A Dark and Lonely Place (44 page)

She nodded. “Hope I don’t need it. But thanks, either way. If I go, I’ll have to bring Françoise, can’t leave her behind.”

“If she slows you down, don’t,” he said. “Now I’m headed to the hospital to see John.”

“Tell him his friend, Leon, called and is concerned. He’s been helping John with information.”

“Leon’s on our side.” Robby nodded. “John trusts him. We need to stay in touch with him.”

“I have his number now.” Laura copied it for him.

“Nice to have another sister.” He smiled, kissed her cheek. “Lock the doors,” he warned, and left.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

M
iami police officer Frank Miguel had never enjoyed his job more. He liked seeing John Ashley, with all his goddamn medals and awards, helpless and handcuffed to a bed.

The real fun was to frisk the prisoner’s family, especially the good-looking ones. Even Ashley’s mother wasn’t bad for her age. He liked to paw through their personal possessions as they watched and to grope their bodies, especially his sister, the one who was there the most, the tall, long-haired, big-eyed Katie. She was uppity, a registered nurse, thought she was hot shit. He’d take her down a peg or two.

Miguel was notorious, held the departmental record for the most citizen complaints in his personnel file. He had more Internal Affairs investigations into allegations of brutality, excessive force, sexual assault, and harassment than anyone else. He took pride in that. Nothing anybody could do to him. He had the right rabbis. Maj. Rod Martinez, Lt. Mac Myerson, and Capt. Armando Politano, from whom he personally took orders, until Ashley, that son of a bitch, killed him.

“What are you doing?” Katie gasped, as he ran his rough hands across her breasts, rubbed his thumbs across her nipples, and slid his thick fingers down over her hips.

“You’d be surprised how many a you broads smuggle weapons, drugs, or some other shit in their bras. Or inside, down under.” He leered suggestively at her crotch. He grasped her long, lush hair in both hands, squeezed the silky strands, then rubbed the back of her neck and fondled her ear.

He saw her expression. “You don’t like that?” He shrugged. “Then stay outta here. Every visitor to this room is frisked or, at my discretion, strip-searched. It’s the price of admission.” He stripped her naked with
his eyes. “Just doing my job.” He let her go, then whispered, “But I know you like it.”

She shivered and glared at him in distaste.

In response, he snatched up her handbag, which she had placed on a chair before lifting her arms to be frisked. He yanked the zipper open, upended the purse, and shook out the contents over the room’s second, unoccupied bed. He pawed through her wallet, hairbrush, lipstick, and other personal items. Under any other circumstance, she’d immediately report him to both hospital and police officials, but he was the one assigned to guard John and clearly the type of man who’d take it out on the prisoner if she did.

Despite the curtain drawn around that side of his bed, John heard part of what was said and tried to protest but couldn’t reach the curtain because of his handcuffs.

The surgeon and another doctor who examined John’s bullet wound and checked his vision were pleased, but not as elated as John, Katie, and their parents. He had vision in his left eye! It was blurred, but before there was none and now he could distinguish one person from another. He could see! And doctors were confident that his visual acuity would improve daily until he’d regained most or all of his eyesight.

Officer Miguel frisked Ashley’s parents, leaving the mother, who’d arrived smiling and eager to see her son, in shocked tears. He even opened the meal she’d brought her son, crudely sniffed it as if it were garbage, then probed it with unwashed fingers.

Joe Ashley was furious, but his wife and Katie calmed him down for John’s protection. It was Officer Miguel’s job, except that the way he did it and the pleasure he took in it bordered on the perverse.

Then Robby arrived. He saw Miguel and raised his hands to be frisked.

Miguel stared at Robby’s police ID. “Where’s your weapon?”

“Off duty, didn’t bring it.” Robby grinned. “Thought I’d make your job easier.”

“Don’t do me no favors, punk.”

“What did you call me?” Robby said softly.

“You heard me. Turn around, spread your legs.”

Robby paused, then did so. Miguel patted him down and began
groping his thighs. “Man, you touch my junk and you’re toast,” Robby warned.

“Take it easy, Rob,” John called from behind the curtain.

“We’ve got good news, bro!” Katie said, trying to defuse the moment.

“Robby, come listen to this,” said his mother.

Miguel sneered at them.

Robby gave him a cold, contemplative stare, then joined his family around John’s bed.

“What a surprise,” John said. “Good to see you, Robby.”

Miguel made a derisive guttural sound.

The visit ended when a nurse arrived to take John’s vital signs. “The girls will be here later,” his mother told him.

Miguel licked his lips and smiled in anticipation.

While the others waited at the elevator, Katie dashed back to John’s room for the notebook in which she had jotted the doctors’ findings and instructions. The nurse was gone, the curtains were drawn around John’s bed, and Officer Frank Miguel was emptying John’s homemade meal of chicken and dumplings into a plastic trash receptacle.

“What are you doing?” Katie demanded. “That belongs to John! You have no right to do that!”

“I decide what’s right here, bitch. I’m in charge.”

She burst into tears.

Robby appeared in the doorway. “Katie?” he said.

She blinked and said nothing.

“Do they know which jail my brother will be transferred to after Ward D?” Robby asked Miguel.

“Yeah.” Miguel grinned. His dark eyes glittered. “We’re gonna keep ’im in the hole, the holding cell at the station, for the first few days so every cop who comes in can spit on him, then he’s going to the pysch ward at the jail.”

Robby took a step forward.

Miguel puffed up, held his ground, daring him to take a swing. “Ain’t you embarrassed?” he said in Robby’s face. He snorted and curled his lip in the patient’s direction. “If that was my brother, I’da disowned the piece a shit by now.”

John’s cuffs rattled behind the curtain. “Rob? Katie? Don’t let . . . Rob, he’s trying to goad you into getting arrested. It’s what he wants.”

“Damn right.” Miguel rubbed his knuckles, his smile malevolent. “Hear there’s more like you, Katie. Can’t wait till the
girls
get here. I’m getting hard just thinking about it.”

Robby swung and connected with his jaw. Miguel, heavier and slightly taller, with broader shoulders, fell straight back. He knocked a pitcher of water and a basin off a metal cart, which clattered loudly to the floor.

A nurse rushed in, looked around, and said, “Don’t make me call security.”

Miguel sat on the floor, dazed.

As Katie and Robby started to leave the room, Miguel shouted after them, “You’re under arrest!”

Robby turned. “And you’re in a world of trouble,” he said quietly. “Listen for my footsteps behind you when you least expect it.”

He and Katie turned to the nurse, a middle-aged supervisor who had heard complaints from young nurses since Miguel got the assignment.

She looked Robby in the eye. “I didn’t see a thing.”

“Call security,” Miguel told her, as he struggled to his knees.

“I don’t work for you, sir,” she said, and left the room with the others.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

W
hen Joel Hirschhorn arrived at Bascom Palmer to meet with his client, he insisted that Frank Miguel, John’s police guard, leave the room.

“Is that who I think it is?” the harried lawyer said. “The man’s notorious. What’s it like to have an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in your room? And what the hell happened to the gorilla’s jaw?”

“Long story,” John said, “but my brother Robby probably won’t be visiting here again any time soon.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The lawyer said. “You won’t be here.” He brought bad news. Hirschhorn had come straight from an emergency hearing. He fought John’s imminent transfer to the county hospital’s prison ward, but lost. The judge ruled for the prosecution after a Jackson Hospital physician testified that John was ambulatory, could soon be moved to the jail, and until then, would receive adequate care at Jackson.

John’s initial court appearance would be later in the week. No chance he’d be granted bond. In fact, it was rumored that more charges would be filed against him.

“What about Eagle’s affidavit, his own admissions in those notes to Lonstein?” John asked.

“The problem we have,” Hirschhorn said, “is the death of the only person who could testify that the documents actually came from Eagle. With Lonstein gone, it’s difficult to prove. I’ve lined up a handwriting expert to authenticate Eagle’s signature and the notes. But those spreadsheets, bank records, and receipts will be a ton of work for forensic accountants. Each allegation, every conspirator has to be individually investigated.

“The copies you sent that TV reporter make for interesting reading,
but his bosses and their lawyers won’t allow any of it on the air until two or three independent sources verify the allegations as true. You may have more luck with a newspaper reporter who has more time and resources. But it would take a whole newsroom of investigative reporters, a good lawyer, and a forensic accountant weeks to go over all that paperwork.”

“What about the FBI?”

“Terrorism’s their top priority, so they’re less likely to investigate local corruption, but if you know somebody there who might take an interest, it could help.”

John sighed in frustration. “I took pictures right after Politano died, the whole shooting scene before they cleaned it up and changed everything. And I’m sure that the murder weapon that killed Eagle is the gun that burglar planted in my apartment. We can subpoena him and the witness, the homeless guy who saw him that night.”

“My investigator’s already looking for Harry, the burglar,” Hirschhorn said. “His parole officer can’t find him either. I’m hoping he’s still alive. And where do we send the subpoena for the homeless witness? Possession of the murder weapon is not a plus for us unless we can prove how you came to have it. I’m all over this case, John. It won’t be easy, but I guarantee you, I’ll give it my best.” He grinned. “Have briefcase, will travel.”

“What can I do to help?” John asked his lawyer.

“Pray for a reasonable, seasoned prosecutor,” he answered.

But it was too late for prayer.

Jeff Burnside called Laura. “I wanted you to know before you see it on the air.”

“What is it?” she asked, dread in her voice.

“The state attorney is holding a news conference this afternoon to announce that they will seek the death penalty in John’s case.”

“No,” she whispered. “What about a story based on the documents Eagle left?”

“They’re sensitive and hard to authenticate,” Burnside said. “They could decimate the leadership of two of the biggest departments in South Florida, the biggest police scandal in years. But we need at least
three reliable sources willing to be quoted before we can use any of it. I’m working on it, but it takes time and investigation. Miami’s a hot news town and we’re already short-staffed. How’s John?”

“Healing, physically. But Jeff, that good man is . . .” She took a ragged breath. “He’s accused of crimes he didn’t commit. The system wants him dead. He’s handcuffed to a bed, guarded by an obscene, intrusive goon who leaves John’s sisters, his mother, and even the men he frisks feeling sexually violated. Otherwise, things are swell.”

“I’m sorry. Keep the faith.”

“I’m sorry to dump on you, Jeff. I’m glad you called. It is easier to hear bad news personally than to see it on TV.”

John’s phone rang again so quickly, she thought Burnside had called back. She answered to silence, said hello several times, then hung up. Few people had the number. Was one of them in trouble? Did the police have their phone?

Her mind raced as it rang again.

“Hello? Please say something,” she said.

“Hello?” The woman’s voice sounded small and uncertain.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Can you get a message to John?” she whispered.

“I can try.” Laura instantly realized who it was. “You must be his friend. Someone he worked with.”

“Please don’t say my name on the phone.”

“I won’t, I promise. What message do you want me to give him?”

“Tell him to be careful, to watch his back.” The woman’s voice grew stronger. “He’s in danger. He’s not safe.”

“He’s in the hospital,” Laura said.

“I know. But they’re moving him tomorrow. They say he’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.”

“Oh, God,” Laura murmured. “Thank you. Please call if you hear anything else.”

Her hands shook as she called Robby on her cell. As he answered, John’s rang again.

“Emma called!” she told him. “Hold on for a sec. John’s phone is ringing.”

“Hey, Laura,” the caller said.

“Leon!” she said.

“You sound busy. But this is urgent. Is there a way I can reach Johnny’s brother? The one who works for the county?”

“Yes. What is it, Leon?”

“Johnny ain’t coming outta this alive. He’s gonna die in custody. Another inmate suicide, or they’ll say he was knifed by a prisoner he put away. They’re running a pool on how many hours he’ll survive in the system.”

“A pool?”

“They make bets, put money in the pot. The bettor who comes closest to predicting John’s official time of death wins it all. Don’t want to scare you, sweet girl, but we have to do something. Fast.”

“I’ll have Robby call you right back.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sooner, the better. He’s being moved tomorrow.”

She repeated the conversation to Robby. “Can this really be happening?” she whispered.

“I figured it would,” he said solemnly. “Don’t cry, Laura. I’ll handle it.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX