. “What the fuck’s that?”

“You are acquainted with Miss Hickham, are you not?”

“The hell I am. Never heard of her.”

“I’m sure this tape will jog your memory.”

“Hey, what is this shit? I think I want a lawyer here after all.”

Curtis hit play. Booker listened to ten seconds of the incriminating dialogue before pounding his fists on the table. “That bitch!”

“Watch your mouth, son.”

“That tape don’t prove shit. I was at Dougie’s playing Xbox all damn night.”

“I thought it was Nintendo.”

“Whatever. Anyone who says different can kiss my ass.”

“You were there all night you say?”

“Damn right.”