Every Fifteen Minutes (32 page)

“They want me to give them my clothes. Can they do that?”

“Eric, they're doing you a favor. You dress like a middle-aged lesbian.”

“Okay, enough.” Eric smiled again. “I see where Laurie gets it from.”

“Any other questions?”

“No.”

“Excellent! I'm going to call in the locals.” Paul pointed at Eric. “Clam up, Ralph Mouth. I'm going to make a speech and try not to say the F word. I'm doing great so far, right?”

“Great.”

“My wife's idea. Because of the kids. We have a swear jar, like a TV family. All we need is a laugh track.”

“My ex-wife curses all the time.”

“Really? Maybe she was okay.” Paul held up the Footlocker bag. “By the way, I brought you sweats and a new phone, and I'll give you a ride back to work.”

“They suspended me. Can they do that?”

“Prolly. See what I mean?
Criminals.
” Paul scowled. “We'll discuss it later. I'll drive you home. Give them your Amish outfit, we're leaving.” He turned around, crossed to the front door, and opened it. “Detective Rhoades?”

“Right here.” Detective Rhoades appeared at the door, a sour expression on his face, with Detective Pagano behind him.

“Step into my office.” Paul gestured them into the interview room, deadpan.

“Thank you.” Detectives Rhoades shifted his gaze in Paul's direction. “I'd like to resume the discussion, since you two have had a chance to confer.”

“Thanks, but no.” Paul shook his head, neatly. “The interview's over. You're not charging him, and he's not answering any more questions. Don't tell me, let me guess—you didn't Mirandize him.”

“He's not in custody.”

“I take it that's a no. You didn't read him his rights?”

“Correct. He's not being arrested.”

“You may not have arrested him, but we both know he was in custodial interrogation.”

“It wasn't.” Detective Rhoades folded his beefy arms, but Paul looked him directly in the eye, unintimidated.

“You didn't read him his rights because you didn't want to tip him off. You knew he was a suspect when you picked him up, yet you neglected to inform him of that fact. He's a respected doctor, and he's trying to do the right thing. You tricked him.”

“We didn't read him his rights because it wasn't required by law.”

“The judge will disagree with you. If you move against my client, I'll file a motion to suppress your videotape.” Paul gestured at the black window. “Plus you picked him up at work, for maximum terroristic effect. You didn't even care about the mental health of the patients on his unit, all of whom are straight-up nuts, if not right about the CIA. That's bullying and intimidation. How do you sleep at night?”

“I don't like your attitude.” Detective Rhoades frowned.

“Neither does my wife.” Paul gestured to Eric. “My client is happy to leave you with his dorky shirt and Mom jeans. I'm embarrassed by the way he dresses—and I've represented pimps.”

Detective Rhoades cocked his head. “You know, every lawyer from Philly is just like you. Smart-assed.”

“And every cop from the sticks is just like you. Needs a mint.” Paul motioned the detectives out the door. “Let's leave our baby boy in the dressing room, shall we? He's old enough to find his own zipper.”

“I'll send in a patrolman to preserve the chain of custody,” Detective Rhoades said, leaving the interview room.

The room emptied, and Eric glanced at his watch, with a start. It was almost six fifteen, and he saw patients at home tonight, starting at seven o'clock.

He'd have to hurry.

 

Chapter Thirty-seven

Eric emerged from the police station with Paul, and the two men barreled through the media blanketing the sidewalk. There were more reporters than before, holding up cell phones, microphones, and videocameras. Photographers raised portable metal grids of klieglights and used camera flashes, which went off like so many tiny explosions. The reporters dogged the two men, filmed their every step, and shouted questions:

“Mr. Fortunato, who's your client?” “Sir, who are you?” “What's your name? “Why did you change clothes?” “Is this in connection with the Bevilacqua murder?” “What were you doing in there for so long?” “Come on, give us a comment!”

Eric kept his head down, hiding his face. The media knew that Paul was a criminal lawyer, and unfortunately that identified him as a suspect, unlike when he'd entered the building. Then he could've just been someone giving information, which was what he'd thought he was. But the reporters smelled blood and chased them to the parking lot.

“Paul, is he a person of interest or suspect?” “Did they confiscate his clothes?” “Why didn't they arrest him?” “Is there any new information in the Bevilacqua case?” “Do the police have any leads?” “Come on, please, give us a quick statement. Tell us who he is. This is your chance to get out in front of this!” “Sir, sir, what's your name? Do yourself a favor and make a statement before the police do!”

Eric and Paul broke into a light jog toward Paul's black Mercedes SUV, which was parked illegally in the packed parking lot. Paul chirped it unlocked on the fly, and they reached the car and jumped inside the front seat. Paul started the engine, and the reporters surrounded the SUV.

“This is awful!” Eric recoiled, shocked. Camera flashes popped all around, and a massive set of klieglights switched on, flooding the SUV with white-hot light. He turned instinctively away.

“Don't hide your face. Hold your head high and look forward. Don't look at them.” Paul threw the car into reverse and backed out, honking the horn.

“Be careful not to hit anybody.”

“Why? That's my favorite part.”

“I took an oath. Do no harm.” Eric faced forward, forcing himself not to make eye contact with any of the reporters. He'd seen scenes of the media like this in movies, but he never realized how chaotic it was in reality.

“I took an oath too. But I crossed my fingers.” Paul kept reversing and honking, scattering the reporters. “You know, the cops could come out and do crowd control, but they won't.”

“Why not?”

“Because they want the pressure on you. They want you to be film at eleven. Like I told you, they got the aces and you're just figuring out there's a card game.” Paul put the car into forward gear and hit the gas, steering toward the exit.

“They're not going to follow us, are they?” Eric could see in his peripheral vision that reporters were running to their cars and news vans parked along Iven Road.

“Don't worry, I'll lose them. You're riding in eight cylinders of a tax-deductible getaway car.” Paul took a quick left, zooming past the picket fences and privet hedges in front of the tasteful homes on the back street, then took another right turn through the lovely neighborhood behind Lancaster Avenue.

“I'm supposed to see patients in my private practice tonight.” Eric glanced at the dashboard clock, which read 6:32. “I have the first appointment at seven o'clock, at home.”

“Get the new phone and cancel them. You can't see patients tonight. I need to get the facts of your case.” Paul glanced at the rearview mirror, taking another right turn.

“I can't divulge confidential information to you, either.” Eric slid the phone from his pocket, hating what he had to do. He never canceled an appointment, and his private patients needed him, too.

“I have to know as much as you can tell me. The boy, the girl, and the frozen yogurt.” Paul pulled the Mercedes into the bumper-to-bumper traffic, heading west.

“My house is in the other direction.” Eric looked down at the new phone, missing his old phone, which contained his entire life, plus a cute picture of Hannah on the home screen. He'd missed talking to her last night and he'd have to make sure he spoke to her tonight.

“I'm leading them the opposite way, just in case. But I actually think we did lose them.” Paul checked the rearview again, with a grin. “See, criminal law can be fun!”

“Way to go,” Eric said, grateful. Suddenly the ringing of a cell phone reverberated inside the car, and the lighted GPS screen on the dashboard changed to read Laurie Calling …

“It's big sis!” Paul hit a button on the steering wheel, answering the call. “Hey, honey! Mission accomplished! The
Eagle
has landed! Tell me how much you love me.”

“I love you, Paul.” Laurie's voice sounded amplified and mechanical over the speaker system. “You're smart, you're not dumb, like everybody says.”

“‘I can handle things! I'm smart! Not like everybody says. I'm not dumb! I'm smart and I want respect!'”

“‘You broke my heart, Fredo. You broke my heart.'”

Eric didn't know what they were talking about. “What are you guys saying?”

Laurie chuckled, over the speakers. “It's
The Godfather,
the extent of my brother's cultural literacy.”

Paul nodded, driving. “I'm Fredo, she's Michael. She gets to be Michael because she's older.”

“Because I'm smarter,” Laurie shot back.

“Way harsh, sis.” Paul grinned. “Anyway I'm rolling home with your boyfriend. Keep it up and I'll take him back to the hoosegow.”

“Paul, he's not my boyfriend, he's my colleague.”

“Yeah, right, he said you were
friends.
Ha!”

Eric ignored the awkward moment. “Laurie, thanks for calling Paul. I don't know what I would have done without him.”

“Yes!” Paul hit the steering wheel in delight. “Another satisfied felon!”

Laurie groaned. “Paul, calm down. Where are you guys? Eric, aren't you coming back to the hospital?”

Eric tasted bitterness on his tongue. “I can't. Believe it or not, I'm on indefinite suspension.”

Laurie gasped. “Are you kidding me?”

“I know.”

Paul clucked,
tsk-tsk.
“They dissed my boy here! What kind of crap is that? You can't get a more dedicated employee, all he talks about is his patients. That's why he's perfect for you, Laur. Workaholics should be together so they can breed more workaholics, which will boost the economy and save the country. And when America does well, Europe does well, and the rest of the world follows. It all begins with you two, Laurie. You and Eric. Save the universe—or don't. Your choice.”

Eric smiled, against his better judgment. “Laurie, we're going to my house. We're almost there. I'm going to cancel my private patients.”

“Text me the address. I'll meet you. Bye, guys. Gotta go.” Laurie hung up.

Paul hit the button, looking over. “I did good, right? I'm quite the matchmaker.”

Eric wasn't about to talk about his love life, or lack thereof, anymore. “Excuse me, I have to call my patients.”

“Go ahead, I won't listen.”

“If so, I have a diagnosis for you.” Eric pressed in the phone number of his seven o'clock appointment, Jean Carfoni, whose number he remembered because it was similar to his own. He held the phone to his ear, waiting for the call to connect. He adored Jean, a middle-school teacher he'd been treating for depression caused by a long battle with CLL, a chronic blood cancer.

“Hello, who is this?” Jean said, picking up.

“Jean, hi, it's Dr. Parrish. I'm afraid I'll have to cancel our appointment tonight. I'm sorry it's such short notice. I'm hoping you haven't left the house yet—”

“Dr. Parrish? Thank God! I've been calling you. Are you okay?”

Eric didn't like the worry in her voice. “I'm fine, and I'm sorry I didn't call you back.”

“You know, this is going to sound crazy, but I thought I saw you on TV. They didn't say your name but I swear it was you, at the Radnor police station. The news was about the murder of that girl from Sacred Heart. It wasn't you, was it?”

Eric couldn't bring himself to lie. “I'm sorry, but I can't explain. May I call you later to reschedule?”

“Yes, of course,” Jean answered, her tone puzzled. “Call when you can, Dr. Parrish.”

“Thanks, and I will. I have to go, good-bye.” Eric hung up, shuddering. “Damn it.”

“Don't stress. Hang in.”

“Thanks.” Eric looked out the window, as twilight was taking over. People were driving home from work, talking and texting on their cell phones, but they were separate from him, in other vehicles, behind glass. He wasn't
of
them, not anymore. The police suspected him of murder, and he might have been responsible for the death of a young girl. He had a suicidal patient, who had to be more desperate than ever. He didn't have a job or a wife; he didn't even live with his own child. Eric felt apart even from himself, wearing clothes someone else had picked out, generic gray sweats.

“Call your patients,” Paul said, softly.

Eric raised the phone to his ear, called information and got the number, then canceled on his other patient, who, mercifully, had not yet heard that he was suspected of strangling a young girl to death. When he finished the call, he filled Paul in within the confines of his confidentiality, and Paul listened carefully, dictating notes into his cell phone.

They took the back roads to Eric's house, turning onto his street. As they got closer, Eric looked ahead to see that his front door had been broken, the wood splintered in two. “They broke the door down?” he asked, appalled.

“Sorry, bro. That sucks.”

“Is this more bullying tactics?”

“No, they were just trying to get in.”

Eric didn't smile.

“No, really. That's how they execute a search warrant. How else are they going to get in?”

“How about they call the landlord? And they
leave
it that way, with a broken door? That's not secure.”