The Woods (Page 57)

“To talk.”

“How did you find me?”

I ignored the question. “I saw your face at the morgue. Why are you lying about Gil?”

His eyes narrowed. “Who you calling a liar?”

The other men stared at me a little harder.

“Maybe we could talk in private.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“You know that my sister disappeared that night, right?”

He turned away from me and grabbed his beer. His back was to me when he said, “Yeah, I know.”

“That was your son in the morgue.”

He still kept his back to me.

“Mr. Perez?”

“Get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The other men, tough men, men who had spent their lives working outdoors and with their hands, glared at me. One slid off his bar stool.

“Sit down,” I said to him.

He didn’t move. I met his eyes and held it. Another man stood and folded his arms at me.

“Do you know who I am?” I said.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my prosecutor badge. Yes, I have one. The truth is, I am the top law-enforcement officer for Essex County. I didn’t like being threatened. Bullies piss me off. You know the old yarn about standing up to a bully? It was only true if you could back it up. I could.

“You all better be legal,” I said. “Your family better be legal, your friends better be legal. People you accidentally bump into on the streets—they all better be legal.”

The narrow eyes opened a little wider.

“Let me see some ID,” I said. “All of you.”

The one who had stood first put up his hands. “Hey, we don’t want no trouble.”

“Then get lost.”

They threw down some bills and left. They didn’t run, didn’t hurry, but they didn’t want to stick around either. I would normally feel bad about making idle threats, quasi-abusing my power like that, but they had more or less asked for it.

Perez turned to me, clearly unhappy.

“Hey,” I said, “what’s the point of carrying a badge if I don’t use it?”

“Haven’t you done enough?” he asked me.

The bar stool next to him was open. I took it. I signaled for the bartender and ordered a draft of “whatever he’s having,” pointing to Jorge Perez’s mug.

“That was your son in the morgue,” I said. “I could show you the proof, but we both know it.”

He drained his beer and signaled for another. It arrived with mine. I picked up my mug as though to offer a toast. He just looked at me and kept his beer on the bar. I took a deep sip. The first sip of beer on a hot day is like that first finger-dip when you open a new jar of peanut butter. I enjoyed what could only be called God’s nectar.

“There are two ways to play it,” I went on. “You keep pretending it’s not him. I’ve already ordered a DNA test. You know about those, don’t you, Mr. Perez?”

He looked out over the crowd. “Who doesn’t anymore?”

“Right, I know. CSI, all those cop shows on TV. So you know it won’t be a problem for us to prove that Manolo Santiago was Gil.”

Perez took another sip. His hand shook. His face had fault lines now. I pressed on.

“So the question is, once we prove it’s your son, what happens? My guess is, you and your wife will try to peddle some ‘gasp!—we had no idea’ crap. But that won’t hold. You start off looking like liars. Then my people start investigating for real. We check all the phone records, all the bank records, we knock on doors, we ask your friends and neighbors about you, we ask about your children—”

“Leave my children out of it.”

“No way,” I said.

“That’s not right.”

“What’s not right is you lying about your son.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Like hell I don’t. My sister was in those woods that night too.”

Tears filled his eyes.

“I’ll go after you, your wife, your children. I will dig and dig and trust me, I will find something.”

He stared at his beer. The tears escaped and trickled down his face. He didn’t wipe them away. “Damn,” he said.

“What happened, Mr. Perez?”

“Nothing.”

He lowered his head. I moved so that my face was close to his.

“Did your son kill my sister?”

He looked up. His eyes searched my face as if desperately seeking some kind of solace that would never be there. I held my ground.

“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Perez said.

“Did he? Is that what you’re trying to cover up?”

“We’re not covering up anything.”

“I’m not making idle threats here, Mr. Perez. I’ll go after you. I’ll go after your children.”

His hand moved so fast I didn’t have time to react. He grabbed my lapels with both hands and pulled me close. He had a good twenty years on me, but I could feel his strength. I got my bearings quickly enough and, remembering one of the few martial arts moves I learned when I was a kid, slashed down on his forearms.

He released me. I don’t know if my blow did it or it was just a decision on his part. But he let go. He stood. I stood too. The bartender was watching us now.

“You need help, Mr. Perez?” he asked.

I had the badge out again. “You reporting all your tips to the IRS?”

He backed off. Everyone lies. Everyone has stuff they keep buried. Everyone breaks laws and keeps secrets.

Perez and I stared at each other. Then Perez said to me, “I’m going to make this simple for you.”

I waited.

“If you go after my children, I’ll go after yours.”

I felt my blood tick. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, “I don’t care what sort of badge you carry. You don’t threaten to go after a man’s children.”

He walked out the door. I thought about his words. I didn’t like them. Then I picked up my cell phone and called Muse.

“Dig up everything you can on the Perezes,” I said.

CHAPTER 25

GRETA FINALLY RETURNED MY CALL.

I was on my way home, still in the car, and I struggled to find that damn “hands-free” so that the Essex County prosecutor would not be caught breaking the law.

“Where are you?” Greta asked.

I could hear the tears in her voice.