Damnable
CHAPTER 23
CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED TO WRIGHT IN STAGES, accelerated by the pain in her back and shoulders as she moved. She was in complete darkness, and felt the shackles biting into her wrists before she realized a black hood had been placed over her head.
Her neck revolted as she tried to straighten up, so stiff she wondered if she’d ever stand holding her head normally again. It hurt enough she cried out.
Only, she didn’t.
A tight numbness constricted her throat. It felt swollen, heavy. She could breathe, but not easily. And her groan had made no sound.
There was no air, no light, only her hot breath flushing over her face. The blackness was smothering her, strangling her, drowning her.
Oh, dear God, I’m buried! Buried alive! Left to rot beneath the earth in a hole where I’ll never be found, an unmarked grave, probably in Jersey—oh, Jesus, no!
Her heart was pulsing in a rapid drum roll. She could feel herself slip into a panic.
Calm down! Catch your breath! You’re not in a coffin! You’re sitting up! Your arms are cuffed above you! There are sounds nearby! Listen . . .
It took minutes for her to get her breathing under control. Several times she wanted to gag on her own saliva but couldn’t, felt and heard it gurgle with each breath. She concentrated on slowing down her respiration, counted backward from a hundred more than once. Latched on to the tiniest noise, homing in on it, pretending she could follow it, picture it.
Someone else was near. She realized she could hear his breathing as hers began to slow. This is a good thing, she told herself. You’re not alone. You haven’t been buried alive or walled up or abandoned in a bomb shelter.
His breathing. It had to be a he, she decided. The breaths seemed deep, aggressive even. She wasn’t sure how reliable that conclusion was, or whether one could even detect what she was imagining, but the sound smacked of a man. A large man.
Sherman.
Fragments of memory began to align themselves into an imperfect recollection. She’d been at a church with Reynolds. She remembered not finding him at the car, going inside. Valentine had been there.
The missing nun. She’d seen the woman, huddled over in a cloak of some kind. Then what? A dreamy patchwork of images floated by. She was floating, like on a boat. But it didn’t seem like a boat now. Had Hatcher been there? It seemed like he had, but everything kept going back to Sherman.
She’d come to briefly in an apartment—Deborah’s apartment, she realized. Sherman had been there. But everything was so blurred, so distant. Like she was remembering a dream about a dream.
And now she was here, wherever here was.
Reynolds!
Now she remembered. That son of a bitch! He’d sent her out to the church, then disappeared. Sent her out, and set her up.
So, whose breaths was she hearing? Sherman’s? Reynolds’s? Someone else’s? She realized there was no way to tell. She was certain she’d know if it was either of the first two as soon as he said word one. Reynolds, because she knew what he sounded like. Sherman because even one squeaky syllable would give it away with that little-boy-kicked-in-the-nuts voice of his. But whoever this guy was, he had yet to speak.
What she did know was that someone definitely was there. She could hear him moving in place, shifting weight. Feet or knees or ass scraping and shuffling against the floor every few moments.
She waited, silently, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She opened her mouth to call out.
Nothing. No words, no sounds. Her throat felt dead. She tried again.
Not a peep. The only noise was the faint rustle of breaths.
She shook her hands, rattling the chains of her shackles. They clanged off the hard stone wall behind her.
Things went dead quiet. Seconds passed, then the breathing resumed.
Again with the chains. Harder this time.
Nothing. The responding silence lasted barely a couple of beats, just a brief interruption in the pattern. Breath, pause. Breath, pause. Low, rumbling hisses of air. An occasional snuffle.
A thought popped like a bubble in her head. He’s asleep.
Trying to regain control of her own breathing, she diverted her attention to her shackles, ignoring the continued acceleration of her pulse, the fluttering in her chest, the surging jolts of anxiety squeezing her lungs and stomach. The shackles, she told herself. Concentrate on the shackles.
Too tight to slip her wrists out of them. Too high to allow her to reach her head from where they were. She curled her wrist over and down, tried to push herself higher, bring her head toward her hand. The damn hood had to go.
Something heavy was around her waist. She could feel it pulling down at her hips, anchoring her to the floor. If she could just push up six inches or so, stretch her spine, extend those fingers just . . . a . . . tiny . . . bit . . . more.
Her middle finger flicked the protruding edge of the cloth. She pressed harder, clenching her jaw, accepting the pain as the thick, flat metal cuff dug into her skin and cut off circulation. Her fingertips were tingling; her entire hand grew cold. But the tip of her finger now fluttered back and forth against the material at will. All she needed was to get that index finger a bit lower, or that hood just a smidge higher, clip that cloth between the two, then let her body sink down and pull her hand back.
Closer now. The pain in her wrist was excruciating, a hot, knifing burn, her fingers all pins and needles, her palm icy. The ligaments in the back of her hand were screaming in agony.
Just a few more—
Got it.
She worked the fold of cloth up between her fingers, sliding it slowly, careful to keep hold. Within seconds, she was able to curl her fingers toward her palm, pulling cloth with it. She managed to get several digits hooked into the cloth and balled her hand tightly. She pulled her head down, yanked her wrist up as far as it would go.
The hood slid up, then off as she bent her head to the side. She shook out her hair, blew strands away from the front of her face. She squinted, blinking. A figure was there, a few feet away. In a cage. Looking at her.
She screamed without making a sound, her mouth stretched, jaw agape, face twisted—a scream in every way except the lack of noise—as the thing lunged forward toward her. It slammed against the bars, teeth bared in a feral snarl, snout pressed through, a gurgling growl exploding the silence. Arms, incredibly, impossibly long arms reaching for her, insectile fingers grasping, slashing just inches away. She pulled herself back against the wall, head turned to the side, frantically trying to get her legs more fully beneath her. As far from its reach as possible. Far from those teeth and claws and wild hair.
And those eyes. Those eyes locked on her, manic and hungry, lustful and intelligent. Human eyes. Inhuman eyes. Merciless eyes. Eyes that seemed to know exactly what they were seeing.
She trembled in fierce waves as she watched it withdraw its arms and sit back in its cage. She could see more of it now, the body coming more into view. It settled into a semi-lotus position, one knee up. A dark, fleshy penis stood tall and unwavering. It rested a hand on it, stroking it gently every few seconds.
Those eyes were still locked in a coveting stare, but its expression had shifted, causing her heart to palpitate as adrenaline pumped through it.
Rows of canine teeth fully exposed, head dipped slightly forward, it let out a long, deep breath, almost a sigh. She recoiled, not wanting to believe what she was seeing.
It was smiling at her.
HATCHER SAT IN THE SQUAD ROOM AND WAITED, STARING at the clock on the wall. Time, he decided, was nothing if not relative.
He’d shown up at the precinct less than a half hour after he’d gotten off the phone. Maloney had marched him straight to the room he was in, gotten him a beverage, and told him to sit tight after asking him a few questions. That was hours ago. Hatcher had passed the time staring at Wright’s and Reynolds’s desks. Maloney had stuck his head in every fifteen or twenty minutes, would ask a few more questions, then leave again. It was already three thirty. He couldn’t wait much longer.
What a difference a day makes, he thought. Maloney was much more cordial this time around, leaving Hatcher to himself unsupervised. No cuffs, no threats. The only time he even sounded like a cop was when he kept reminding Hatcher not to leave.
He had to go back to the library, then get to Solomon’s office by five thirty. He figured he needed at least forty minutes to be safe, but he would like at least a little time to do some research before he went. That was looking less and less likely.
Of course, not being restrained or babysat, he could just get up and leave. If challenged in the hall, he could merely say he was looking for the restroom. He decided he’d give it another fifteen minutes, then do just that. If Maloney wanted to issue a warrant, so be it.
Hours earlier, Hatcher had snooped around. He checked Wright’s desk first, then Reynolds’s. He had no doubt Maloney expected him to and figured being left alone like that was a form of permission. But if Maloney’d also expected him to find something that shed any light, he hadn’t.
One thing was different, he noticed. The clown mask was missing from Reynolds’s desk. He wasn’t certain what the significance of that was. Maybe the guy knew he wasn’t coming back. Wanted his trophy.
Hatcher stood and walked over to the window near Wright’s desk. He looked down at her computer monitor, studied his reflection off the dark screen. He’d looked better, that was for sure. But he’d definitely looked worse, too. He wondered if maybe he was being tested again, if Maloney had someone watching him through a camera. It didn’t matter. Whoever it was would have died of boredom long ago.
At least sitting in that room had given him time to think. So many things now seemed to make sense, so many others that he’d taken for granted no longer did. The way his father—or stepfather, was it?—had always seemed distant. Now he realized why. Raising a son who wasn’t his, the product of an adulterous affair, was probably too much. Hatcher was already starting to think differently about him. Given the circumstances, he’d actually been sort of decent to him. He’d clearly blamed Hatcher’s mother, not Hatcher himself.
It also explained why he’d become so chummy with Garrett. His real son.
But what about Valentine? Hatcher still didn’t know what to make of him, junior or senior. His father had been some sort of professor, an evolutionary biologist, and outspoken atheist. Hatcher had never been much for going to church, but like most soldiers he didn’t consider himself an atheist, either. And in light of what he’d seen over the past few days, he really wasn’t sure what to believe.
The serious question was, how did he fit into all this? What was Valentine’s game? If the Carnates were right, his half brother was a serial killer with some kind of Hell fetish. And now he had Wright. He didn’t even want to think about Deborah and what role she was playing. It made his head hurt.
The door to the squad room opened and Maloney entered. He dipped his chin in greeting and grabbed the nearest chair. He didn’t seem to care that Hatcher was behind Wright’s desk.
“I got my counterpart over at the One-Seventh to back off,” he said. “I told them you didn’t do it, that you’re a cooperating witness helping me out. They’re willing to wait to talk to you, not issue any warrants or treat you as a subject.”
“Why does it smell like you’re about to stick your hairy ‘but’ in my face?”
“A pair of deputy U.S. marshals just stopped by my office. They said they had a transport order for you, were supposed to put you on a JPATS flight.”
“Gillis,” Hatcher said.
Maloney bobbed his head in agreement. “Your boy must have shot out a request as soon as he found out you’d been detained.”
“And conveniently forgot to let them know I was cleared and released.”
“Guess he figured it was worth a shot.”
Hatcher’s gaze shot over to the clock. “What did you tell them?”
“That you weren’t in my custody. That you had been picked up for questioning and were released. We didn’t have enough evidence to hold you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Grow up. If I’d started popping off about you being innocent it would have only made them suspicious.”
“So, I can go?”
“In a minute, yeah. But there’s something I need to say. I know you’ve been holding out on me. I know you know something about what happened to Amy. Don’t even try to bullshit me. I just know.”
Hatcher said nothing.
“I doubt there’s anything I can do to persuade you to tell me, but you’d better understand this. Do not do anything to put her in harm’s way, capisce? Whatever you’re doing, whatever you’re up to, don’t take any risks with her life. Or so help me, you’ll regret it.”
Hatcher started to say something, but stopped himself. This was unexpected and a bit confusing.
“I’m going to let you walk out of here, but you need to promise me that when you find out where she is, you tell me. Okay? That’s my price for letting you go do your thing.”
“You think Reynolds is behind her disappearance,” Hatcher said. “Don’t you?”
“I think wherever she is, Kid Clown isn’t far away.” Maloney stood, placed his hand on the doorknob, and paused. “Wait a few seconds, then head toward the back of the station. I’ll let you out a side exit. Wouldn’t want anyone who’s looking to take you back into custody see you leave.”
Maloney opened the door and glanced in each direction down the hall. “As you may have already noticed, we cops are nothing if not committed,” he added with a wry chuckle. “Especially to our lies.”
THEY WERE ALL STILL THERE. THE DAGGER, FRED’S CELL phone, the printouts—all where Hatcher had left them, hidden behind dusty binders on the top shelf of some obscure stacks of periodicals in a poorly lit corner of the library’s third floor. He’d doubted anyone would be likely to pull any of the bound collections of Popular Mechanics from the 1960s in the time he was gone. Judging by the layer of dust, it had been quite a while since the last person had.
With almost ninety minutes available, he spent the better part of the next hour trying to research Valentine and his father. He found very little, other than a few more newspaper pieces about Valentine’s charitable contributions and business dealings. Valentine Sr. had a few articles published in peer-review journals in the sixties and seventies, esoteric works about various evolutionary proofs observed in wa terfowl and insects that Hatcher was not inclined to read. But he was able to find the man’s obituary. Myles Valentine had died with his wife Roberta in a car accident in 1976. It described him as a high-profile intellectual and “activist” for secular causes. Tenured professor at Princeton, member of the National Science Board. A rising academic star. The obit said he and his wife were survived by a son, Demetrius, eight.
He picked up the pages Fred had printed, found the one containing the info on Carnates. He checked the time on the cell phone. Forty minutes. That gave him fifteen or so more before he needed to leave. There were three sources listed. He found two of them on the library computer system.
The first book was titled The Slaves of Solomon. The index referenced a three-page section next to Carnates. The pages were part of a discussion of Jinn and mentioned that Carnates were possibly the female offspring of those creatures and demons. It described them as very beautiful and mentioned that there were tales of Solomon marrying them. Apparently, Jinn weren’t human, but were humanlike.
The second book was old, a rare 1950s reprint of an eighteenth-century text. The Encyclopedia Infernale. It didn’t contain much about Carnates. The only mention of them was under the entry for Belial, who was reputed to be their sire. It mentioned they were “very humanlike” and “of great beauty,” living for “a generous number of years.” One passage, however, did catch his eye.
Carnates, being the issue of a fallen angel of hostility, are similar to their relations the Sedim; it is presumed they have inherited the infirmities of same, though perhaps to a less vexing degree as their blood is not whole; iron blessed most hallow, the scream of a virgin pure, and the shattering of glass which carries the ring of God’s judgment, all may cause distress to their senses.
Glancing first to each side, he bent down and untied the dagger from his calf and slid it out of his sock. He hefted it, ran a thumb along the blade. Iron blessed most hallow.
He placed the dagger back into his sock beneath his pant leg and laced it against his calf. He left the books on the table and stuffed the printed pages and the cell phone into his pocket. It was time to go.
THE BUILDING AT THE COMMERCE PLAZA ADDRESS WAS a tower of glass and metal that would have been impressive had it not been wedged between larger towers of even shinier glass and sleeker metal.
There was a minor exodus of people as Hatcher arrived, a thin stream of white- and pink-collar workers filing out of elevators and heading toward the subway. He waited outside the revolving doors for a few minutes before entering. Loitering around the lobby might draw unnecessary attention, but he didn’t want to show up early.
The floors were waxy green and the trim was black. Hatcher hadn’t been in many high-rise urban office buildings, but he could still sense the look was dated. The architecture, the décor, all of it smacked of the 1980s, peppered with self-conscious nods to modernity that now seem forced and heavy-handed, a look redolent of pastels and synthesizers. A security guard with a buzz cut in a navy blazer and dark blue tie sat behind a circular counter between the banks of elevators, watching an array of monitors while he chatted on a telephone. Hatcher stopped at the touch screen monitor in front of the counter. The guard gave him the once over, but continued his conversation.
According to the directory, the Law Offices of Stephen Solomon were located on the fourteenth floor, suite 1403. Hatcher exited the elevator and checked the time on his cell phone: 5:27. The suite was not hard to find, located at the end of a corridor to one side of the elevator bank. Two large glass doors with frosted insets partially blocking visibility stood at an angle to the hall. The lawyer’s name was etched through the frosting starting on one door and ending on the other.
Hatcher paused, looking around. An artificial tree in a large wicker pot stood in a corner of the hallway, near an exit stairway. He walked over and inspected it, then checked the ceiling for security cameras. Seeing none, he removed the dagger from beneath his pant leg and hid it behind the tree. It wasn’t completely concealed, but from the entry to Solomon’s offices it wasn’t visible. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be there very long.
Inside, a slender blonde sat behind a hutch in an L-shaped reception station near a glass door with a push bar across the middle of it. She looked up as Hatcher approached, flashing a plastic smile.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Solomon.”
A black man in a button-down shirt with an open collar and khaki slacks entered the reception area from the elevator bank.
“Last run of the day,” he said. He waved a file folder as he walked past and headed toward the back. The woman reached beneath her desk and the door behind her buzzed with a click. The man pushed on the bar and disappeared behind it.
The woman turned her attention back to Hatcher. “Do you have an appointment?”
Good question, he thought. Depends on how you look at it. “Yes.”
The woman picked up a telephone handset and pressed a button. “Name?”
“Hatcher.”
“Oh, I have something for you.” She replaced the handset and reached into a corner of her desk for a large envelope. After checking the front, she handed it to him over the narrow counter of the hutch.
The envelope felt flimsy, flat, like it was empty. The name “Hatcher” was written in pen on the face of it.
Hatcher tore the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. The paper bore a short message in ink:
Leave the dagger with Penelope. Someone will contact you later.
He lifted his eyes from the page. “That’s all?”
“Yes,” the woman tilted her head. “Was there supposed to be something else?”
“I want to see Mr. Solomon.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Solomon is currently out of the office. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Try again. You were picking up the phone to call him when you asked me my name.”
She slid an appointment book closer, avoiding his gaze. “Would you like to reschedule?”
“No. I’d like you to tell him I’m out here, and that my patience is wearing thin. Almost as thin as the ice he’s skating on.”
“I’ll be happy to give him a message for you,” she said, paying undue attention to the calendar.
The door opened and the man who’d just entered exited, carrying a thicker looking file. The door started to close slowly behind him
“Not necessary,” Hatcher said. “I’ll just tell him myself.” He slipped past the station and got a hand on the door before it shut.
“Sir! You can’t go back there!”
Ignoring her, Hatcher opened the door and walked into a hallway that ran perpendicular to it. The space taken up by Solomon’s firm was relatively compact. A large conference room was separated from the corridor by a glass wall. To the right beyond it was a supply room and what looked like a tiny kitchen. Hatcher walked to his left. A few empty cubicles lined the interior, opposite a pair of empty offices. The hall terminated at a large corner office with double doors. He checked the nameplate and shoved the door open.
Solomon was standing behind a large desk, leaning slightly forward over a phone. His charcoal gray suit looked sharp against his white shirt and bright yellow tie. He looked up at Hatcher and pressed a button.
“It’s okay, Penelope. Don’t bother. He’s here now. Just call it a day.”
The voice that came over the speaker was loud and tinny. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything’s under control.”
Hatcher stepped into the office. It was triangular, with a view of neighboring skyscrapers through floor-to-ceiling windows, a vista of silvery reflections and glistening steel, the shadows cast by the setting sun hinting at a labyrinth of passageways between them. There was a couch and a small table with chairs in one corner
The lawyer held up a finger and pressed another button on the phone. “He’s here,” he said. He kept the finger up as he reached over to flat CD player mounted on a stand. Jazz flooded the room in hi-fi stereo. Hatcher thought he recognized it. Prominent horns. Chuck Mangione, maybe.
Solomon straightened and raised his brows, turned up his palms with a what now? shrug.
“I want answers.” Hatcher gestured toward him with his chin. “You’re going to give them to me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” Solomon said. “Even if I did, the information would probably be privileged. I wouldn’t be able to disclose it if I wanted to.”
“Oh, you’ll want to. Trust me on that.”
“There’s no need for threats. I was told you were coming and to have you leave a certain dagger. That’s all I can say.”
“Where’s he got Amy?”
“Who?”
“Detective Wright?”
Solomon hitched a shoulder. “Can’t say I know what you’re talking about. Honest.”
“In that case, where do I find Valentine?”
Solomon hesitated, shot a glance over Hatcher’s shoulder toward the door. Before Hatcher could react to it, a pair of massive arms wrapped around his chest, pinning his arms to his side. Arms like enormous steel cables, tightening, squeezing his ribs, lifting him off the ground. Constricting him.
Hatcher flung his head back, trying to drive it into his attacker’s face. Nothing there to hit. Whoever it was had his head pulled back, probably turned away. Ready for him. He could tell his assailant was much bigger than he was, bigger and freakishly strong.
Sherman.
Breathing was becoming difficult. The man seemed to know what he was capable of. Those arms were literally squeezing the life out of him, tightening relentlessly. Hatcher flailed, clawing at the hand that was clamped over the other in a fist. He swung his legs, mule-kicking, tried to scrape a heel down Sherman’s shin, tried to catch a knee. Nothing. He had no leverage, and Sherman was in a stance that made it difficult to connect a kick. The few he managed to land were glancing strikes that didn’t seem to make a dent.
Tighter, tighter, tighter. Hatcher focused on expanding his chest cavity, pressing his arms outward with all his might. It seemed to slow down the constriction but was exhausting. He couldn’t believe it was even possible, that someone could be so strong. He was able to breathe a little, which was good, but the realization hit that suffocating him wasn’t what Sherman had in mind. He was trying to crush his rib cage.
Sherman’s fists wouldn’t budge as Hatcher dug his fingers into them, unable to even pry a finger loose. He could feel things start to pop near his breastbone. The desk, he thought. He swung a foot toward it. Too far. There had to be something else.
His eyes felt like they were going to pop out. His head seemed to swell, vessels all engorged with blood. Every breath was now a struggle. It was only a matter of time before his chest really did cave in. Chair. He raised a foot toward one of the chairs in front of the desk, managed to catch a toe on the armrest. Did his best to draw Sherman’s attention to it.
Sure enough, Sherman swung him away from it.
One more time. Hatcher flung his foot out, pointed his toe at the chair. Sherman yanked him away farther, until he faced the opposite direction.
The move brought Hatcher closer to the sofa. He kicked his foot out toward the armrest. Sherman twisted him away from it.
Now they were facing away from the desk.
Hatcher drove his feet back wildly kicking in bicycle motions with all he could muster. Sherman moved backward a few steps, trying to keep his balance. This was his chance. If he could just—
—get him—
—to turn—
—around.
Hatcher reached his foot out for the chair again, tiny bursts of light going off in his head, veins throbbing in his temples. He hooked his foot around the backrest and toppled it in front of them. Just as he’d hoped, Sherman swung him away from it. An overreaction. They were facing the desk.
Before Sherman could move again, Hatcher set both feet against the edge of the desk and thrust his legs out as hard as he could. Sherman stumbled back, tripping over the chair, and landed hard on his back.
Goddamn, if this son of a bitch isn’t strong. Hatcher couldn’t believe it. Two hundred and change landing right on top of the man as he fell straight back, and his grip didn’t release. Hatcher’s head was swimming from lack of oxygen. He imagined his face a crimson purple color, since that was how it felt. Sherman was still squeezing. But now he was on the floor, and Hatcher realized he couldn’t move his face back anymore. With a desperate snap of his neck muscles, Hatcher fired his head to the rear, catching Sherman in the cheek, around the eye orbit. Again, then again. The grip seemed to loosen slightly. He managed to get two fingers wedged beneath Sherman’s little finger and pull out with both hands. Another vicious crack to Sherman’s face, and the grip finally slipped.
Bending Sherman’s finger back as mercilessly as he could, Hatcher ripped himself from the bear hug and gulped air. Sherman held a palm over his nose, favoring his right cheek, and tried to get up. Hatcher threw himself on top of him, riding what remained of his adrenaline surge, heart cannonading painfully in his chest, lungs burning as he drew desperate breaths. With all his weight, he slammed a forearm down across Sherman’s face. Then another, then another. Then a bladed palm strike to the throat, then another forearm, mostly elbow, to the head, sinking into it with his full body weight. He reared back for one more, barely able to lift his arm, but let up. Sherman was out.
His muscles were trembling, his legs wobbling as he stood. He felt completely drained of energy, gasping, unable to inhale enough air. He dropped onto the sofa and sprawled against the cushions, tried to fill and empty his lungs as rapidly as he could.
“I hope you don’t think you’re leaving,” Hatcher said, not bothering to open his eyes.
Solomon stopped in mid-stride. He was halfway to the door. “This has nothing to do with me.”
“Only a lawyer would have the gall to say that in his own office.” Hatcher pulled himself up, stayed perched on the sofa’s edge. He lowered his eyes to Sherman. “While standing over his unconscious client.”
“The police are on their way.”
“No, they’re not.”
Solomon swallowed, cleared his throat. “I called them while the two of you were fighting.”
“No, you didn’t,” Hatcher said, rotating his shoulder and stretching his chest. “The last thing you want is to answer questions about why I was here, why Sherman and I fought. Or what you know about a missing cop.”
Solomon’s eyes widened, brows clenching. “I don’t know anything about a missing cop.”
“Where’s Valentine?”
“Right now? I have no idea.”
Hatcher pushed himself off the couch. He twisted his head until his neck audibly cracked. He fixed his gaze on the lawyer and moved toward him.
“Whoa!” Solomon held his palms out, a surrender gesture. “I really don’t know where he is. Or anything about a missing cop.” Solomon dropped his gaze to the floor where Sherman groaned, stirring, and pointed. “But I’m pretty sure he does.”
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