by Mike Pace
He liked the first choice better, but it all came down to the now contaminated glass he held in his hands. There was no way to dispose of it and remain in the apartment. He spotted her purse on the floor beside the couch. Using a kitchen towel to prevent fingerprints, he fished out her pink cell phone and dialed 911. He was about to speak in a falsetto voice when he thought of voice-prints. Were they reliable? Could they match a disguised voice?
“This is the 911 operator, please state the nature of your emergency.”
He set the phone on the floor next to LaRyn’s head. Hopefully, the operator would hear her moaning in pain and trace the cell.
“This is the 911 operator, can you tell me your name? This is the 911 operator, I can hear you. Please keep this line open.”
Tom snatched the fifty from the table, took his glass, and hurried out of the apartment.
As he closed the door, he saw the little girl staring at him with a curious look in her eyes.
CHAPTER 36
Fortunately, there were few cars on the road as Tom wound his way south toward the city. Because his mind raced in so many different directions, he drove purely on instinct. As had now become his habit—his MO? Did he now have an MO?—he tossed the Grey Goose vodka bottle and the empty glass with the bloody tampon into a dumpster behind a strip shopping center.
After leaving LaRyn’s apartment, he’d parked in the shadows a block away, waiting for what seemed like hours—but was less than ten minutes—to confirm arrival of the emergency response vehicles. There was no way he could take a chance on her dying while waiting for help. He decided to revert to option A. He’d hide the glass and vodka bottle in his car and return to the apartment.
He reached for his phone. No use disguising his voice because his cell would be traceable. Needed a story. Okay, he’d explain he forgot his briefcase—he’d have to take his briefcase from the trunk back into the apartment—and returned to find his client lying in her own vomit. Good story, Mr. Booker, except if she was incapacitated on the floor, who let you in? A toddler too short to reach the lock? Okay, so how about—? Thankfully, just then he heard the sound of approaching sirens. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and drove off.
As he proceeded south, his thoughts turned to Saturday night. Less than forty-eight hours until the deadline. Two girls left, Emma 2 and Janie. The image from his cell screen continued to flash in his head. Chad and Britney in his daughter’s bedroom. In her bedroom. Were they really there? Or was the picture on the screen Photoshopped for his benefit? He assumed they had Photoshop capabilities in hell. After all, it was hell. They could do pretty much whatever they wanted, because it had become clear the big guy in the corner office on the top floor wasn’t going to intervene.
He crossed Florida Avenue and turned right on R Street. At that hour the 15th Street intersection traffic light flashed red. He briefly slowed, but seeing no approaching cars from either direction on 15th, continued through the intersection without stopping.
Suddenly, out of the corner of his right eye Tom saw a small, dark-blue car with no headlights barreling south on 15th, heading straight for him. Instinctively, he cut the wheel hard left, swerving wildly, barely missing the blue car.
The Lexus spun out of control. Tom saw the streetlights swirling around him and for a moment his mind flashed back to his childhood, riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Maryland State Fair. Then he saw a steel-gray streetlight post flying directly toward him.
Then he saw nothing.
Then he saw a bright light. He squinted, and his vision gradually came into focus. An Asian guy in a white coat stepped back. Tom was in a hospital room. He could make out Zig and Eva standing behind the doctor.
“He’s awake,” said Eva.
“Welcome back,” added Zig.
“Mr. Booker, you’ve suffered a concussion,” said the doctor. “We’ve found no broken bones, probably thanks to the airbags. You’ll need to remain overnight for observation, but there’s a good chance you can go home tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” His throat felt raspy.
Tom’s memory returned quickly—LaRyn, 911, the blue car. “My car?”
“Totaled,” said Zig. “Saw the car. Doc’s right. But for the airbags, Eva and I would be deciding the opening hymn for your memorial service. I want you to know I would’ve insisted on giving the eulogy.”
Eva squeezed his hand. “God, Tom, what were you doing in that neighborhood that time of night?”
Tom faked wooziness, which wasn’t at all that hard to do. “Memory’s kind’ve blurry. Think I went to see a client. Only time she could see me.”
“LaRyn Walker,” said Eva. “Tech said you mentioned her name in the ambulance when you were fading in and out of consciousness.”
Great. Wondered if the subject of a poisoned tampon also happened to emerge.
“Sorry, don’t remember much now, but sure it’ll come back to me.”
“When you saw Walker, was she okay?” asked Eva.
“Okay for a drunken druggie whore, I guess. Why?”
“She must’ve overdosed or something after you left. They were bringing her in the same time as when you arrived at the emergency entrance.”
“She all right?”
“She was alive when they carried her in.”
A perky nurse poked her head in the door. “Excuse me, folks, but Doc says we need to let the patient get some rest.”
“Just one more minute,” said Eva.
Tom saw her and Zig exchange glances. Something was up.
Zig squeezed his shoulder. “See you tomorrow. And remind me to buy stock in Toyota. That Lexus saved your life.” He waved, then exited, pulling the door closed behind him.
Tom could see concern on Eva’s face, and he got the distinct impression it had nothing to do with his condition.
The gun.
“Tom, the police on the scene found a gun, a Glock automatic pistol on the pavement under the car. They’re assuming the gun came from the car and, as you know, possession of an unregistered gun can be a felony in the District.” She was too smart to ask him if it was his gun.
“A gun?” His response was pitiful, no better than a teen confronted with an empty beer can found in the family Buick. Fortunately, his circumstances permitted him to cover his response with closed eyes, rocking head, confused expression, and slurred speech. The possibility of Eva buying his performance was slim, but not impossible.
“Fortunately, since the gun wasn’t found on your person or in the car itself, possession is not cut and dried. But they did use a BlueCheck on you when you were in the ambulance.”
“What’s a BlueCheck?”
“Portable fingerprint device. About the size of a cell phone. Most squad cars now carry them as part of their standard kit. We challenged their use when they first came out, but didn’t get anywhere. So if your fingerprints were on the gun, they’ll charge you. Even without fingerprints, they might still charge you.”
He attempted a repeat performance. “A gun?” Worse than the first time.
She paused, trying to read him, and judging from her expression, doing a pretty good job of it. “At the risk of stating the obvious, I wouldn’t discuss the matter of the gun with the cops, or anyone else for that matter. If they ask why you’re not being cooperative, tell them you were acting on advice of your attorney.”
He grinned. “You’re my attorney?”
“For the moment.” She offered half a smile. “And unless you’re feeling tip-top tomorrow, stay home, take it easy.”
“My lawyer and my doctor? What have I done to deserve this?”
“Not much.” She bent over and kissed him lightly on the lips, then exited.
Okay, now what was he going to do? Every muscle in his body ached, but he had to get out of the hospital. And then what? Good chance his prints would be found on the gun, since he hadn’t used gloves when he removed it from his bedside table drawer. Maybe a small possibility the disruption of the crash compromised the Glo
ck’s grip, but it was a long shot at best.
Think logically. He had to kill another human being by midnight Saturday. His weapon had been taken from him. There was a real chance the cops would be looking to arrest him and jail him over the weekend, pending bail review on Monday.
Solution? Only one, really. He had to get out of the hospital, find Chewy, beg for another gun, then find a drug dealer and shoot him. First step, unhook the IV.
The door opened and the perky nurse entered. “Something to help you sleep, Mr. Booker.”
“No! I don’t want—”
“Doctor’s orders.” Before Tom could react, she had produced a syringe and squirted its contents into his IV tube. The effect was immediate.
“Please, I need—”
Sleep hit hard, no chance to dream its only blessing.
Five hours later, Tom awoke to find himself staring into the doleful face of Detective Percy Castro.
CHAPTER 37
Thinking he might’ve been dreaming, Tom closed his eyes, but Eva’s voice coming from the other side of his bed quickly dashed any hope Castro was a mirage.
“Tom, don’t say a word.”
He figured the prints must’ve come back positive on the gun. A problem, but not necessarily a big problem. He’d seen in his limited time working for PDS that CPWL cases for first-time offenders carrying no prior record usually resulted in the defendant being released on his personal recognizance.
If he could get in front of a judge this morning, he’d be out by the end of the day, and have more than twenty-four hours to find Chewy, get another gun, and proceed with his crude but, he believed, fail-safe plan. He wouldn’t simply fire once or twice at the target, he’d pump all of the bullets in the chamber at the dealer, leaving no doubt—wait a second. Castro was homicide. What’s he doing here? LaRyn Walker must be dead. Probably fingered him before she died. But what evidence did they have? Could they have? It would be his word against—
“Good morning, Mr. Booker,” said Castro. “Afraid I’ve got some bad news. Ballistics came back, confirmed the bullet found in Jessica Hawkins’ brain came from your gun. Also, a neighbor identified you as being in the neighborhood at or near the time of the murder.”
Tom heard the words, but was too stunned to process them.
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Jessica Hawkins,” said Castro, his voice soft, almost sad. “Please get dressed.”
“That’s…that’s impossible.”
Eva spoke sharply. “Tom, I said say nothing.” She turned to Castro. “Percy, we’ll waive Miranda. Can you give me a minute with my client?” Castro scowled. She pressed. “He’s not going anywhere. Just a couple of minutes.”
Castro paused. “Two minutes.” He shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Eva interrupted Tom before he could speak. “Listen to me. I meant what I said. No comments to the cops. No comments to anybody, including, by the way, to cell mates. Most would sell their own mother for a used porn magazine.”
Cell mates? Jesus. He couldn’t go to jail, the clock was ticking. “What about bail?”
“Very tough in a homicide case. If the judge sets it at all, it’ll be high. I’ll call Zig. Maybe he can put something together by Monday—”
“Monday?” He didn’t try to hide the panic in his voice. “Eva, I can’t wait until Monday. I need out right away, now!”
“Sorry, but by the time they process you through intake, it’ll be too late today. Bail reviews are only held for traffic and minor misdemeanors over the weekend, so Monday would be the earliest.”
She must have seen the fear in his eyes. “Don’t worry, it’s not like in the movies, you’ll be pretty safe. Just always keep your gaze straight ahead. Do not, do not look at any other inmate in the eye, do not agree to ‘protection’ from another inmate. Trust no one. Remember, inmates are notoriously good lip readers. There are no secrets. Keep to yourself, avoid even harmless chitchat. Don’t try to make friends, because for each friend you acquire, you also acquire all of his enemies. The food is edible but barely enough to feed a bird. You’ll need to supplement your caloric intake, so I’ll make sure there’s some money on your book for use in the commissary.”
He could tell she’d given this speech before. How could he explain he wasn’t concerned with his own safety, but had to protect his daughter?
He could feel the two minutes winding down quickly. “Where are my clothes, my wallet?”
“What do you need—?”
“In the back pocket of my pants.”
She opened a closet that contained his clothing. He could see dark brown splotches on his jacket and shirt. His blood. She found the wallet and handed it to him. He quickly found the slip of paper with Chewy’s number.
“Call this number. Don’t wait for a greeting. Just say Tom Booker’s going to DC Jail and needs protection. Then hang up. Don’t wait for a response.”
“Who is—?”
“Please, just do it.” She nodded. “One more thing. I wasn’t truthful with you. When Jess kept badgering me, I did go over to her place that night. The neighbor spotted me when she let out her dog. But I swear to you, I never went in. Knocked, rang the bell, no one answered. I left. Should’ve told you, but didn’t want you to think I had any feelings for Jess, because I didn’t. I was stupid.”
He could read the disappointment on her face. “We’ll worry about you and me later. For now, I’ll serve as your attorney until—”
“No ‘until.’ I want you to represent me, Eva. No one else. I want you.”
The door opened and Castro appeared with a patrolman. Castro’s voice now sounded very official.
“Time’s up.”
CHAPTER 38
Castro watched as Tom got dressed. The nurse entered.
“Excuse me,” said the nurse. “I know you guys are in a hurry, but Dr. Lin has to sign the release papers and he will be slightly delayed.”
Thus, Tom, Eva, and Castro settled into an uneasy silence until Eva’s phone beeped. She was needed in court and had to leave. She made a big show in front of Castro of advising Tom not to speak at all about the case. She promised to visit Tom in the afternoon “after he was settled.” After he was settled? She made it sound like he was moving into a new townhouse instead of an 8 x 10 cell. For a second, he thought she might give him a peck on the cheek, but wisely she simply offered a smile and left.
Castro carefully lowered himself into the ancient visitor’s chair, as if he were afraid his full weight might crush it to splinters. He nodded at the TV.
“Mind turning it to channel 47?”
Tom shrugged and tossed him the remote. Castro hit a couple keys and suddenly Oprah’s face filled the screen.
“Didn’t think she was on anymore.”
“Reruns.”
“You don’t seem to me to be the Oprah type.”
“My wife loved her. We both worked, so she insisted on recording her show. We’d watch it while eating dinner every night. Reminds me of Lita.”
“You’re wife’s not—”
“Breast cancer. Two years ago this November.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.”
Tom wasn’t a fool. He knew the cop was trying to encourage familiarity so Tom might accidentally say something he shouldn’t. The wife was probably in perfect health. But the sad, reflective expression on Castro’s face appeared real.
“I just want you to know I didn’t kill Jess.” God, his attorney had barely left the room, and he already had violated her direction.
“Probably should listen to Eva and not talk about the case,” said Castro.
“Right, sorry.”
Oprah’s show was more than half over, but the theme for the day must’ve been corruption in the church. She had two priests seated comfortably on her yellow couch.
She asked how men of God could do bad things, including abusing children.
Tom tuned out their answers and checked
the clock on the wall. Less than thirty-eight hours till he’d hear from Chad and Britney. Maybe the demon twins would cut him some slack. How the hell could they expect him to offer up a new human sacrifice if he’s in frigging jail? He glanced over at Castro. The detective seemed transfixed by the TV show.
“You look like a good Catholic boy, Detective. Probably go to mass every Sunday. You believe there’s such a thing as hell?”
Castro didn’t move, and, for a moment, Tom didn’t think the cop heard him. Then he spoke quietly without taking his eyes off the screen.
“In my business you see the absolute worst of humankind. Murder, rape, child abuse. And that just includes the normal aberrant behavior. Doesn’t count the true nut jobs who as a kid got their jollies pulling arms off bugs and setting cats on fire, then graduated to dismemberment, mass murder, and cannibalism.”
He turned his head to lock eyes with Tom. “There is one thing of which I am absolutely certain. Satan exists, because man on his own could not conjure up the raw evil I witness every day.”
Tom paused, then slightly nodded his head. He had the strange sense the man wasn’t being completely candid. But why would Castro feel the need to put on an act? Weird.
They both turned their attention back to the TV as the credits rolled.
“Do not respond to what I’m about to say,” said Castro. “This is not a question, I’m not questioning you. But you have me baffled. You seem like a good kid, a play-by-the rules kind of kid. Great education, great job. Great future. No trouble. Then your brother-in-law blows his brains out and you’re there. Two weeks later, your client drinks himself to death and you’re there. Less than two weeks later, a girl you dated takes a bullet in the brain and you were there. At about the same time, another client of yours almost dies from internal bleeding and you were there. Battaglia’s trigger finger has evidence of a latex glove, and a bottle of booze on Mackey’s table also has residue suggesting a latex glove. You deny you have latex gloves, but a search of your apartment reveals you were lying. You did have a box of latex gloves. Curious. Mighty curious.”
