Bloody River Blues

cool, conscious decision to move into illegal activities. Crimmins, like the insider traders whom Peterson also loathed, had simply found the profits at his trucking businesses not up to his greed and had expanded into money laundering and other crimes as if that were the next logical step in market expansion
    Nelson, an assistant U.S. Attorney, had reviewed all the sheets of foolscap. He looked into his boss’s adolescent eyes. “It’s dicey.” His voice stoppedabruptly and he immediately regretted the word. Peterson continually told his people not to give soft assessments. He wanted specifics. Yeses and nos. Peterson was renowned for his temper tantrums. But today he was not in the mood to beat up anyone for casual lapses like this. He drank more of his coffee and asked, “What do we know about Crimmins the night of the hit?”
    “He denies it all but hasn’t got an alibi. We didn’t have a tail on him. But there were no phone intercepts in or out for two hours on either side of the shooting. He does have a Lincoln.”
    “Match?”
    “Circumstantial. Both the getaway and Crimmins’s are dark-colored. But there’s no tag or other ID. Not yet.”
    “Crimmins’s got that bodyguard, doesn’t he?”
    “Yep. But he doesn’t match the ID of the gunman.”
    “What about earlier wiretaps?” Peterson wondered. “Was there a syllable that might be taken to suggest Crimmins was ordering a hit? Was there some talk of accidents? Anything about, oh, cleaning house? ”
    There had not been, Nelson reported, as he stroked his young, pink cheek, under which several teeth seemed to chew nervously on his tongue. He added, “But you know how tough surveillance has been. Crimmins makes half his calls from the park and his car phone. And more realistically I’d bet he set the hit up months ago—and told the muscle to just go ahead and do it on his own if he got indicted.”
    A serene Peterson spun in his functional 1960schair and licked a smear of coffee off the side of his cup. Losing the star witness on whom he had pinned so much hope had been such a blow that it transcended simple rage. Besides, a measure of such anger as Peterson might feel had no target other than himself—for acquiescing to Gaudia’s flippant request to keep the U.S. Marshals out of his hair.
    The U.S. Attorney breathed slowly as he looked out over the city. But would Crimmins really have been present at the hit? Why? Maybe they had been meeting. Maybe Crimmins was trying to cut a deal with Gaudia and the talks had turned sour.
    Peterson patted his thighs. He was on a diet. (One of the things that irked him was that he looked like Peter Crimmins, only Crimmins had more hair.) His head turned slowly but powerfully as if it were geared at a very low ratio. “What about the witness? What’s his name? Pellam?”
    “The cops aren’t sharing anything with us.”
    “Pricks,” Peterson spat out. He slapped his leg, feeling the fat reverberate. “One of theirs gets shot and the mayor and commissioner sit on the witness. You know why they do that. For the Post-Dispatch . That’s why they do it. Who’s on him?”
    “Monroe and Bracken. Rousted him good. But he’s not talking.”
    “You’re sure he got a peek?”
    “Yep. No way he could’ve missed him. Impossible.”
    “I think it’s a pay-off.”
    “I think so, too,” Nelson said, though he in fact did not. What he believed was that Crimmins had said simply, “If you talk, I’ll kill you.”
    And Pellam had been struck dumb.
    Peterson said, “Move on it big. Find out everything you can about him.”
    “Who, Crimmins?” Which Nelson realized to his dread was an immensely stupid question. He said quickly, “Oh, you mean Pellam.”
    “Uhm.”
    “Then tell them, Monroe and Bracken . . .” Peterson mused, absently gazing at a wind-up toy on his desk. “Have them beat him up.”
    “What?” Nelson whispered.
    Peterson’s eyes flickered and landed on his assistant’s troubled face. “Figuratively,” he added casually. “ Keep on him, I mean. You knew I meant that, didn’t you?”
    “Figuratively,” Nelson said. “Sure, I knew.”

Chapter 8
    PELLAM REALIZED SUDDENLY that he had known Nina Sassower for twenty-four hours and had no idea what she did for a living.
    “I’m unemployed actually,” she said in response to his question. She was blushing and suddenly appeared very embarrassed. Pellam told her that he’d been in films more than ten years and the majority