More Twisted

a history of drugoffenses—had been taken down the hall to Narcotics and the kilo of weed booked into evidence.
    Carnegie had ordered Billy to tell them what was going on but he’d clammed up and refused to say a word. A search of the property and of Muller’s car had yielded no evidence of the Anco loot. He’d gotten a frosty reaction from the Orange County troopers who’d been tailing Muller’s car when Carnegie had raged at them about misidentifying his son as the businessman. (“Don’t recall you ever bothered to put his picture out on the wire, Detective,” one of them reminded.)
    Carnegie now barked to one of the officers sitting at a computer screen, “Get me Jake Muller.”
    “You don’t have to,” an officer said. “He’s right over there.”
    Muller was sitting across from the desk sergeant. He rose and looked in astonishment at Carnegie and his son. He pointed to the boy and said sourly, “So they got you already, Sam. That was fast. I just filled out the complaint five minutes ago.”
    “Sam?” Carnegie asked.
    “Yeah, Sam Phillips,” Muller said.
    “His name’s Billy. He’s my son,” Carnegie muttered. The boy’s middle name was Samuel, and Phillips was the maiden name of the detective’s wife.
    “Your son?” Muller asked, eyes wide in disbelief. He then glanced at what one officer was carrying—an evidence box containing the suitcase, wallet, keys and cell phone that had been found in Muller’s car. “You recovered everything,” he said. “How’s my car? Did he wreck it?”
    Hager started to tell him that his car was fine butCarnegie waved his hand to silence the big cop. “Okay, what the hell is going on?” he asked Muller. “What’d you have to do with my boy?”
    Angry, Muller said, “Hey, this kid robbed me. I was just trying to do him a favor. I had no idea he was your son.”
    “Favor?”
    Muller eyed the boy up and down. “Yesterday I saw him steal a watch from Maxwell’s, over on Harrison Street.”
    Carnegie turned a cold eye on his son, who continued to keep his head down.
    “I followed him and made him give me the watch. I felt bad for him. He seemed like he was having a tough time of it. I hired him to help me out for an hour or so. I just wanted to show him there were people out there who’d pay good money for legitimate work.”
    “What’d you do with the watch?” Carnegie asked.
    Muller looked indignant. “Returned it to the shop. What’d you think? I’d keep stolen merchandise?”
    The detective glanced at his son and demanded, “What did he hire you to do?”
    When the boy said nothing Muller explained. “I paid him to watch my car while I moved a few things out of my house.”
    “ Your house?” the boy asked in shock. “On Tremont?”
    To his father Muller said, “That’s right. I moved into a motel for a few days—I’m having my house painted and I can’t sleep with the paint fumes.”
    The truck in Muller’s driveway, Carnegie recalled.
    “I couldn’t use the front door,” Muller added angrily, “because I’m sick of those goons of yours tailing me every time I leave the house. I hired your son to staywith the car in the alley; it’s a tow zone back there. You can’t leave your car unattended even for five minutes. I dropped off some tools I bought this morning and picked up a few things I needed and we drove to the motel.” Muller shook his head. “I gave him the key to open the door and I forgot to get it when he left. He came back when I was in the shower and ripped me off. My car, my cell phone, money, wallet, the suitcase.” In disgust he added, “Hell, and here I gave him all that money. And practically begged him to get his act together and stay clear of drugs.”
    “He told you that?” Carnegie asked.
    The boy nodded reluctantly.
    His father sighed and nodded at the suitcase. “What’s in there?”
    Muller shrugged, picked up his keys and unlocked and opened the case.
    Carnegie supposed that the businessman wouldn’t be so cooperative if it contained the Anco loot but he still felt a burst of delight when he noticed that the paper bag inside was filled with cash.
    His excitement faded, though, when he saw it held only about three or four hundred dollars, mostly wadded-up ones and fives.
    “Household money,” Muller explained. “I didn’t want to leave it in the house. Not with the painters there.”
    Carnegie contemptuously tossed the bag into the case and angrily slammed the lid.