Insidious
Page 13
Savich said, “Mr. Willig, tell us which Rasmussen hired you and we can make a deal.”
Willig whispered, “I want a lawyer.”
Ben stepped in. “Mr. Willig, do you really want to go away for life this time for this idiot who hired you? And you will, there’s no chance of you getting out of this. We have the .45 Chief’s Special you stole from Mr. James Wyndham’s house in Baltimore, not three days after you were released from Attica. We have the motorcycle you parked behind those bushes two blocks away from the house and the lockbox you had strapped to the back, with your backup ammunition. We have ballistics, eyewitnesses. You’re nailed, going down for the rest of your life. Tell us who paid you and like Agent Savich said, we’ll cut you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
Well, that was a start. Savich said, “I told you, we’ll speak to the prosecutor, maybe he could see his way to reducing your sentence to ten years.”
“Which is much better than a life sentence,” Sherlock added.
“I want full immunity.”
“That’s not going to happen in this universe, and you know it,” Sherlock said. “See, there’s another example of your not thinking straight. Look, you’ve danced at this hoedown before, and you know what happens now. You either go down forever, or you make the deal with us. Last chance.”
“I want full immunity,” he said.
Savich said, “Save yourself, Mr. Willig. How much did Rasmussen pay you?”
There wasn’t a flicker of knowledge in his cold, dark eyes. “I want a lawyer.”
The Rasmussen bait hadn’t worked. Savich didn’t hold out much hope, but he took a last parting shot. “We’ll find him ourselves soon enough. He had to have paid you some of the money by now. Will we find it scattered in some bank accounts? Or will we find it all stashed under your mattress at your apartment?”
Willig was hurting, but when he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard. “I don’t own any motorcycle. I want some morphine and I want a lawyer.”
“Judges don’t like thugs who try to kill cops,” Sherlock said, her voice as hard as his. “And you know what else? You won’t even be able to pay your lawyer, because all that lovely money will be in our evidence locker.”
Ben said. “Very well. Shall I call the public defender?”
“I got money. I want my own lawyer.”
“You mean Rasmussen’s money, don’t you?” Sherlock said. “Is Alexander Rasmussen your lawyer?”
“Nah, he sounds stuck-up and prissy. My lawyer is Big Mort Kendrick.”
Ben Raven knew Kendrick well. He’d made a career out of defending lowlifes like Willig for twenty years. “Fine,” he said. “Without an arm to use, you can’t call him yourself. You want me to get him on the line?”
“Yeah, do it now.”
Willig watched him dial up Kendrick on his cell. When Ben punched off, he said to Willig, “You heard him, said he couldn’t talk right now, but he’ll be here in an hour.” Ben laughed. “I wonder what he’ll say when he hears you tried your pitiful best to murder three people.”
9
* * *
They heard Willig yelling for more morphine as they walked to the elevator. Ben asked, “Are you guys really looking at Alexander Rasmussen trying to murder his own grandmother? Or was that a ploy to get Willig talking?”
“A ploy that didn’t work. But it’s possible.”
Ben gave Savich an assessing look. “A shame Willig didn’t bite. You’ve got quite a mess on your hands, with the Rasmussen name such a huge deal here in Washington. It’s like our own royalty was attacked. I know you’re not surprised that my wife left me a text asking for something she could use no one else could find out quickly. She usually knows better, with all her years in the business, but that’s how excited she is. I told her not to tell her editor, since he’s a powerhouse at the Washington Post and would be after her to do whatever necessary to get a story.”
Savich said, “Can’t blame Callie for trying, Ben. But she has to know the media’s already all over this, gunshots at the Rasmussen mansion in the middle of the afternoon. Everyone who’s tuned in on the news knows about the shooting by now. I’ve told Venus to tell her family to avoid the press entirely, or if cornered keep saying, No comment. Now if Callie can see her way to planting some information we might want someone to know, give me a call.”
Ben said, “I will. Thank the powers above I know how to bribe her.” He grinned. “I’ll wash her hair for her in the shower. She really likes that. Always works.”
Ten minutes later Sherlock and Savich walked out of the hospital lobby to the crowded parking lot.
Savich leaned down, gave her a quick kiss. “I wonder if Ben scrubs her scalp. You really like that.”
“Oh my, yes.”
“Actually, I’ll bet Ben throws in a lot of things.” He cupped her face in his palms, arched a dark eyebrow. “Speaking of showers, you threatened Willig with a bar of soap?”
She gave him a big grin. “Pretty cool visual, don’t you think? A pity it didn’t shake him loose.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Willig himself executed another inmate in that manner.” They were getting into the Porsche when Savich’s cell blasted out Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird. It was Dr. Amick at the forensics lab. Savich listened, thanked him and punched off. “There was arsenic in her blood. They’re still running the tests on her hair to see how long it’s been building up in her system, but I won’t be surprised if the poisoning started three weeks ago, that first time she was ill. So Venus was right.”
Sherlock blew out a breath. “You never doubted her, and neither did I.”
Savich said, “Some of his forensics team is still at the house. He wanted to examine Venus himself, but she insisted on her own doctor, Dr. Filbert, who cleared her after the medics left. She’s still at home.”
“I don’t understand, Dillon,” Sherlock said as the Porsche sped up through a yellow light. “A hit man—no other way to describe Willig—comes right to Venus’s house—in broad daylight—to kill her? It doesn’t make sense to me. How do you go from administering small doses of arsenic, enough to maybe still get away with killing an old lady without drawing attention, to an open assassination attempt? At her home, putting it all over the news? Alerting the cops? Is someone getting desperate?”
Willig whispered, “I want a lawyer.”
Ben stepped in. “Mr. Willig, do you really want to go away for life this time for this idiot who hired you? And you will, there’s no chance of you getting out of this. We have the .45 Chief’s Special you stole from Mr. James Wyndham’s house in Baltimore, not three days after you were released from Attica. We have the motorcycle you parked behind those bushes two blocks away from the house and the lockbox you had strapped to the back, with your backup ammunition. We have ballistics, eyewitnesses. You’re nailed, going down for the rest of your life. Tell us who paid you and like Agent Savich said, we’ll cut you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
Well, that was a start. Savich said, “I told you, we’ll speak to the prosecutor, maybe he could see his way to reducing your sentence to ten years.”
“Which is much better than a life sentence,” Sherlock added.
“I want full immunity.”
“That’s not going to happen in this universe, and you know it,” Sherlock said. “See, there’s another example of your not thinking straight. Look, you’ve danced at this hoedown before, and you know what happens now. You either go down forever, or you make the deal with us. Last chance.”
“I want full immunity,” he said.
Savich said, “Save yourself, Mr. Willig. How much did Rasmussen pay you?”
There wasn’t a flicker of knowledge in his cold, dark eyes. “I want a lawyer.”
The Rasmussen bait hadn’t worked. Savich didn’t hold out much hope, but he took a last parting shot. “We’ll find him ourselves soon enough. He had to have paid you some of the money by now. Will we find it scattered in some bank accounts? Or will we find it all stashed under your mattress at your apartment?”
Willig was hurting, but when he spoke again, his voice was cold and hard. “I don’t own any motorcycle. I want some morphine and I want a lawyer.”
“Judges don’t like thugs who try to kill cops,” Sherlock said, her voice as hard as his. “And you know what else? You won’t even be able to pay your lawyer, because all that lovely money will be in our evidence locker.”
Ben said. “Very well. Shall I call the public defender?”
“I got money. I want my own lawyer.”
“You mean Rasmussen’s money, don’t you?” Sherlock said. “Is Alexander Rasmussen your lawyer?”
“Nah, he sounds stuck-up and prissy. My lawyer is Big Mort Kendrick.”
Ben Raven knew Kendrick well. He’d made a career out of defending lowlifes like Willig for twenty years. “Fine,” he said. “Without an arm to use, you can’t call him yourself. You want me to get him on the line?”
“Yeah, do it now.”
Willig watched him dial up Kendrick on his cell. When Ben punched off, he said to Willig, “You heard him, said he couldn’t talk right now, but he’ll be here in an hour.” Ben laughed. “I wonder what he’ll say when he hears you tried your pitiful best to murder three people.”
9
* * *
They heard Willig yelling for more morphine as they walked to the elevator. Ben asked, “Are you guys really looking at Alexander Rasmussen trying to murder his own grandmother? Or was that a ploy to get Willig talking?”
“A ploy that didn’t work. But it’s possible.”
Ben gave Savich an assessing look. “A shame Willig didn’t bite. You’ve got quite a mess on your hands, with the Rasmussen name such a huge deal here in Washington. It’s like our own royalty was attacked. I know you’re not surprised that my wife left me a text asking for something she could use no one else could find out quickly. She usually knows better, with all her years in the business, but that’s how excited she is. I told her not to tell her editor, since he’s a powerhouse at the Washington Post and would be after her to do whatever necessary to get a story.”
Savich said, “Can’t blame Callie for trying, Ben. But she has to know the media’s already all over this, gunshots at the Rasmussen mansion in the middle of the afternoon. Everyone who’s tuned in on the news knows about the shooting by now. I’ve told Venus to tell her family to avoid the press entirely, or if cornered keep saying, No comment. Now if Callie can see her way to planting some information we might want someone to know, give me a call.”
Ben said, “I will. Thank the powers above I know how to bribe her.” He grinned. “I’ll wash her hair for her in the shower. She really likes that. Always works.”
Ten minutes later Sherlock and Savich walked out of the hospital lobby to the crowded parking lot.
Savich leaned down, gave her a quick kiss. “I wonder if Ben scrubs her scalp. You really like that.”
“Oh my, yes.”
“Actually, I’ll bet Ben throws in a lot of things.” He cupped her face in his palms, arched a dark eyebrow. “Speaking of showers, you threatened Willig with a bar of soap?”
She gave him a big grin. “Pretty cool visual, don’t you think? A pity it didn’t shake him loose.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Willig himself executed another inmate in that manner.” They were getting into the Porsche when Savich’s cell blasted out Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird. It was Dr. Amick at the forensics lab. Savich listened, thanked him and punched off. “There was arsenic in her blood. They’re still running the tests on her hair to see how long it’s been building up in her system, but I won’t be surprised if the poisoning started three weeks ago, that first time she was ill. So Venus was right.”
Sherlock blew out a breath. “You never doubted her, and neither did I.”
Savich said, “Some of his forensics team is still at the house. He wanted to examine Venus himself, but she insisted on her own doctor, Dr. Filbert, who cleared her after the medics left. She’s still at home.”
“I don’t understand, Dillon,” Sherlock said as the Porsche sped up through a yellow light. “A hit man—no other way to describe Willig—comes right to Venus’s house—in broad daylight—to kill her? It doesn’t make sense to me. How do you go from administering small doses of arsenic, enough to maybe still get away with killing an old lady without drawing attention, to an open assassination attempt? At her home, putting it all over the news? Alerting the cops? Is someone getting desperate?”
