Both of them using a mocking tone. Wohr had instincts. “Something wrong with that?”
Moe said, “What's wrong with that is we're not dope cops.”
“Uh-uh, no way, I can't give you sex stuff,” said Wohr, lying effortlessly. “Don't know about that, not my thing.”
“Don't want to rat out other pedos?”
“I'm not a-I don't know that stuff, sir. Like you said before, it's human need, I mind my own business.”
“Sticking mostly to peeping, huh?”
Head shake. “I'm not saying that, either. I just don't know that stuff.”
“So the way you look at it,” said Moe, “it's all victimless-a business transaction, who cares how a guy gets off.” He slapped his forehead. “Oh, yeah, judges and juries care. But guess what? I don't. And neither does Detective Connor.”
Moe leaned in close, fighting to keep his nostrils open after a cloud of Wohr's reek blew his way. The stink of jail and fear and poor personal habits.
“We're not sex cops, either, Ramone.”
Wohr's eyes swung wide to the left. “What are you?”
“We're murder cops.”
Wohr's head snapped up and back as he tried to retreat as far as possible from Moe. The way they'd tucked his chair into the corner meant he wasn't going anywhere.
“Aw, man.”
“You keep saying that, Ramone. Like it's some prayer, going to get you redeemed.”
Wohr lowered his head to his lap, clasped both hands behind his own neck. “No, no, that I really don't do.”
Moe waited.
Wohr looked up.
“Hear that, Detective Connor?”
Petra slipped her cell into her purse. “Uh-uh, sorry, what?”
“Mr. Wohr says he really doesn't do murder.”
Ramone said, “Nope, man-sir-ma'am. Someone told you that, they're lying.”
“Who would tell us that?”
Eye-dance. “No one.”
“Why would anyone tell us that, Ramone?”
“No reason-they wouldn't.”
“They, meaning…”
“No one.” Wohr folded scrawny arms across his chest.
Moe turned to Petra. “Remember what they taught us about guys who like little girls? It's all about power and control. And we know the same thing goes for murder. Especially sicko murder.” Back to Wohr: “No bigger power-trip than being in charge when the lights go out.”
Ramone's hands shot out palms-forward. “No way, no, no, no.”
Moe sighed.
Petra's knowing smile was perfect: You believe this guy?
Ramone W scratched his head, then his arms, rocked a bit. “Aw, man. Gimme paper and a pen, I'll write you a book on dope-you can trade it to the dope cops, you give 'em something, they give you something, everyone walks away happy.”
Petra said, “You've got an interesting view of police work.”
“Hey-ma'am, everything gets traded.”
“Guess that's true,” said Moe. “Including human life.”
When Wohr didn't answer, he went on: “Everything's got a price. Everyone. Some lives are expensive, some lives are cheap. Cheap lives get traded away easy so expensive lives can continue. Experienced individual such as yourself knows which is which.”
“Aw, man, I don't know nothing about that, you want that there's all sorts of guys right here who can tell you good stuff, just walk over to general pop and say tell me about that. Not me, sir, no way, no.”
Long speech. It took Wohr's breath away and he sat back, trying to regain wind.
Moe said, “Expensive lives, cheap lives.” A beat. “Guess Adella Villareal's life was pretty cheap.”
Wohr sat there. Not moving, not blinking. None of the eye-calisthenics Moe had expected.
Could I be that wrong?
“That name's not familiar to you, Ramone?”
Wohr let out a long, raspy sigh. Now his eyes were bobbling, like floats on a trout line. Scratching hard enough to raise welts on his arms. He forced the eyes still, but the resulting stare-scared, frozen-was the biggest giveaway of all.
Yes!
Moe said, “Adella and Gabriel. Tiny little baby. A tiny life means super-cheap in your world?”
Wohr buried his face in his hands. Rocked some more.
“Cheap lives,” said Moe. “We know a lot.”
Wohr's fingers spread, revealing runny eyes. “That was not me, sir.”
“That?”
“What happened.”
“What happened? Like we're talking about a something, not a someone? A what, not a who? This is a mommy and a baby we're discussing, Ramone. Human beings. They got murdered and we know who did it and we know you're involved.”
Wohr's eyes rounded and for a bizarre instant, terror made the old dope fiend look young, almost child-like-still vulnerable to surprise. A second later, the old weariness/wariness returned and the guy was squinting-first at Moe, then Petra. Figuring the odds.
Moe said, “You can help yourself, Ramone.”
“How much can I help myself?”
“What do you mean?”
Sly smile. “Business transaction. What's the deal?”
“I'm not going to lie to you, friend, 'cause that would be wasting everyone's time. And you've been around long enough to know reality. Anything official is up to the D.A. But we're murder cops, the D.A. listens to us.”
“Misdemeanor,” said Wohr. “No jail time?”
“On what?”
“Delishus.”
Meaning he wasn't worried about his involvement in murder. Or was the mope that clever?
Moe said, “Detective Connor?”
Petra said, “Theoretically, if two murders get cleared, I can't see any problem with that.”
Moe said, “Clearing three murders would be even better.”
“No doubt,” said Petra.
“Three?” said Ramone. Confusion clouded the mope's face.
Uh-oh.
Moe made the plunge. “Caitlin Frostig.”
“Who?” Not a hint of evasiveness in the squinty eyes. Real confusion.
“Caitlin Frostig,” said Moe. “Adella's babysitter. Pretty blond girl.”
Wohr said, “Oh, her.”
“You know her.”
“I seen her once, maybe twice. She also got killed?”
“Is that a real question, Ramone?”
“Yes, sir, yes, yes, yes, sir-I met her once. Coming to pick up Addie, like you said, Addie's going out, that girl's there with the baby. One, two times is all-yeah, it was two. That's it, sir. She got dead, I don't know about it.”
“But you do know about a dead mommy. And a dead baby,” said Moe, remembering the Reverend Wohr's account of his brother's cold attitude toward the infant. “Little, tiny baby with a name. Gabriel. Like the angel. Now he is a little angel, Ramone.”
Wohr didn't respond.
“Dead baby, dead mommy, dead babysitter, Ramone. Quite a scoreboard for a guy who doesn't know about stuff like that.”
Wohr's bony butt levitated out of the chair and for a second Moe thought he'd need to restrain the idiot. But Wohr sank down heavily, hugged himself, shook his head. Tugged at his cheeks.
“You're in it for triple murder, Ramone.”
“Oh, Jesus God.”
“Maybe you're not that bad of a person,” said Moe. “Maybe it really bothers you.”
“Aw, man-you should-in here.” Slapping his forehead. “Bad pictures, sir. Even though I never actually seen nothing.”
“Pictures of what?”
“You know.”
“Tell me, Ramone.”
“Dead people. I worked hard at turning them off. The pictures.”
“Trying to switch the channel.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Did getting paid to forget help, Ramone?”