I said, “Mr. Guzman, we’re charging you with first-degree murder in the death of Dennis Martin.”
“Who?” Guzman said. “Who the hell is that?”
“Dennis Martin,” I said, showing him the ME’s shot of the dead man lying in the foyer of his multimillion-dollar house, blood forming a dark lake around his body.
“I’ve never seen that guy in my life,” Guzman said.
I took out another photo of Dennis Martin. In this shot, Martin was alive and well on a sailboat, his full head of hair blowing back from his handsome features. A pretty redhead by the name of Ellen Lafferty was under his arm.
“Maybe you recognize him alive,” I said.
I thought I saw recognition flicker in Guzman’s eyes. His irises contracted.
“I still don’t know him,” he said. “Look. Ernie. Do I have to sit here, or can I go to my cell?”
I noted the slight Spanish accent, the well-tended hands, the aggression he didn’t bother to hide.
Santana said, “Sergeant, this isn’t evidence. It’s nothing. So, what’s this about? I don’t get it.”
“See if you get it now,” I said. I took out one of Joseph Podesta’s surveillance photos of Ellen Lafferty in a blond wig, sitting in an SUV with Guzman.
The Cuban peered at the picture. Smiled. Said, “Coffee first.”
Hampton sighed. “How do you like it?”
“Con leche,” Guzman said. “No sugar. Served by a topless girl, preferably blond.”
Chapter 112
TEN LONG MINUTES went by. I sat staring across the table at a piece-of-garbage contract killer
while the killer looked at me and smiled. Just as I was ready to get him his damned coffee myself, the door opened and a cop came in, put a paper cup of milky coffee in front of Guzman, adjusted the camera over the door frame, and left.
Guzman took a sip, then turned the photo I’d brought so that he could see it better.
“Very bad quality,” he said.
“Not so bad,” I said. “Our software matched it to your spanking-new mug shot.”
“Okay, I was sitting in a car with a lady. What the hell is that? You want to charge me with being heterosexual? I plead guilty as charged to liking girls. Ernie, do you believe this?”
“Let’s hear them out,” Santana said.
“The woman in this picture is Dr. Candace Martin,” I said. “And she paid you, Mr. Guzman, to kill her husband. I think she’ll be happy to identify you and cut a better deal for herself.”
Sure, I was lying, but that was strictly within the law. Guzman called me on it — as I hoped he would.
“That’s not Candace Martin,” he said.
“This is Dr. Martin, Guzman. The widow Martin. We both know who she is.”
Guzman drank down his coffee, crumpled the paper cup, and said to his lawyer, “I didn’t kill Dennis Martin. They’re screwing with me. I’ll tell them what I know about it if they drop the charges in this attempted rubout.”
“Drop the charges? Are you nuts?” I said. “We’ve got a witness to the shooting. We’ve got photographic evidence linking you to the woman who hired you to do the hit. And we’ve got a dead body. And since we’ve got you for the attempt on the life of Mr. Rinaldi, we’ve got time to fill in the blanks.”
“You should be an actress, lady. You’ve got nothing.”
I took back the pictures, closed the folder, and said, “Gregor Guzman, you’re under arrest for the murder of Dennis Martin. You have the right to remain silent, as your attorney will tell you.”