Damnable
CHAPTER 9
THE MANHATTAN TRAFFIC MOVED LIKE BLOOD FORGING a sclerotic artery, squeezing in fits and starts through bottlenecked passages of double-parked cars and road repair crews. Hatcher sat in the backseat of the Ford sedan, watching the city move around him, pedestrians and taxis and bicycle messengers. They had traveled several blocks before a question that had been floating around his mind found a foothold and flashed into his thoughts.
“Didn’t they just release you from intensive care yesterday?” he asked.
Deborah peered back at him between the seats. In the backlit shade of the car’s interior, her eyes were a magnetic shade of bluish gray. Alluring, haunting. They seemed to reach out, wrapping themselves around his field of vision until he could see nothing else. “Yes.”
“So how are you up and around already?”
“They didn’t want to let me go, but I wasn’t about to stay there. Not after what happened.”
Hatcher glanced over to the back of Wright’s head, where her hair poked through a scrunchie. “I was led to believe you’d broken almost every bone in your body.”
“That’s pretty much what I was told,” Wright said, giving him a half look back over her shoulder. “I suppose it’s safe to say the doctors were exaggerating.”
Hatcher considered that, remembered Deborah in the hospital bed. He gestured toward her with his chin. “Yesterday you were bandaged up.”
“The other wrappings were a precaution, I guess. I’m tougher than I look.” Deborah raised her cast, a blue fiberglass wrap, patterned like webbing. She tapped her finger against it. “The X-rays showed this arm only had a hairline fracture, not a compound fracture.”
In the confines of the car, her scent was almost unbearably arousing. She ran her cast-free hand back over her ear, tucking her hair behind it. A simple movement that sent a mild current through his testicles. He knew it couldn’t be even close to the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, but she definitely made it seem that way. Whatever “it” was, this woman had bushels to spare.
“You’re a lucky woman.”
“The truth is, I think your brother shielded me with his body. I don’t really remember it, though. One of the doctors told me that might explain it. That I was thrown clear without being hit as hard. He saved my life.”
Hatcher felt a twinge of something unfamiliar, realized it was pride. Family pride. His brother sounded like a real hero. If, he reminded himself, this Garrett fellow really had been his brother. He shifted his view out the window.
“What time is it?” Hatcher asked.
Wright glanced at the dashboard clock. “A little after eleven thirty.”
Hatcher twisted to look over his shoulder. A black sedan was two cars back. He was almost certain it had been there when they left the station, same number of cars behind them.
“I need to stop and get some clothes.”
“Do you have a place nearby?”
“No. I mean at the store. Any store will do.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Look, I’ve worn this outfit for three days, washed it once. I slept in it last night, thanks to Lieutenant Hair Club’s crack detective work. I haven’t showered since yesterday morning. I can show up without a shave. I can show up without a suit. But I’m not showing up without a new shirt and some clean underwear. That’s where I draw the line.”
“And I said I don’t like the idea. I’m not a taxi service. I’m giving you a ride to the funeral home. That’s all.”
“I thought I was released from custody.”
“You were.”
“Fine.” Hatcher leaned forward between the front seats and pointed. “You can drop me off at the next corner then. Have a nice life.”
Wright rolled her eyes. “All right. You win. One stop. Just be quick.”
“I need you to come in with me,” Hatcher said.
“Why?”
Hatcher sat back and stared out the passenger window, watching the reflections for the sedan. “I’ll tell you when we’re inside.”
Wright looked back. Narrowed eyes studied him. Hatcher ignored her.
“In that case, Mr. Mysterious, we all have to go.” She glanced at Deborah. “I’m not leaving you by yourself.”
The car slowed. Wright ducked her head slightly, taking in the storefronts. After a minute, she pulled over and parked against the curb directly beneath a no-parking sign, then placed a police-business sign on the dashboard.
Hatcher stepped out onto the sidewalk. Deborah was already out of the car, pushing herself up on her cane. She was moving away from the street before he had a chance to help her.
The sedan passed by. The windows were tinted. It didn’t slow down. That didn’t mean anything, he knew. But he also reminded himself he wasn’t in a red zone.
“Stacy’s Men’s Shop,” Wright said, gesturing toward a store twenty or so yards back. “Let’s make it quick.”
The door buzzed when Hatcher pulled it open, the noise dissolving into the hip-hop music playing through a speaker system. He took in the styles pinned to the wall and dressed on headless mannequins for a moment, then headed for a rack of shirts. The store was cramped and dark, geared toward a younger, more urban look than he was used to, but he managed to find a short-sleeve khaki button-down with epaulets that looked relatively conservative and a plain tan T-shirt to go underneath. The closest thing to normal underwear they carried was an assortment of silk boxers. He found a pair of dark gray ones in his size, then took everything to a dressing room in the back and changed.
“Looks good,” Wright said, watching him as he approached a counter along the wall in the new shirt. Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Guy with a build like yours can probably wear anything.”
A thin kid in a jacket with rolled-up sleeves and a skinny leather tie asked him if he was ready to checkout. Hatcher handed him the tags, asked him for a bag to put his old clothes in.
“With tax, that will be fifty-eight ninety.”
Hatcher gestured to Wright. “Don’t look at me. It’s on her. Courtesy of the NYPD.”
Wright’s mouth parted into a semi-gape and stayed that way. A crease ripped down her forehead as she bore her eyes into him. The only sound she made was a short grunt that seemed to have a question mark at the end of it. Hatcher almost felt bad for doing it to her. Almost.
“I’ll pay for it,” Deborah said.
“No.” Hatcher waved her off. “They owe me. Don’t worry, Detective.” He patted Wright on the shoulder, gave it a gentle shake. “I’m sure Maloney will approve your chit and reimburse you. Besides, I’m broke.”
Shaking her head, Wright removed a wallet from her purse and pulled out a credit card. She was making some more noise now, little puffs of disgust under her breath.
“This better mean you’re going to say yes,” she said.
Hatcher was already heading toward the door with the bag. “I’m still thinking about it.”
The drive to the funeral home took a little over thirty minutes in moderate traffic. It was a brick building, low and long, with a wide green awning reaching out from an oversized set of front doors. Wright was able to park close, since the lot was almost empty. It was painted with continuous white lanes instead of spaces, designed to allow cars to file out in rows.
“Do you want us to wait here?”
“It’s up to you.”
Wright and Deborah stayed. Hatcher went in through the front. A small placard on an easel indicated the home was holding services for Garrett E. Hatcher, Beloved Son and Brother, with dates and times for the viewing and burial.
There were two sets of doors, one on each side. The doors to his left were spread open to form a wide entryway. He wandered through them into a large reception area. It was daintily furnished with formal, ornate furniture, like the tearoom of someone very old and very wealthy. And very boring, he noted. Wood chairs with rounded backs and lion’s-paw feet. Gold velveteen upholstery. Pairs of matching prints in gilded frames depicting floral arrangements adorned the walls.
Another set of doors opened near the far end of the room. Hatcher’s mother passed through, holding a Kleenex to her nose. Carl had a supporting arm around her waist. Hatcher watched her face. She wasn’t exactly weeping as much as exhaling sad, labored breaths like sighs.
Karen Hatcher noticed her son and tilted her head. She was forcing a smile, but the edges of her lips sagged, tugged by some unseen weight. The lines roughing her brow seemed to be deeper than those caused by crying, and Hatcher sensed what she was feeling was different than the simple heartache of burying a son. More solitary. The kind of sorrow she could probably never share. The anguish of burying her chance to reclaim something lost, perhaps.
“Jacob. I didn’t think you’d make it.”
“Sorry. There was a bit of a misunderstanding.”
Carl made a short humming noise, but didn’t say anything. His upper lip twitched into a sneer. The man sneered a lot, Hatcher recalled.
“They’re about to take him to the cemetery,” his mother said. “We’re supposed to follow. If you go in, they may still let you see him.”
Hatcher nodded and headed in the direction she indicated, not particularly wanting to see his brother’s body, but knowing she would take it the wrong way if he declined.
The viewing room was much smaller than the waiting area. It did double duty as a generic chapel, with pictures of doves and clouds and a few framed prayers in Victorian script. A man in a black suit was securing latches on the casket as Hatcher walked up the aisle between the rows of chairs. A mortician, Hatcher presumed. The man glanced back and stopped what he was doing, smiling politely. The smile of someone trained, either by himself or others, to appear pleasant but not happy. Hatcher wondered if people called him Mort. He looked like a Mort.
“I’m Jake Hatcher.”
Mort’s eyebrows rose in understanding and he nodded. Without introducing himself, he turned back to the casket and undid the latches on one side. The casket lining was a shiny white satin that glowed brightly as Mort propped open half of the lid. Hatcher wondered whether funeral directors were also trained not to shake hands or volunteer their names. It seemed possible. Grieving people were probably not in the mood to make new acquaintances.
“I’ll give you some time to pay respects,” Mort said, before leaving through a side door.
This is probably how I’ll end up, Hatcher thought, pausing before he approached the casket. Alone in a box, mourned by a mother, maybe a father, but likely no one else. Hatcher stepped closer, stared at the body.
So this was the man who everyone was saying was my brother, he thought. What was left of him, at least. Was it still a person? Like a car was still a car, even after the engine failed? Or had what made it a person already left? It was a question he’d pondered in the past, but not one he’d thought about recently. It had been a while since he cared.
He realized that Garrett looked different, less real than in his photos. His skin was a coppery shade of peach, thick and textured with makeup. It seemed to hang a bit loose around the low points of his jaw. The face reminded Hatcher of silly putty, like it could be molded and stretched, maybe pick up a cartoon image from a newspaper if he pressed one against it. Even so, Hatcher saw more of a resemblance now than he had before. Slight similarities in the cheeks and across the nose, in the shape of the eyes and brows. Not a lot, but enough. Maybe, he thought. Maybe.
An awkward feeling started to seep in. Faking it, going through the motions for his mother’s sake, suddenly played wrong in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. There were moments where it seemed like the kind of person you were was being decided, recorded somewhere, not in spite of no one else being around, but because of it. There had to be a right way to do this. But how were you supposed to say good-bye to someone you never met, someone who may not even be there anymore?
Hatcher thought about saying he was sorry for what had happened, then considered something like, Wish we’d had the chance to meet. Neither seemed appropriate. He placed a hand gently on Garrett’s chest, trying to conjure up some words.
That last story Tyler Culp had been blabbering on about, the one about Chinese ghost brides, popped into his thoughts. The motivation for those people was now rather easy to follow. He’d never met this man in life, didn’t even know if he really was his brother, but still felt an odd sense of obligation pulling at him as he stood there, like wherever the owner of this body was now, he was helpless. Helpless and alone. And he would never be this close again. No wonder grieving family members imagined ways they could help.
“Hope there’s something else,” Hatcher finally said in a quiet voice.
As Hatcher started to lift his hand, he thought he noticed movement around Garrett’s eyes. He leaned closer, studying them, and saw them part to narrow slits. Something cold clamped down on his wrist, holding him in place. Garrett’s head lolled in Hatcher’s direction. The subdued radiance of a gaze penetrated from the thin space between the lids. The eyes on the other side were lifeless, milky, like they were covered by some thick plastic film. But they managed to bore into Hatcher anyway. A thousand-mile stare, straight at him.
Garrett’s mouth opened about an inch. A low, hissing sound came out. Two words reached Hatcher’s ears, garbled, barely audible, but somehow unmistakable.
The hand maintained its grip as Hatcher belatedly sprang back. He raked at his arm, managed to pry the hand loose. Garrett’s eyes stayed the same, but something that was there a moment ago seemed to have left. The arm stayed up, fingers curved into a claw. It leaned out motionless over the edge of the casket.
Hatcher gasped for a breath, feeling his heart rioting against the walls of his chest. “Holy shit.”
“Sir!”
Urgent footfalls broke the icy silence. Hatcher looked up just as a very upset-looking Mort moved past him.
“Sir, please! You mustn’t disturb the remains! I know how difficult this is. But you must show some respect for the deceased.”
Hatcher said nothing, still trying to catch his breath. The man repositioned Garrett’s arm so that his hands were folded across his chest. Then he adjusted the head. He pressed the eyes closed with great care, one at a time, using both hands on each.
“See there, you could have torn through the eyelids doing that. We use eye caps to keep them closed. They are not meant to be opened again.”
“Eye caps,” Hatcher said, absently. He rubbed his wrist, still able to feel where the steely fingers had latched on to him. He kept imagining that it tingled, though he knew that wasn’t true.
“This can be a very emotional experience for some people. You’re not the first to want one last look into a loved one’s eyes, one last embrace.”
Taking his time, Mort finished his adjustments and closed the casket lid. He turned to Hatcher, regarded him briefly, then put a hand on his shoulder. Hatcher stared past him at the casket, trying to find a load-bearing spot once again in reality, unsure of where it was he’d just visited.
“You must remember, while you’re here to say your final farewells, he has already departed. That is no longer your loved one. Merely his earthly remains.”
Earthly remains. Hatcher continued to stare at the casket until Mort nudged him gently by the shoulder, encouraging him to exit. His legs wouldn’t move at first, or didn’t seem to be moving, but after a few moments he realized he was being led away. He found himself looking back over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the obsidian wood, half expecting it to open, trying not to doubt his sanity as he wondered how and why those earthly remains managed to voice two words to him. Two words he shouldn’t have even understood. Words that shouldn’t have made sense, but did.
Protect her.
IN THE WAITING AREA, HATCHER’S MOTHER WAS SITTING in one of the chairs. She was propped on the edge, her legs tucked to the side and her hands lying palms up on her lap. Carl was standing near her, looking out a window.
She looked up as her son appeared. “Jacob? Are you okay?”
It took a few beats for the words to register. Hatcher pulled a palm down his face.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Seeing him really affected you, didn’t it?” She stood and moved toward him with her arms out, reaching for his hands. “You poor dear.”
His legs felt numb. There was a bubbly-popping sensation lingering in his head. His stomach had dropped to somewhere around his knees. Nothing in the room had the solid look or feel it was supposed to.
“I’m okay,” he said. He let go of her hands to touch his wrist again. “Really.”
Movement in the hall, visible through the doorway, caught his eye. It was Wright. She was drifting in a small circle, apparently reading the screen of her cell phone, punching in numbers. He excused himself and headed her way.
Wright looked up as Hatcher approached. “Is something wrong?”
“Where’s Deborah?”
“She didn’t feel well.” Wright flipped her cell phone shut and pocketed it. “She went to use the bathroom.”
“Where?”
Wright pointed toward the far end of the entry hall. “In the back. Why? What’s wrong?”
Hatcher brushed past her without responding, cutting toward the back of the building. Wright fell in behind him and almost broke into a trot trying to keep up.
“Hatcher, what’s the matter?”
A door marked Restroom stood near a rear wall. Hatcher knocked on it. No response. He knocked again, harder. This time he heard something. Could have been a woman’s voice, but it was muffled.
He grabbed the knob, tried to twist it. Locked.
Protect her.
He took a step back and kicked the door as close to the latch as possible, stomping it with the bottom of his shoe. The wood gave off a crunching, splintering sound, but didn’t budge.
“Jesus, Hatcher! What the hell are you doing?” Another kick, a bit harder this time, and the door broke through the latch plate, a crack splitting the molding toward the ceiling and floor. The door swung inward, dented.
The bathroom was open and relatively spacious. Deborah was bent over a sink to the left, holding a wad of toilet paper to her nose, her reflection in the mirror in front of her. The basin was filled with bloody water. She looked at Hatcher over her shoulder.
“Nosebleed,” she said.
Hatcher tossed a few glances around the confined space. There was nowhere for anyone to hide. There wasn’t even a stall, just a toilet.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Anything happen to you?”
“I’m fine. I get these all the time. I appreciate your concern, though.” She eyed the door, then the cracked frame. “I’m not sure the funeral parlor is going to feel the same way.”
As if on cue, Mort came hurrying up.
“What’s going on?”
“False alarm,” Hatcher said.
“Good Lord, look at this!”
Hatcher glared at Wright. “Don’t worry, the NYPD will reimburse you.”
“Hey!” Wright yelled. Her face had slackened in some places, hardened correspondingly in others. She looked at the funeral home rep, then at Hatcher, obviously fighting to maintain her composure. She stabbed a finger toward him. “I need to have a word with you. Right now.”
Wright nodded politely at Mort and gestured for Hatcher to follow her.
Hatcher turned to Deborah. “Wait right there. Don’t move.” He pointed at the man in the black suit. “You, keep your eye on her, Mort.”
“What did you call me? My name is Peter. And what do you mean? Where are you going?”
Ignoring him, Hatcher spun and walked off.
The hallway was perpendicular to the one that led to the front of the funeral home, bisecting the building with exits in each direction. Wright was walking toward one of the sets of glass doors. She paused a few yards out, waiting for Hatcher to catch up, eyes flashing, one of her heels impatiently digging into the carpet. When he came within a few steps, she started to say something, but he grabbed her arm before she could, stopping her words in her throat, and began walking even faster, pushing her along until they reached the doors. He pushed one of them open and propelled her through.
“Get your goddamn hands off me!”
Hatcher yanked her close, pressing her arm against her side and lifting her by it enough to force her onto her toes. “You tell me what the hell is going on. Right now. Right this minute.”
“I said, get your hands off of me! Are you crazy? You want to be put away for real?”
When he didn’t let go, she punched at his face with her free hand and twisted, shaking and yanking until she was able to rip herself out of his grasp. Her breathing was suddenly heavy, her face flushed. She whipped her suit coat back and slapped her hand against her holster. Her eyes immediately shot down to her hip.
“Looking for this?” Hatcher asked, holding up her Glock.
Wright’s expression froze. She jumped forward, tried to snatch the pistol out of his hand, but wasn’t fast enough. He held it above his head, baiting her with it.
“I’m placing you under arrest,” she said, stepping back. “Don’t be stupid. You give me that gun right now, or I’ll add resisting and assault with a deadly weapon. And it will stick.”
“You tell me what’s going on right now, or you’ll wish I just assaulted you.”
She placed her hands on her hips. Her breaths were starting to come under control. “Are you saying you’re going to shoot me? That’s the kind of guy you are? I can’t believe I was so wrong about you.” She shook her head, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, all but trembling with rage. “I’m not kidding. You are under arrest, and now you are officially resisting and threatening a law enforcement officer.”
“Fine. Take me into custody, if you can. But when I finish quaking in my boots, I’m going to forcibly take your keys off your person, as your type would say, drive your car to a very bad neighborhood, and see that this fine piece of Austrian craftsmanship winds up in the right hands. Or wrong hands, depending on how you look at it. By dawn, I’ll lay money it’ll be linked to at least three robberies and two homicides.”
“And you’ll be put away for a long, long time. What is wrong with you, Hatcher? You can’t be this stupid.”
“I may be stupid, but I’ve spent the last twelve years working for the government, so I know a little about how things work when you have a chain of command and a bureaucracy. And I’m betting I can guess the rest. So try this for stupid. First, I’ll be telling my story about you blackmailing me to join your little extracurricular operation to whoever will listen. Newspapers, IAD, my public defender. Then, I’ll tell them how you gave me your gun as part of it, the one that shot its way through Harlem the night before. How many Internal Affairs reviews will you have to endure, do you think? Four? Five? You think Lieutenant Fake Hair likes the look of your ass enough to take all the blame himself? You think your career will ever recover?”
“What kind of a threat is that? What the hell has gotten into you? Have you lost your mind? First busting down that door? Now assaulting a cop? You think you can just do whatever you want?”
“Funny, I’ve been wanting to ask the same thing about you and the NYPD. I want to know what the hell is going on. And I want you to stop lying to me. Now.”
She stared at him for a stretch, seething. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can start with the lies, and what I’m talking about will become remarkably clear right away. You’ve been feeding them to me since we first met.”
“This is ridiculous. If you just give me back the gun, this will go a lot easier on you.”
“I’m about to lose my patience.” He rolled his shoulders back until his something popped. “It never ends well when I lose my patience.”
“Hatcher, you’re making a big mistake.”
He tucked the gun into his waistband. “Fine. When the family of the person or persons killed by your gun takes your deposition as part of their lawsuit, you can tell them how it was all my fault. Now, are you going to hand me the keys? Or are you going to break your hands punching me while I take them and rough you up in the process?”
She didn’t respond. Hatcher nodded grimly and took a step toward her.
“Wait,” she said, holding out her palms. “I’ll make you a deal. You give me back the gun, I’ll tell you.”
Hatcher pulled the Glock from his waistband, held it up. “And if you don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“If I give it to you and you don’t tell me, what then? Are you going to try to arrest me again? Then whine when I take it away? Again?”
“Just give it to me, damn it.”
Without breaking eye contact, Hatcher pressed a button on the side of the handle, ejecting the clip. He ratcheted the slide back, popping the live round out of the chamber. He caught the bullet in midair with the same hand that held the clip.
He handed her the gun. The slide was locked back, exposing the empty chamber. “Here.”
“I have another clip, you know.”
“And I’d have the gun back in my hands before you even touch it. You might even break a nail. Now talk. Tell me what’s going on. The truth.”
Her lower jaw shoved forward, her bottom lip stuck between her teeth. “I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
“Why have you been lying to me?”
“What makes you—”
Hatcher shot forward, grabbed hold of the gun by the top of its exposed barrel.
“Okay! Okay. Jesus! Calm down. It’s not what you think.”
“And just what do I think?”
“That we’re out to get you somehow. Damn you, Hatcher—it has nothing to do with you. Not like that.”
“I’m waiting.”
Wright’s shoulders sagged a bit. She hesitated as she started to speak. “Your brother may have been involved in something bad.”
“Keep going.”
“We have reason to believe he was hired to kill someone.”
“Hired? Like a hit man?”
“Yes.”
Hatcher glanced back through the side door to the funeral home. “You think he was hired to kill Deborah?”
“We don’t know.”
“But that makes no sense. She said he saved her. Witnesses saw it.”
“Yes. But she may have misinterpreted his actions, along with everyone else. We just don’t know.”
Protect her. “I think you’re wrong, but what else.”
“What do you mean? That’s it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Quit saying that!”
“Look, something weird is going on here, and I’m really getting sick of being jerked around. If you want me to help you, it stops now.”
The muscles circling Wright’s eyes bunched together. She appraised him, her tongue visible through her cheeks as she worked it around her mouth. “The man your brother fought with.”
“What about him?”
“His name was Walter Sorrenson.”
“Okay.”
She stared at the ground for a few seconds. “The ME concluded he died of a coronary. That he was dead before the ambulance struck him. Him, or your brother, for that matter.”
“Okay.”
“A little less than an hour before that happened, Walter Sorrenson keeled over at a deli. A doctor happened to be there, tried CPR. He gave up after a few minutes, pronounced him dead. No pulse. Pupils fixed and dilated.”
“You’re saying this was the same guy?”
Wright shrugged. “Witnesses said he got up a moment later, looking dazed. From what we could tell, his shirt was unbuttoned from the CPR. Somebody tried to guide him to a chair and grabbed the shirt as he stumbled. The guy said he simply shrugged it off and kept walking. He paused briefly at a mirror near the entrance, then snatched a raincoat from a rack by the door. The owner had worn it the day before and left it there. It was the same coat we found on the body. It had the owner’s name in it.”
“So the doctor made a mistake,” Hatcher said, cradling his wrist and twisting it slowly. It felt cold. “The heart attack didn’t kill him, but maybe it damaged his brain, turned him into a psycho.”
“That’s what we thought. Except the ME confirmed the heart attack did kill him. It was a massive one. He was dead before he fell off his chair.”
Hatcher took a few seconds to process the information. “Why do I think that’s not all?”
Wright’s gaze dropped back to the ground, focusing on a spot near Hatcher’s shoes. She took a long time before responding. “That guy whose neck you broke in the hospital? He’d just been sent down to the morgue before that. Died of an embolism.”
“You’re saying he was already dead, too? That’s impossible.” He glanced back through the glass into the funeral home. The reflection wouldn’t let him see far inside. “Dead people don’t walk around.”
“See why we weren’t anxious to tell you? Or anyone? They must not have been dead. Da—Lieutenant Maloney’s been keeping this under wraps, personally trying to run the traps, consulting the feds. We’re not even letting the info out among the department. We think somebody may have slipped them something, some kind of toxin that made them seem dead.”
“But you found nothing in their blood,” Hatcher said, guessing.
Wright shook her head. “No, we didn’t. We’re still having them look. Maybe it’s some kind of rare agent, a hal lucinogen that works in small doses. No one knows.”
Hatcher doubted that. “What about Sherman?”
“What about him?”
“He was in that room. You saw him.”
“Hatcher, I saw some bald guy on the floor holding his head, and I can barely remember even that. It could have been him, but Lieutenant Maloney says he doesn’t think so. He personally reviewed the security tapes. There was nothing showing anyone who could be Sherman coming or going.”
“I’m the one who put him in the fetal position. It was Sherman. Maloney was too busy trying to trip me up to listen. He needs to lose his hard-on for me and find the creep. That’s where you’ll get some answers.”
“You’re wrong about Maloney, Hatcher. He was the one who insisted you be released. He said he believed you, and once Deborah St. James corroborated what you told him, he decided to let you go. But she said she didn’t remember seeing anyone else in the room, either. We’re hoping to talk to Sherman, but we don’t have enough to issue a warrant.”
A passing cloud blocked the sun. Hatcher watched its shadow fall over her. He popped the ejected round back into the clip and tossed it to her.
“There’s more I want to know, but that’ll do for now,” he said.
The sound of the magazine slamming home and a round being chambered caused him to stop as he turned toward the door.
“Don’t you ever do anything like that again,” she said.
He looked over his shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry. Next time I’ll do something totally different.”
She stomped past him, pulling open the door and forcing him to take a step back. She paused as she started to go through. “Would you have really beaten me up to get my keys? Really have given this gun to some bangers? Are you that kind of guy?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think about you,” she said. She studied him for a long moment before stepping inside.
When she was about ten paces in, he called her name. Still in the doorway, he reached into his pocket and tossed something at her. She leaned forward and caught it. A ring of keys. They jangled in her hand as she stared at them.
“And if I’m going to protect Deborah while you use her as bait,” he said, “I expect you to buy me lunch first.”
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