John laced his fingers together, then lifted them into the air in a gesture of triumph. “You’re wonderful,” he said. “You’re beautiful, smart, strong, brave. Not only that, you’re my mother! How could any man not go nuts over you?”
Carolyn felt a rush of pleasure. She reached up again and tenderly stroked the side of his face. “Those were awfully nice things you said,” she told him. “A few minutes ago, you accused me of neglecting your sister.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” John told her. “I’ve been worried this past week. Sometimes I feel like Becky and I don’t have a father, that I have to take his place.”
“Her name is Rebecca,” his mother reminded him.
“I’ll never understand girls in a million years,” he said, shaking his head. “Whether your realize it or not, Mom, you and Rebecca are a lot alike. Big things zip right over your head, then you go through the roof over a stupid word or a name.”
“You might be right,” Carolyn said, never having thought of it that way. “We may have our differences now and then, honey, but I wouldn’t trade you for the world. I’m proud to have you as my son.”
“Yes,” John said, turning his eyes toward the ceiling. “There must be a God, don’t you see? Finally, something good might happen around here.”
At about the same time Carolyn, John, and Rebecca were about to sit down for dinner with Paul Leighton and his daughter, Hank Sawyer was standing at the bedside of Daniel Metroix. He’d been moved from intensive care to a regular room on the seventh floor of Methodist Hospital. Advising Trevor White’s relief officer to take a break and get himself something to eat, he quietly entered the room.
An orderly brought in a dinner tray. Hank looked it over, seeing a cup of broth, milk, a container of juice, a single slice of bread, and some type of pudding. Although he couldn’t recall much from the days directly following his own shooting, he seriously doubted if Daniel would be eating anything. If they’d brought something even moderately appealing, the detective would have helped himself. He’d skipped lunch and he was starving.
Daniel’s skin was as pale as a corpse, his face knotted in agony. When the detective reached down and touched his shoulder, his body stiffened and his eyelids sprang open. “Are you the doctor?”
“No, pal,” he told him. “I’m Detective Sawyer, with the Ventura PD.”
Daniel’s eyes closed again.
“I know how you feel,” Hank continued. “Hurts like a bitch, doesn’t it? A murdering piece of shit put a slug in me a few years back, in about the same spot as you were hit.” Seeing that Daniel was now awake and listening, he added, “It’s the cramping that gets you. That and the gas pains. Every day will get better. Hang in there. You know, try to ride it out. Nothing else you can do anyway.”
“Who shot me?”
“We were hoping you’d be able to answer that question,” Hank said. “Can you recall the make of the SUV or the license number?”
“No,” Daniel said, his right hand closing on the bedrail as a violent muscle spasm ripped through his abdomen.
“It helps if you breathe,” the detective said, grimacing as he waited for the spasm to pass. Once Daniel’s head slumped back against the pillow, he started asking questions again. “What about a physical description? Did you see the shooter’s face? Can you tell us his age, hair color, any distinguishing facial features?”
“He was white,” Daniel told him.
“That certainly narrows it down,” Hank said caustically. “Anything else? Like eyes, chin, mouth, teeth, scars. Since he was in a car, I don’t expect you to describe his clothes or build.”
“Dark sunglasses,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “I think he had blond hair. Either that, or he was wearing some kind of light-colored cap. I’m not certain. Everything happened so fast.”
“Tell me about this desk clerk at the Seagull Motel,” Hank said. “You said a man on the bus from Chino wrote down the address and told you it was the best place to stay. Was he another parolee?”
“No,” Daniel answered. “At least, I don’t think so. It wasn’t a prison bus. A number of people were released the same day. I don’t know where they went. One guy said he was going to try and stay in the area and get a job. Most of them wanted to find a bar and get drunk.”
“What did the man on the bus look like?”
“Older guy,” Daniel said. “I think he was in his forties. Seemed straight.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know,” he said, pressing the button on his morphine pump as another muscle spasm seized him. Once the drug reached his bloodstream, he added, “He acted sort of like you, or maybe some of the guards at prison. Tough guy, sure of himself, wearing one of those nice knit shirts.”
“Could he have been one of the guards?”
“If he was, I don’t recall ever seeing him,” Daniel answered. “And what would a prison guard be doing on a Greyhound bus? All those guys have cars.”
The detective picked up the slice of bread off the tray, holding it so Daniel could see it. “You gonna eat this?” When the man shook his head, Hank tore the plastic and shoved the bread into his mouth. Then he pulled up a chair and took a seat. “I have an acidic stomach,” he explained. “Kicks up a fuss when I don’t eat. What did the man who rented you the room at the Seagull Motel look like?”
Daniel remained silent a while, searching his memory. “Skinny, white,” he said. “Not too bright. Oh, and he had tattoos on his knuckles. I don’t know what the letters were, so don’t ask me. All I recall is that they were fancy writing, the same kind they use to write graffiti on walls.”
Hank leapt to his feet. Eddie Downly had the same type of tattoos on his knuckles. Of course, so did hundreds of other thugs and gangsters. Carolyn’s suspicion that Fast Eddie might have been involved, though, had became more believable. The office at the Seagull Motel had been wiped clean prior to the explosion. The crime lab wasn’t able to retrieve a single print.
“How many times did you see this man?” Hank asked. “You know, the clerk, the guy with the tattoos on his knuckles?”
“Twice, I think,” Daniel told him. “I checked in Monday about four. The guy was real antsy. I thought he might be on speed or something. He also had sores on his arms and face.”
Certainly sounded like a speed freak, the detective thought. When a person used amphetamines over a long period of time, the toxic chemical practically oozed out of their pores. Damn, he thought, Carolyn wouldn’t know if Fast Eddie had been a serious drug user; she hadn’t seen him for twelve months. A year in the life of a criminal wasn’t the same as that of a normal person. For all they knew, Eddie could have killed someone, raped numerous young girls, and robbed a dozen liquor stores.
Hank asked, “When did you see him again? You said you saw him twice.”
“The hot water didn’t work,” he told him. “I went down to the office to ask them to give me another room. The clerk claimed they were booked. He told me I’d have to wait for their repairman. I knew the motel couldn’t be full, as there were hardly any cars in the parking lot.” He stopped and pushed the button for more morphine, then closed his eyes to fight the pain.
“I wouldn’t be pressing you if it wasn’t for your own protection,” Hank said. “The captain wants me to pull the guard off your door. I need to know everything you can tell me about this room clerk.”
“He started yelling at me,” Daniel said, speaking with his eyes closed. “I decided taking a shower wasn’t important, so I left. There’s nothing more to tell. I never saw the guy after that.”
The detective stepped out of the room, called dispatch, and advised them to have a patrol unit get the photo lineup they’d shown to the girl Eddie Downly had raped over to the hospital right away. The problem was, Metroix was so heavily drugged that any identification he made wouldn’t carry much weight. All Hank wanted to do was make certain they weren’t wasting their time trying to tie Downly into the incident at the Seagull.
Every law enforcement agency in the country had already been alerted that a dangerous criminal had escaped.
On the Metroix case, however, they were all over the map. Hank knew they had to somehow pull everything together.
“Let’s talk about Chino,” the detective said. “Charles Harrison’s dead, by the way. That doesn’t mean he didn’t hire someone to take you out. He only croaked last night. We need to consider other suspects. Did someone have it in for you at the prison?”
“Not that I know of,” Daniel told him, more alert now. “I can’t believe Charles Harrison is dead. The way that man felt about me, I thought the hate alone was going to kill me. I never thought I’d outlive him.”
“You almost didn’t,” the detective pointed out. He tossed the plastic bread wrapper into the trash, then reached in his pocket for a toothpick. “You’ve got to be honest with me if you want us to arrest the person who shot you. Everyone makes enemies inside prison. Were you affiliated with any type of group or prison gang?”
“No.”
“Did you have a lover?”
Daniel looked shocked. “You mean a man?”
“Yeah,” Hank told him. “Not a lot of girls at Chino. First, let’s get something straight. If you got your jollies off with a man means nothing right now. I might bang a guy too if I’d been locked up as long as you were. No one’s going to put it in the newspaper. We don’t have one solid lead on this case. Zilch, understand? The shooters are well aware of this fact.”
“How?”
“No one’s knocking on their door. Since they got away clean, they may come back to finish what they’ve been paid to do. My job is to keep that from happening.”
Daniel suddenly became animated. “Carolyn? Is she all right?”
Carolyn, huh? Hank thought, rocking his chair back on its hind legs. Daniel had placed his parole officer on a first-name basis. Of course, after Metroix’s experience at the Seagull, Hank could see how he might feel their relationship extended beyond the normal professional boundaries. For all practical purposes, Carolyn Sullivan had saved his life.
“Forget about Officer Sullivan for the time being,” Hank said. “You didn’t answer my question. Did you have a lover inside prison?”
“No,” Daniel said, looking the detective straight in the eye. “I’ve never had a lover, male or female.”
Hank brought his chair to an upright position. For a long time, he gazed down at the floor. How many forty-one-year-old virgins were there? More important, how many men would admit such a thing? And sex was only one aspect of life that Metroix had never been given a chance to experience. He wasn’t a bad-looking man. He could have married, had a few kids, got himself a first-class education, even sold all those inventions. Carolyn thought his work was valuable, and he respected her opinion. The woman had the brains to know.
A young patrol officer stuck his head in the door, clasping a manila envelope. “I was told to deliver this to you, sir,” he said, placing the package in the detective’s hands. “Do you want me to hang around?”
“No,” Hank said, removing the contents of the envelope. “We already have enough men here at the hospital. We need you back on the street.”
As soon as the officer left, the detective released the railing on Metroix’s bed, then leaned over to show him the images. “Do you recognize any of these men?”
“That guy looks a little like him,” Daniel said, struggling to focus his eyes as he placed his finger on one of the pictures.
The detective sighed. The man he’d picked wasn’t Eddie Downly. “Are you certain?”
“I think so,” Daniel said, reaching out and pulling the photos closer to his face. “This one looks even more like him. He had weird eyes.”
Bingo, Hank thought. He’d fingered Eddie Downly as the clerk at the Seagull Motel. It couldn’t be classified as a positive ID, but at least it was a start.
“Take it easy, my friend,” Hank told him. Considering the hardships Metroix had endured, his childlike sincerity would tug on even the hardest of hearts. “In a few days, when you’re feeling better, I’ll stop by a restaurant and bring you a decent meal. Way I see it, you’ve been on the receiving end far too long. Between me and the lady, we’re going to do our best to turn things around for you.”
Chapter 19
Before they sat down for dinner Friday night, John discussed his desire to go to MIT with Professor Leighton in the living room while his daughter gave Carolyn a tour of the house. Rebecca followed on her crutches.
Lucy was a skinny girl with straight blond hair that fell to her shoulders. Several inches taller than Rebecca, she had braces on her teeth and deep dimples in both cheeks.
Because Paul had converted the formal dining room into a combination library and office, he’d added another room off the kitchen, furnishing it with a table large enough to seat twelve people, along with an antique breakfront filled with china and silver. The room was illuminated by a beautiful crystal chandelier.
“Most of the antiques belonged to my mother,” Paul told them as he took his seat at the head of the table. “All the tacky modern stuff, I picked out myself. A decorator told me I had to choose between the old and the new. I told her to get lost.” He lovingly ran his hands across the polished mahogany surface. “This is the same table I ate on when I was a child. Some things you want to keep forever.”
“That sounds like my mom and her cuff links,” Rebecca said, seated next to Lucy. “They belonged to my great-grandfather.”
The family’s housekeeper, Isobel Montgomery, was a wiry, attractive black woman in her late fifties with closely cropped hair. She served lasagna, salad, and homemade bread sticks soaked in garlic.
“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” Lucy asked anxiously.
“No, sweetheart,” Isobel said, untying her apron and placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I’m going out to dinner with a friend. Don’t forget the chocolate cake we made this afternoon.”
“Isobel’s been with us for eighteen years,” Paul explained after the woman left. “She’s one of the reasons Lucy decided to live with me instead of her mother.”
“My real mom can’t cook,” Lucy said, passing the salad bowl to John. “She has a housekeeper, but I don’t like her. She doesn’t speak English and she isn’t Isobel. Besides, my mother and stepfather are never home.”
John took a few bites of his salad, then reached for the large platter of lasagna. “This is great,” he said, wolfing it down.
Rebecca was munching on a bread stick. “I wish we had someone to cook and take care of us.”
“Mom and I take care of you,” John told her, knowing she’d hurt his mother’s feelings. “You talk like you’re an orphan or something.”
“I do not,” Rebecca snapped. “And the stuff you make tastes like dog food.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You’re almost thirteen. Why don’t you cook your own food?”
Paul stood, smiled, then rubbed his hands together. He picked up a bottle of wine that had been chilling in the ice bucket. “As long as your mother doesn’t object,” he said, sensing Carolyn’s offspring were about to get into an argument, “I think you guys should have a little wine. In Europe, children are allowed a glass of wine with their dinner.”
“You never let me drink wine before,” Lucy said.
“Tonight is special,” her father answered. “We’re going to make a toast to our new home and our wonderful new friends. What do you say, Carolyn?”
“It’s okay,” she said, admiring his ingenuity. “Half a glass, though. No refills.”
After they finished their meal, Rebecca and Lucy headed to the kitchen to prepare their dessert. Paul got up to clear the plates, but John insisted on taking care of it.
“You should keep your foot elevated,” Carolyn told her daughter.
“I’ve been sleeping all day, Mom,” Rebecca protested, leaning on her crutches. “My ankle doesn’t hurt anymore. Even the swelling has gone down.”
Her father sighed. “You’ll have to ask Ms. Sullivan.”
“Not tonight, Lucy,” Carolyn said. “Maybe next weekend you can spend the night at our house. Your father needs to concentrate on his book. We’ve imposed enough.”
The girls went into the living room. John asked his mother if he could go home. “Paul told me a way I could solve this problem I’ve been having trouble with. Everyone thinks Mr. Chang will use it on our final exam.”
“I’d rather you stay,” Carolyn told him. “We’ll be leaving soon.” She heard the girls giggling in the other room.
“They get along well,” Paul said. “Can I get you another glass of wine, coffee? John, we have sodas.”
“No, thanks,” he said, sulking.
“Coffee,” Carolyn said, knowing she had another sleepless night ahead of her. She could let John keep watch the next day.
“If you forget what we talked about,” the professor told John, “you can stop by tomorrow morning and we’ll go over it again.”
“Really?” John asked, perking up. “Are you certain? I’m sorry I caused a scene at dinner. I thought you’d never want to see me again.”
“Come with me,” Paul said, gesturing toward the living room. The girls were sitting on the floor next to the fireplace. Lucy was showing Rebecca pictures from the dance camp she’d gone to the previous summer. John took a seat on the sofa next to his mother.
The professor opened the hall closet and removed several large rolled-up sheets of paper. “I’ve been fascinated with roller coasters since I was a kid. One of my friends works for Arrow Dynamics. They designed ‘X’ for Six Flags. I bet him fifty bucks that I could come up with something better.”
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