“Hello.” The voice was young, feminine, slurred.
“Who is this?” asked Romero.
“Who are you looking for, mister?”
“The owner of this phone.”
“Oh, him. He’s out of it. You know, mister, I have never seen anyone go down so quickly.”
“Is he okay? Where is he?”
“We’re in the bathroom. I put some water on his face. He’s coming around.”
Romero heard her say, “Hey, babe, you okay? There’s a man on the phone for you.” Romero listened for a reply. He heard none.
“Mister, he doesn’t look too good. I’m going try to help him outside for some air.”
“Good idea,” Romero said louder than he intended. “Which club are you in?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at the name when I came in.”
Romero squeezed his eyes shut. “Ask someone, please.”
In the background, Romero heard the music grow louder, voices resound. She was walking he concluded. Next, he heard the same traffic sounds emanating from the phone as the ones he heard on the street where he was.
“They’re out here somewhere,” Romero told Thorn.
The two of them scanned the crowd feeling Billy’s life depended on them. That’s when they noticed a crowd gathering at a doorway. They raced three clubs up, across the street. Two men were helping Billy to the ground. He slumped against the brick wall, his head between his knees.
As soon as Romero and Thorn reached the group, the people suddenly had places to go. They disbanded as if they were about to be arrested. Romero dropped to one knee, lifted Billy’s chin.
“Can you open your eyes?”
Billy’s eyes stayed closed. His mouth hung open.
“Say something. Can you talk?”
Romero checked Bill’s carotid pulse in his neck. It was beating as if it was showing off for the finale of a show.
“This doesn’t look good,” Romero told Thorn.
“He’ just high, that’s all,” a female voice said.
For the first time, Romero noticed the young lady standing, holding on to Billy’s phone. Her eyes were at half-mast. She spoke with distinct pauses between words.
“High off what?” Romero asked.
“Hey, I’m sorry, are you his dad?”
She suddenly seemed to sober up.
“No, he’s not,” said Thorn.
“Oh, shit, a cop,” she said under her breath.
“We’re doing a show in the club down the street,” Thorn said. “This here,” he tugged at his shirt, “it’s just a prop for the show. Do you know what he had?”
“Prop my ass. I know a cop when I see one. I don’t know shit.”
She wiped Billy’s phone with her shirt and dropped it on the ground. She walked away.
“Let’s see if she’s right. If he’s just high, maybe we can walk him to the car.”
Romero and Thorn stood Billy up, one on each side of him, supporting Billy with his arms draped across their shoulders.
“We’re going to try to get you to the car. Do you think you can make it?” Romero asked.
Billy gave a faint nod. They walked him to the car like they were tin soldiers going to do battle. Romero opened the door to the back seat. They eased Billy inside.
“He’s not looking good. He’s too peaceful,” Romero said.
Thorn took a closer look at Billy. He agreed.
“Maybe we should take him to the hospital,” Romero said.
Thorn ran his hands down his face. “We’re going to be in a heap of hot water with this one. Mayor Hardass is going to have our heads.”
“We have to think of Billy first. We don’t know what in hell happened in there.”
Thorn thought for a second. “Look, man, the girl said he was high. Now, we both know Billy don’t mess with that shit. He’s naive to it. So, here’s what we’re going to do.” Thorn went to the trunk. He returned with an orange tote that resembled a woman’s makeup bag. “If we were called out to a scene and the person was like Billy is now; what would we do?”
Romero grinned. “Narcan.”
“That’s right. It can’t hurt.” Thorn opened the box and took out the prefilled nasal spray. “If it works, good for us all; if not, we’re in deep.” He held the device up to Billy’s nose, inserted it into his nostril, and pressed the plunger to deliver the dose.
Romero’s phone trilled. He slipped it from his pocket and answered.
“I’ve been working on the mayor,” Copeland said.
“Have you been able to break him?” Romero asked.
“I’ve made some leeway. It seems he’s being backed into a corner. Either he does what the blackmailer wants or he loses everything. And here’s the worst part; if he does comply, the city will be in ruins, but he will still be mayor.”
“Everything? What’s everything?”
“He will have to give up being mayor if he doesn’t give in to the demands.”
“What the hell could be so terrible that he would have to give up his position?” asked Romero.
“Your guess is as good as mine. He is tight lipped. I think he is planning to do what is being demanded. He has no intention of stepping down as mayor no matter the cost.”
Thorn jabbed Romero. “Hey, he’s coming around.”
“Who’s coming around?” asked Copeland.
“I’ll tell you later. I need a favor. Check the background of a jail guard for me.”
“Sure. Let me get a pen.”
Romero waited giving her time.
“I’m ready.”
“His name is Ethan King. I need his background and his current address. Get his license plate and info on his car if you can.”
“Will do. Who is this person?”
“He’s the last person that we know of to see Gina. He may be involved in her kidnapping.”
Chapter 38
The interview room was like all others—imposing. Gray, industrial strength tile layered the floor from one corner to the next, covering all four. Dull, white, featureless walls stretching from the floor to the ceiling. A three-dimensional cube with six faces, twelve edges, and eight vertices. A geometrical box, holding secrets, and confessions, and compressing evil inside its flaps. There was nothing that set it apart from the others in the Marston Precinct other than the man sitting in the cold, hard, steel chair. The cheap one that folded in on itself when it was no longer needed. But when it was in use, it held the suspect neatly in place under the drab silver table.
The man sitting in the chair peered around, taking in the panoramic view of his present quarters. He used the back of his hand to wipe sweat from his brow. The room was like an oven. He looked up, toward the sound of the air blowing through the vent that had been fitted into the ceiling above his head. The hellish heat circulated around the man, whispering the evil deeds of those before him. It was music to his ears. A tune worthy of his attention.
He examined his meager surroundings further. When he arrived at the elongated mirror on the far wall, he paused. No reason for a mirror, other than someone perched on the other side like a pervert peeping in, he thought. A closer inspection was warranted. He got up and ambled over. Stood in front of the mirror. He couldn’t see to the other side, but he had fifty bucks saying the man on the other side had a view. The same view he was looking at right now.
His view was of Ethan—himself. He scratched his chin. Swept his tongue around his front teeth. Wrinkled his lips. The man in the mirror was a man he held in high regard. A man of integrity. A man who resembled his father: strong jaw, piercing black eyes. And now, his hair was thinning at an early age. The hair loss had begun in his twenties. He calculated how long it would take before he would need to shave his head bald just as his father had done. He ran his hand over his black, slicked down waves. Two years tops, he thought.
He heard the heat blowing through the vent again. Sweat trickled from his scalp, down his neck, all the way down to the crack of his
ass. He grimaced. Circles of sweat were visible at his armpits. His pale blue shirt was now polka dotted with darker blue circles. He took off his tie and loosened the top two buttons.
He glared at the mirror. They were not going to sweat him. He was a King. And the Kings are the apotheosis of human kind. They always rise to the summit. He turned sideways. Tipped his chin toward the ceiling, cut his eyes at the mirror.
“Ready when you are, Detective.”
Chapter 39
Romero and Copeland had left the suspect alone in the interview room for going on an hour, waiting for him to squirm, watching him through the two-way mirror. Jeffrey Brodsky was watching also.
“This makes us square, right Counselor? Romero stuck out his hand.
“You bet, Detective.” Jeffrey grasped Romero’s hand. “Now, get me something I can use to free my client.
Romero nodded. The two detectives and the lawyer turned to look at Ethan through the two-way mirror.
“Smug little bastard,” Romero said under his breath.
“Let him roast a little more. He’ll break,” Copeland said. “By the way, what happened with Billy last night?”
Romero gave Copeland the broad strokes of their evening. “I checked on him before coming to work. Linsey says he’s doing great.”
“Linsey?”
“Yeah, I left him with Linsey. She’s a nurse. Remember?”
“Right, I forgot.”
“Here’s the problem. The drug can sometimes outlive the Narcan, and then the drug will take over and bam—once again the person is not breathing. We gave her an extra dose of Narcan just in case.”
“Right, I forgot.”
“I Think it’s time.” Romero turned the knob and went inside. The suspect was seated with his hands clasped atop the table. Romero peered at him from the opposite side. The steel chair scraped across the tiles as Romero raked it toward him. He planted his boot on the chair and folded his arms on his thigh. He dropped his eyes down to the suspect, face as expressionless as a blank page.
Ethan’s eyes lifted to meet Romero’s.
“You can turn the heat down, Detective. You do not need to fritter away your time trying to sweat anything out of me. I know all the tricks you guys waste your time on.”
Ethan shifted in the metal, fold-up chair.
“Look at you…standing over me with your gun in my face. Do you think that scares me?”
Ethan paused, crossed his legs.
“What are you, Detective, five-ten? Six feet?
Ethan cocked his head, looking up at the detective.
Funny, shouldn’t you be shorter? Griesenbeck. That’s what?”
The detective remained stoic, standing across the table from Ethan King with one foot on the metal chair and his arms resting on his knee. Ethan King let out a mirthless chuckle.
“You sure do not look like a Griesenbeck to me. Maybe, Garcia or Cruz if you were shorter. Are you from Mexico, Detective? Or maybe you have a couple blood lines running through your veins. Is that it? I am right, are I not?”
Ethan uncrossed his legs, leaned closer to the detective, planted his arms on the table and knitted his fingers.
“So, we are going to play it that way. This is a new one. The silent treatment. We are not lovers, Detective. The silent treatment will not work on me. Would you like to know why?”
Ethan was always in control of his temper. Until now.
“Because I do not give a fuck.”
Spittle flew across the table. The detective pulled a handkerchief from his pant pocket, wiped his face.
“You cannot frame me for a crime I did not commit. A crime that may not have even occurred.”
One line of sweat rolled down Ethan’s back.
The detective’s boot hit the floor with a thud. He scraped the chair back farther from the table and sat down.
“Tired of standing, Detective? Bored? Disappointed?”
The detective let loose a long sigh. “Bored, Mr. King. It seems you like to hear the sound of your own voice. Why don’t you tell me a story?”
Ethan peered around at the dingy brick walls and the elongated mirror on the one facing him.
Two-way, no doubt, Ethan was thinking.
No windows. One heating vent above his head blowing out hellish hot air. Beads of sweat were beginning to collect under his collar. He looked down at his shoes resting on the industrial worn-down tile.
“Well…you sure know how to treat a guest. I like what you have done with the place. I certainly hope you did not pay your decorator too much. It looks like she cheated you.”
“You’re a smart man, Mr. King. Why haven’t you asked for a lawyer?”
“I do not need one. I guess you did not bother to research me before you came calling.”
“Oh, I researched you alright. Pretty boring stuff. Looks like you spent your entire youth in college amassing a four-point zero GPA. Missed all the parties, did you? How about dating? Missed out on that also? Let me guess…you weren’t interesting to the young ladies. They found you as entertaining as a crumb on the floor.”
Ethan snorted, “It seems to me that you have not taken the time to evaluate the validity of your data.”
“You got any aliases, Mr. King?”
“Me? Of course not. I am a law-abiding citizen.”
Ethan sniffed as if something smelled rank.
“You, on-the-other-hand, Detective, skirt the law to meet your needs. Bend it like rubber, so it conforms to your wishes.”
“Lawyer?” Romero asked.
“Why?” Ethan spread his arms wide. “You have not charged me with anything. You said you wanted to talk. Well, here I am. And you have been ignoring me like a sulky lover.”
“Funny you should use that reference, Mr. King. When was the last time you saw your girlfriend?”
Chapter 40
“You see, Detective, there you go again. The validity of the data matters. I do not have a girlfriend, as you say. Girlfriend. That is a bit juvenile.”
“Okay, Mr. King, have it your way. Lady friend. Is that grown-up enough for you?”
“Lady friend? I do not have one of those either. Female associates, maybe, but no intimate relationships you seem to be alluding to.”
“Well, sir, let’s discuss your female associates.”
“Certainly. I do not have a problem with that as long you do not try to twist and turn the rubber band.”
“I ask you again, Mr. King, would you like to have your lawyer present?”
“And I repeat my previous answer—no. Are you recording this little episode? Voice? Video?”
“No. There’s no reason to record. I haven’t arrested you for anything. You agreed to come in willingly.”
Ethan leaned back, inhaling deeply as if he had just taken in a long, satisfying drag on a cigarette.
“Well, shall we get on with it, your inquiries? Come on, Detective. Shoot. Question number one.”
“What happened to Georgina Green?” Romero asked.
Ethan slammed forward as if he had been pushed forcefully from behind, coughing and choking on his own spit.
“Wha…what did you say?”
“You heard me, you piece of slime. As slimy as you are, I will make sure you don’t slip away on this.”
Romero narrowed his eyes, glaring at Ethan. The room was quiet save the hiss of the heat blowing through the vent.
“Well, I guess it is time for me to give you the silent treatment, Detective. Read me my Miranda rights and arrest me, or let me go. I know my rights under the law.”
“Of course, you do. How many years did you study criminal justice?
No answer from Ethan.
Detective Romero Griesenbeck tipped his chin.
“And what else did you study?”
Romero snapped his fingers.
“Right. It was…what? Creative writing? What the hell is that anyway?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
“Shouldn’t we in fact refer to you
as Dr. King?”
“So, you did your research, Detective.”
Ethan clapped his hands in slow motion.
“Ph. D. Correct? From one of the top universities in the country,” Romero said.
The detective stood up, went to the mirrored wall and shouldered it. “How many degrees do you actually possess, Doctor. And why are you working at the prison as a guard?”
Ethan raised a brow.
“Research. There is no better research than the data you gather first hand.”
The detective screwed up his face.
“First hand? Research on what? What could you possibly be researching in a prison and what does Gina Green have to do with this whole scenario?”
“I guess you did not gather all of your data before you nabbed me. It is true that I have a Ph. D. in psychology. Yes, I also have a bachelors in creative writing. The sciences; did you happen to uncover those awards with your astute research? Doubtful, right? I am correct. Am I not, Detective?
Romero reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a toothpick. Wedged it between his teeth.
“I have it in the data,” Romero assured Ethan.
“This has been enjoyable, but I have a deadline to meet,” Ethan said.
He stood up. Pushed his chair back and took a step toward the door. Romero was on top of Ethan before he could take a second step, pulling his handcuffs off his belt and whipping Ethan around with his arms behind him, his face smashed sideways on the table. Handcuffs snapped around Ethan’s wrists with a loud click.
“Now, that was not necessary, Detective,” Ethan said trying to catch his breath.
The detective jerked his prisoner up off the table by his arms.
“Dr. King, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of Gina Green.”
The 13th Hour: A Marston Thriller (The Marston Series Book 4) Page 11
