One to Go (22 page)

She paused, trying to read him, and judging from her expression, doing a pretty good job of it. “At the risk of stating the obvious, I wouldn't discuss the matter of the gun with the cops, or anyone else for that matter. If they ask why you're not being cooperative, tell them you were acting on advice of your attorney.”

He grinned. “You're my attorney?”

“For the moment.” She offered half a smile. “And unless you're feeling tip-top tomorrow, stay home, take it easy.”

“My lawyer and my doctor? What have I done to deserve this?”

“Not much.” She bent over and kissed him lightly on the lips, then exited.

Okay, now what was he going to do? Every muscle in his body ached, but he had to get out of the hospital. And then what? Good chance his prints would be found on the gun, since he hadn't used gloves when he removed it from his bedside table
drawer. Maybe a small possibility the disruption of the crash compromised the Glock's grip, but it was a long shot at best.

Think logically. He had to kill another human being by midnight Saturday. His weapon had been taken from him. There was a real chance the cops would be looking to arrest him and jail him over the weekend, pending bail review on Monday.

Solution? Only one, really. He had to get out of the hospital, find Chewy, beg for another gun, then find a drug dealer and shoot him. First step, unhook the IV.

The door opened and the perky nurse entered. “Something to help you sleep, Mr. Booker.”

“No! I don't want—”

“Doctor's orders.” Before Tom could react, she had produced a syringe and squirted its contents into his IV tube. The effect was immediate.

“Please, I need—”

Sleep hit hard, no chance to dream its only blessing.

Five hours later, Tom awoke to find himself staring into the doleful face of Detective Percy Castro.

Thinking he might've been dreaming, Tom closed his eyes, but Eva's voice coming from the other side of his bed quickly dashed any hope Castro was a mirage.

“Tom, don't say a word.”

He figured the prints must've come back positive on the gun. A problem, but not necessarily a big problem. He'd seen in his limited time working for PDS that CPWL cases for first-time offenders carrying no prior record usually resulted in the defendant being released on his personal recognizance.

If he could get in front of a judge this morning, he'd be out by the end of the day, and have more than twenty-four hours to find Chewy, get another gun, and proceed with his crude but, he believed, fail-safe plan. He wouldn't simply fire once or twice at the target, he'd pump all of the bullets in the chamber at the dealer, leaving no doubt—wait a second. Castro was homicide. What's he doing here? LaRyn Walker must be dead. Probably fingered him before she died. But what evidence did they have? Could they have? It would be his word against—

“Good morning, Mr. Booker,” said Castro. “Afraid I've got some bad news. Ballistics came back, confirmed the bullet found in Jessica Hawkins' brain came from your gun. Also, a neighbor identified you as being in the neighborhood at or near the time of the murder.”

Tom heard the words, but was too stunned to process them.

“You're under arrest for the murder of Jessica Hawkins,” said Castro, his voice soft, almost sad. “Please get dressed.”

“That's…that's impossible.”

Eva spoke sharply. “Tom, I said say nothing.” She turned to Castro. “Percy, we'll waive Miranda. Can you give me a minute with my client?” Castro scowled. She pressed. “He's not going anywhere. Just a couple of minutes.”

Castro paused. “Two minutes.” He shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Eva interrupted Tom before he could speak. “Listen to me. I meant what I said. No comments to the cops. No comments to anybody, including, by the way, to cell mates. Most would sell their own mother for a used porn magazine.”

Cell mates? Jesus. He couldn't go to jail, the clock was ticking. “What about bail?”

“Very tough in a homicide case. If the judge sets it at all, it'll be high. I'll call Zig. Maybe he can put something together by Monday—”

“Monday?” He didn't try to hide the panic in his voice. “Eva, I can't wait until Monday. I need out right away, now!”

“Sorry, but by the time they process you through intake, it'll be too late today. Bail reviews are only held for traffic and minor misdemeanors over the weekend, so Monday would be the earliest.”

She must have seen the fear in his eyes. “Don't worry, it's not like in the movies, you'll be pretty safe. Just always keep your gaze straight ahead. Do not,
do not
look at any other inmate in the eye, do not agree to ‘protection' from another inmate. Trust no one. Remember, inmates are notoriously good lip readers. There are no secrets. Keep to yourself, avoid even harmless chitchat. Don't try to make friends, because for each friend you acquire, you also acquire all of his enemies. The food is edible but barely enough to feed a bird. You'll need to supplement your caloric intake, so I'll make sure there's some money on your book for use in the commissary.”

He could tell she'd given this speech before. How could he explain he wasn't concerned with his own safety, but had to protect his daughter?

He could feel the two minutes winding down quickly. “Where are my clothes, my wallet?”

“What do you need—?”

“In the back pocket of my pants.”

She opened a closet that contained his clothing. He could see dark brown splotches on his jacket and shirt. His blood. She found the wallet and handed it to him. He quickly found the slip of paper with Chewy's number.

“Call this number. Don't wait for a greeting. Just say Tom Booker's going to DC Jail and needs protection. Then hang up. Don't wait for a response.”

“Who is—?”

“Please, just do it.” She nodded. “One more thing. I wasn't truthful with you. When Jess kept badgering me, I did go over to her place that night. The neighbor spotted me when she let out her dog. But I swear to you, I never went in. Knocked, rang the bell, no one answered. I left. Should've told you, but didn't want you to think I had any feelings for Jess, because I didn't. I was stupid.”

He could read the disappointment on her face. “We'll worry about you and me later. For now, I'll serve as your attorney until—”

“No ‘until.' I want you to represent me, Eva. No one else. I want you.”

The door opened and Castro appeared with a patrolman. Castro's voice now sounded very official.

“Time's up.”

Castro watched as Tom got dressed. The nurse entered.

“Excuse me,” said the nurse. “I know you guys are in a hurry, but Dr. Lin has to sign the release papers and he will be slightly delayed.”

Thus, Tom, Eva, and Castro settled into an uneasy silence until Eva's phone beeped. She was needed in court and had to leave. She made a big show in front of Castro of advising Tom not to speak at all about the case. She promised to visit Tom in the afternoon “after he was settled.” After he was settled? She made it sound like he was moving into a new townhouse instead of an 8 x 10 cell. For a second, he thought she might give him a peck on the cheek, but wisely she simply offered a smile and left.

Castro carefully lowered himself into the ancient visitor's chair, as if he were afraid his full weight might crush it to splinters. He nodded at the TV.

“Mind turning it to channel 47?”

Tom shrugged and tossed him the remote. Castro hit a couple keys and suddenly Oprah's face filled the screen.

“Didn't think she was on anymore.”

“Reruns.”

“You don't seem to me to be the Oprah type.”

“My wife loved her. We both worked, so she insisted on recording her show. We'd watch it while eating dinner every night. Reminds me of Lita.”

“You're wife's not—”

“Breast cancer. Two years ago this November.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks.”

Tom wasn't a fool. He knew the cop was trying to encourage familiarity so Tom might accidentally say something he shouldn't. The wife was probably in perfect health. But the sad, reflective expression on Castro's face appeared real.

“I just want you to know I didn't kill Jess.” God, his attorney had barely left the room, and he already had violated her direction.

“Probably should listen to Eva and not talk about the case,” said Castro.

“Right, sorry.”

Oprah's show was more than half over, but the theme for the day must've been corruption in the church. She had two priests seated comfortably on her yellow couch.

She asked how men of God could do bad things, including abusing children.

Tom tuned out their answers and checked the clock on the wall. Less than thirty-eight hours till he'd hear from Chad and Britney. Maybe the demon twins would cut him some slack. How the hell could they expect him to offer up a new human sacrifice if he's in frigging jail? He glanced over at Castro. The detective seemed transfixed by the TV show.

“You look like a good Catholic boy, Detective. Probably go to mass every Sunday. You believe there's such a thing as hell?”

Castro didn't move, and, for a moment, Tom didn't think the cop heard him. Then he spoke quietly without taking his eyes off the screen.

“In my business you see the absolute worst of humankind. Murder, rape, child abuse. And that just includes the normal aberrant behavior. Doesn't count the true nut jobs who as a kid got their jollies pulling arms off bugs and setting cats on fire, then graduated to dismemberment, mass murder, and cannibalism.”

He turned his head to lock eyes with Tom. “There is one thing of which I am absolutely certain. Satan exists, because man on his own could not conjure up the raw evil I witness every day.”

Tom paused, then slightly nodded his head. He had the strange sense the man wasn't being completely candid. But why would Castro feel the need to put on an act? Weird.

They both turned their attention back to the TV as the credits rolled.

“Do not respond to what I'm about to say,” said Castro. “This is not a question, I'm not questioning you. But you have me baffled. You seem like a good kid, a play-by-the rules kind of kid. Great education, great job. Great future. No trouble. Then your brother-in-law blows his brains out and you're there. Two weeks later, your client drinks himself to death and you're there. Less than two weeks later, a girl you dated takes a bullet in the brain and you were there. At about the same time, another client of yours almost dies from internal bleeding and you were there. Battaglia's trigger finger has evidence of a latex glove, and a bottle of booze on Mackey's table also has residue suggesting a latex glove. You deny you have latex gloves, but a search of your apartment reveals you were lying. You did have a box of latex gloves. Curious. Mighty curious.”

“You searched my apartment?”

“When the ballistics matched, we got a warrant, executed it this morning.”

“Eva told me about LaRyn. How's she doing?”

“She'll make it. Thanks to someone dialing 911 and leaving the phone near her face. Or maybe she dialed and dropped the phone. Anyway, they got there in time.”

“What did she say happened?”

“Didn't say. May not come as a shock to you that LaRyn Walker has no interest in being fully forthcoming with the police. All she said was she remembered you coming over to talk with her about her case, she'd been drinking, and that's it. I'm sure some pharmaceuticals will be implicated when it's all said and done.”

The door opened and Dr. Lin entered. Falsely cheerful, he nodded to Castro, then pulled a penlight from his vest pocket and shone it onto Tom's eyes.

“Sorry I was delayed. Heart attack patient had his appendix rupture right in the middle of an exam. Now, how are we doing?”

Don't know about “we,” Doc, but I ain't doing too well
. “Fine and dandy,” said Tom. His sarcasm flew over the doctor's head.

“Good, good. I think we can let you out of here, then.”

Yippee
.