Gone The Next (31 page)

“What the hell does he have to be pissed about?”

“I imagine he’s just generally upset that you were right, and you found Tracy. From what I understand, that’s a guy thing. Jealousy. Macho posturing and all that.”

“You’re going to tease me while I’m flat on my back?”

“Can you think of a better time? Besides, I don’t want you to get a big head.”

“About what?”

“Well, when I leave, and you start channel surfing, you’re likely to hear people calling you a hero.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Because of the way I faced down the North Korean army single-handed?”

She rolled her eyes. Her hand felt good in mine. Natural. Nothing self-conscious about it. I found myself hoping she felt the same way. For just a moment, we fell silent, just grinning at each other, and I thought we might kiss. Of course, I couldn’t lean upward, toward her, so I was waiting for her to bend down. I
know
she felt it. I think. Or maybe I got my signals crossed. Or maybe it was whatever pain medicine they had me on.

But the moment passed. She released my hand.

I noticed a large bouquet of flowers resting on the windowsill.

“Who are those from?”

“Heidi. She stopped by a couple of hours ago.”

“That was nice.”

“She’s a sweet gal.”

“I’m glad you think so. She’s our biggest client.”

I was starting to get sleepy.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Roy.”

“Me, too.” My eyes closed.

“I’ll come back later this afternoon, okay?”

Not long after Mia left, after I’d slept for about an hour, I was visited by an investigator from the Rollingwood Police Department. His name was Barber, and he wasn’t there long. That’s because, as soon as he identified himself, I said, “Man, I’m not saying a word about anything. You want to charge me with something, go right ahead.”

“I just need to hear your account of that night. For the record.”

I said, “Nope.” He opened his mouth again, but I said, “Seriously, dude. Don’t bother.”

It was a lost cause for him. I’m sure his department didn’t like the way I’d forced their hand — getting an officer involved in a fatal shooting — but what were they going to do? Hassle a man that had been branded a hero?

“Well, I tried,” he said. Then he gave me a wink, shook my hand, and took off.

I was released on Monday, stitched and heavily bandaged, but feeling halfway decent. Mia picked me up in her Mustang and took me to my apartment, where I was pleased to see that none of Ernie Crenshaw’s spray paint remained on my front door. I’d never seen it cleaner.

There were various notes, business cards, and letters stuck between the door and the frame. These were from well-wishers — friends and neighbors — as well as eager reporters wanting to get the first interview. I was glad that none of them were hanging around the premises.

Mia followed me inside, then went back out to her car and wheeled in an ice chest filled with enough food to get me through the next several days. Fruits. Veggies. A lasagna. A casserole. Some baked chicken.

“So, I’m like a shut-in now?” I said.

“You shouldn’t be going anywhere. Just rest and relax. Recuperate.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing for three days.”

“Other than flirting with the nurses.”

“Can you blame me? Did you see that redheaded one?”

“I did,” she said. “He was cute.”

“Well played.”

I started to put the food away — using just my right hand, because it hurt to move my left side at all — but she stopped me and began to unload it herself. I watched.

“Thank you,” I said. “This was really thoughtful.”

“Hold your thanks until you try some of it. I’ve never claimed to be a good cook. Gross. What is in this Tupperware container?”

“Uh...”

“It’s gray, and I don’t think it’s supposed to be.”

I was thinking back on the hand-holding at the hospital. Maybe it was just a gesture of concern. Of friendship. Nothing else meant by it.

“You should come by tonight and eat some of this with me,” I said.

She kept unloading the ice chest, rearranging the contents of my fridge in the process. Making sure nothing else looked deadly. “How about tomorrow night?”

“What, you have plans tonight?”

“I do, yeah.”

She didn’t say any more. Didn’t make eye contact.

“What, a date?” I said.

“Yes, actually.”

“Please. For the love of all things holy. Tell me you’re not going out with Ruelas.”

She stopped unloading and looked at me. “Are you truly that much of an idiot?”

“Of course I am. Haven’t I made that clear?”

“No, not Ruelas. Just a guy I met at the gym a few weeks ago. I can call it off if you want.”

“No, tomorrow night is great,” I said.

An hour later I was alone again, settled on the couch, zoning out in front of the TV.

There was still nothing new on the case, according to media reports. Part of the problem was that Kathleen Hanrahan was not allowing police to speak to Tracy. I wasn’t sure what the law prescribed in such a situation. Could the cops demand access to interview a six-year-old witness? Could Kathleen tell them to take a hike?

Here, as with the investigator who’d visited my hospital room, the cops had to walk on eggshells or suffer the wrath of the public. Maybe the cops were being patient because they had already gotten all they could from Tracy — but it was unclear whether they had even had a chance to ask her questions. Legally, they wouldn’t have been able to interview her without a parent being present.

There was also the fact that witnesses that young were notoriously unreliable. If an interviewer said, “Tracy, name some of the people you saw while you were staying with Uncle Sean in that house,” and Tracy said, “Daddy and Aunt Erica,” you couldn’t always be sure that was accurate. Maybe she only wished she’d seen them. Or maybe she dreamed it. Or she thought that’s what the interviewer wanted to hear.

I took a short nap, then finally decided to tackle the chore of listening to the voicemail on my cell phone. Eighty-seven messages. I grabbed a pen and notepad to write down anything important.

Almost half of the messages were from reporters and writers, wanting to get an interview or just a statement. No idea how most of them had gotten my number. Some of them left really long, pleading messages, but I didn’t listen longer than ten seconds to any particular message. I deleted them all without taking notes.

The remaining messages were from friends and various family members calling to check on me. Most of them I’d already seen or spoken to when I was still in the hospital, including Jessica, who had spent several hours in the room with me yesterday. She couldn’t believe the way things had developed, and she had already told the cops everything she had told me about the Hanrahans and Brian Pierce. Best of all, at one point, she closed the door to the room and we made out like a couple of high schoolers. Then a nurse showed up and ruined everything.

The most recent message, which had come in just twenty minutes ago, was from Detective Ruelas.

“Hey, asshole. Call me back.”