Killer Ambition - [55]

Bailey opened one eye. “If you don’t give it a rest I’m going to knock you out.”

“Fine. You get your beauty sleep, and I’ll do the thinking. As usual.”

Bailey pressed the call button for a flight attendant. When she appeared, Bailey said, “Would you mind getting her a Bloody Mary? On second thought, make it a double. No, a triple. And hold the tomato juice.”

I sipped my incredibly strong drink and continued to play out the interview in my head until the alcohol kicked in. I didn’t even realize I’d nodded off until Bailey shook me and said we were about to land.

It was nine a.m. when we got to New York, so we took a cab straight to the station where Jack Averly was being held. Detective Abe Furtoni was on hand to meet us. He was dressed in the shirt and blazer that’s standard detective wear, about six feet tall, solidly built, heavy eyebrows just shy of a unibrow, and an olive complexion with a bluish tint around the jaw that said a five o’clock shadow would show up around noon.

We shook hands and Bailey thanked and congratulated him.

“You’ve definitely had me running these past few days,” he said. “But anything I can do to help you put away the sack of shit who killed that little girl.”

He led us back to the lockup, where it was standing room only, with as many as four men crammed into each four-by-six-foot cell. There was a low hum of male voices and an occasional shout. “Gimme my damn phone call!” Or “I want my lawyer!” But I didn’t mind the noise as much as the smell. No matter where you go, all jails have it: that mix of sweat, grime, and urine, interlaced with the ammonia that vainly struggles to overcome it all.

“Do you have an interview room?” Bailey asked.

“We’ve got a room off the captain’s office. It’s actually a conference room, but if they’re not using it, we can have it. I’ll go check.”

We stepped back out and waited. I tried to spot Averly through the window in the door to the lockup, but it was so filmy it was practically opaque, so all I could see were blurry figures. Two minutes later Abe returned.

“It’s ours for the next half hour,” he said and gestured for us to follow him.

It was a very bare room with one long conference table and wooden chairs all around it. A few framed photographs of captains and other officers hung on the wall, some of which were so old they were black and white.

“Why don’t you sit over there?” Abe pointed to the far end of the room. “I’ve got a couple of officers bringing our boy out. They’ll be staying in here with him. I hope that’s okay.”

A few minutes later I heard the clink of chains, and then Averly shuffled into the room. With his hands cuffed to waist chains and his feet linked together by more chains, he was a one-man band. And he looked just like his security photo: wavy brown hair that reached almost to his collar, sharp, ferret-like features, and very thin chapped lips that he licked nervously as his eyes darted between me, Bailey, and Abe.

We introduced ourselves and told him we were investigating the kidnapping and murder of Hayley Antonovich. Abe again advised Averly of his rights and he again waived them.

He replied immediately, “I don’t know anything about any kidnapping or murder.”

That was way too fast. And he looked way too cool. Not good.

“How did you wind up with Hayley’s iPad and Brian’s ID?” I asked. I couldn’t be sure he’d had Brian’s driver’s license, but we knew he’d used one of Brian’s credit cards to buy the plane ticket to Paris, so I surmised that at one time he’d had the rest of Brian’s stuff too. Unfortunately, by the time NYPD grabbed him, he didn’t have anything of Brian’s on him. So I was basically bluffing. But if he didn’t correct me, I’d know I was right.

“I found them.”

Notice he didn’t say, “What ID?”

“How’d you get them?” I asked.

His eyes darted around the table, then settled on a point over my right shoulder. It didn’t take an expert to know that whatever came out of his mouth next would be a lie.

“In a car.” He shrugged. “I guess it was wrong, but it was unlocked, and the stuff was right there on the floor.”

“So you decided to help yourself.” The disdain in my voice made it very clear what I thought of this horseshit story.

“Yeah,” he said with a defiant look. “I figured I could buy myself a free trip and have some fun.”

“Then why didn’t you take that flight to Paris? You bought the ticket, why not go?”

He shrugged. “Changed my mind. Decided I’d rather hang out here for a while.”

“So you wasted the money on a ticket to Paris because…?”

“Why not? Wasn’t my money.”

“So you didn’t know whose iPad it was when you took it?”

“No.”

“But you must’ve realized whose it was when you used it to book the flight to Paris.”

He shrugged again, nonchalant. “Not really. I didn’t care.”

We’d flown all this way just so this asshat could lie-badly-to our faces. “This is complete and total bullshit. You want to try again with something that resembles the truth?” There was no point pussyfooting around with this guy. He wasn’t intimidated, he wasn’t scared, and he wasn’t remorseful. And there was no way he was going to give us anything.