Free Wiseguys: Blast From the Past by Aaron Michaels Page A

the interrogation had been recorded. He was surprised when the sheriff turned the camera off.
    If they'd been in Jersey, turning the camera off would have been the prelude to a more physical form of questioning by a dirty cop on another family's payroll. Tony didn't think that would be the case now. Sewell didn't strike him as a guy on anybody's payroll except the county's.
    "You two bring trouble with you," the sheriff said. "I know what you are, and I know if you were in a talkative mood, you'd swear up and down that you've left the life behind."
    Tony kept his mouth shut. There it was, out in the open. Sewell was studying Tony with his flat cop's eyes, waiting for a reaction from Tony. Tony made sure not to give him one.
    The sheriff was pushing fifty, but there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. His uniform was pressed and neat, and the only way Tony could tell that the man had been dragged out of bed to deal with Tony and Carter was the hint of stubble on his face. No, Sewell was anything but a country bumpkin cop, and he was nobody they could cajole. The best they could hope for was a stalemate.
    "So, let's say you've left the life behind," Sewell said. "Maybe you have. Norman and Bess tell me you're good boys. Maybe you are. But you're still trouble."
    Tony narrowed his eyes. "You about to run us out of town?"
    The sheriff sighed. "Not my style," he said. "But if you are good boys like they say you are, you might want to think about relocating voluntarily."
    "We got a life here. Got a business."
    Sewell nodded. "And friends who care about you. I understand that."
    "Then maybe you got a problem with us because of something else?"
    The sheriff wouldn't be the first cop Tony knew who was a homophobe, but the idea made him sad. Made him think that the Munroe brothers might be getting off with just a slap on the wrist.
    The sheriff's mouth set in a tight line. "I don't care if you're queer or straight or swing both ways. That's not the issue here, and I figure you're smart enough to know it. My job is to care about the safety of the citizens of this town and the tourists who keep their businesses in business. What I hope you care about is the safety of your friends. Bess could have ended up dead. Your neighbors could have been hit by a stray bullet. The little girl who lives across the street from you, the Connors' kid, she could have been killed by one of those guys who came gunning for you."
    Tony knew the little girl the sheriff was talking about. He'd never known her name, but she was pretty and blonde and had a pink bicycle that she rode back and forth to school, and if she was ten, she was old.
    The sheriff stood up. He folded the little notepad he'd used to take notes during his interrogation closed and put it in the breast pocket of his uniform shirt.
    "That mean we're done here?" Tony asked.
    "We're done."
    Sewell held the door to the interrogation room open, and Tony left. His side hurt, a dull throbbing that ran counterpoint to the pounding of his aching head. The aspirin he'd swallowed before the enforcers hit the house had worn off hours ago. Now that the shooters were taken care of, Tony intended to take the pain pills the E.R. doctor had given him and sleep for about a week.
    The sheriff's office was in an old, stucco building across the street from City Hall. From the outside it looked no bigger than the church where Tony had attended mass every Sunday with his uncle's family. Uncle Sid always sat up front, and every Sunday Tony had walked up and down the main aisle to that front pew without a second thought. Now the corridor from the interrogation room to the little room out front where Carter waited for him looked longer than a football field. With the sheriff following close behind him, Tony had to force himself to make that walk look no more difficult than strolling down the aisle at church.
    Instead of opening the last door between Tony and freedom, the sheriff put his hand on the doorknob.
    What