Guilty as Sin (45 page)

The upshot was that he would live to tell about his adventure. The downside was that the cops would make him tell it over and over. Already he had related the details to the sheriff's deputy who had picked up the chase down Mill Road and arrived on the scene just moments after the crash. The patrolman who had taken the call to the Pack Rat had been next and another patrol officer who had been called in by the owner of one of the smashed cars on the route of the chase.

Now the unholy trinity of Steiger, Wilhelm, and Holt stood in a semi-circle around the end of the emergency-room examining table. All of them looked grim and surly, adjectives that likely applied to himself as veil. He sat on the table in his bloodstained, rumpled khakis, his shirt gone, cut to shreds by overzealous volunteer ambulance people. Dr. Baskir had swathed his ribs in a tight, unyielding bandage that kept him from inhaling more than a teaspoon of air at a time. His chin was split, his head felt as if someone had taken a ten-pound hammer to it, and he was fucking

cold.

"I've told you twice," he said through his teeth.

"You didn't recognize the guy coming out of the store?" Holt asked.

"He was wearing a ski mask. He hit me fast and kept on running. I don't know how tall he was. I don't know what he looked like."

"You don't know shit, do you, hotshot?" Steiger snarled. The overtures to buddyhood they had made in the Blue Goose Saloon earlier in the evening were forgotten now that he had been deprived of sleep and glory.

"What did he hit you with?" Wilhelm asked.

"Some kind of club. Short. Black. Hurt like fucking hell."

Holt traded looks with the BCA man. "Sounds like what Wright used to work Megan over."

"Sounds like. But it could have been just a flashlight."

"Or some piece of junk from that rat hole," Steiger groused. "Who the fuck robs a place like that? What's the point?"

"Good question," Mitch said. "The owner says he never keeps more than fifty bucks in the place, and that goes home with him Friday nights. All his help knows that."

"Maybe they weren't after money," Ellen suggested.

She stood just inside the door, leaning against the jamb, hoping she looked relaxed instead of dead on her feet. The men made a little break in their circle, looking at her with a certain amount of annoyance. She returned the favor, in no mood for niceties. Her gaze landed on Brooks, and a sharp sliver of alarm wedged into her at the sight of him. She forced her attention to Mitch.

"If it was Childs, maybe he had something stashed there," she said. "If he's tangled up with Wright, it might be evidence."

Wilhelm yawned hugely. "We're tearing the place apart right now. There had better be something there. It's going to take forever to go through it all."

"There's no guarantee he didn't take it with him," Mitch said. "And there's a good chance 'it' doesn't have anything to do with this case."

"Any word on the car?" Ellen asked.

"Childs drives an old Peugeot," Mitch said. "We got nothing on this Crown Vic—"

"Including the tag number," Steiger complained.

"It was dirty," Jay said. "It was dark."

"Yeah, yeah . . . Why should we assume it was Childs or that this break-in has one goddamn thing to do with the kidnappings? If you ask me, it's just another big huge waste of time, taking our attention off what we ought to be doing just because Truman Capote here decided to play Dirty Harry."

Jay cocked a brow. "There's an image for you."

The sheriff gave him a look. "My men have a description of the car. If they see it, they'll stop it. That's as far as we're taking it. I'm going home."

Jay tried to sit up a little straighter, immediately regretting it. "But shouldn't you do a house-to-house or garage-to-garage or whatever you want to call it? What if this is your guy? What if he's the one who took the Holloman kid?"

"Do we have any reason to think it is? Do we have any reason to think it isn't just some doped-up kid looking to score a few bucks?"

"But if it was Childs—"

Steiger turned his back and headed for the door. "I'm going to bed. Nobody call me unless there's a major felony involved."

"Man," Wilhelm said to no one in particular. "When the bean counters get a load of the overtime on this gig, they're going to eat me alive."

Mitch glared at him. "Tell them to sell tickets. They'll be back in the black in no time."

"Very funny."

As the agent disappeared into the hall, Mitch looked to Ellen. "He thought I was joking?"

Shaking his head, he turned back to Jay. "Bottom line here, Mr. Brooks. You should have let us handle it. We're the cops, you're the writer," he said in an exaggerated, patronizing tone. "Remember that from here on out. We've got enough trouble without having civilians kill themselves trying to do our jobs for us. If that deputy hadn't caught sight of you, you'd be a Popsicle by now. And if there'd been anybody in those cars you hit, I'd be hauling your ass downtown. I don't give a damn who you are. As it stands, you'll be getting a hefty citation."

"I'll pay the damages," Jay muttered. Working to dredge up some humor, he cast a hopeful look at Ellen. "Maybe I can sweet-talk my way out of that ticket."

Mitch barked a laugh. "Yeah, when pigs fly. Try it here, where there's a full medical staff to put the pieces back together." He turned to Ellen. "I'm out of here. There's nothing more we can do tonight. Wait and see what Wilhelm's guys come up with—but, you know, Steiger might be right for once in his miserable, brain-atrophied life—it could be nothing. I've got to get some sleep. I'm picking Megan up from HCMC at noon."

Ellen nodded. When Mitch exited the room, she suddenly realized the folly of coming down here. What had she been thinking? She could have sent Cameron as her backup; she had already taken one call for the night. Or she could have waited until morning. Brooks hadn't offered them any revelation, no evidence, nothing but a writer's hunch that the man he had pursued had been their man.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" she demanded.

"I wish I'd taken the insurance on the rent-a-Jeep?"

She just stared at him.

"So," he said, "is this where you tell me you think I staged it all to boost interest in my book?"

"I don't think you'd go so far as to risk killing yourself. That would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? Then again, the waiting room is SRO with reporters ready to tout you as a would-be hero."

Jay gave a harsh laugh that ended in a hiss of pain and eased himself down off the table, gritting his teeth. It wasn't that she didn't think him capable of concocting the whole thing as a publicity stunt, or calculating enough to capitalize on a real brush with death. But had he ever given her reason to believe otherwise? Had he ever given himself reason to believe, for that matter?

"Believe me, counselor. I'm nobody's hero. I had no intention of trying to catch the son of a bitch until he tried to kill me. That pissed me off."

"What were you doing there in the first place?"

"I was just riding around, contemplating the meaning of life. Ironic that I ended up damn near getting my ticket punched, isn't it?"

"Don't be a smart-ass."

"Oooh, that's a tall order, sugar. Might as well ask a cat to change his stripes."

Ellen refused to be amused. How could he make wisecracks? He could as easily have been in a body bag right now, could have been killed in any number of ways, according to his story. And the evidence bore his story out.

"Do you have any idea how long it takes to freeze to death on a night like this?" she asked.

"No, but I'd say I'm well on my way there." He opened and closed drawers in the table base in search of something to use as a shirt. "Christ, don't they have heat in this place? What do y'all do up here—freeze the germs to death?"

"Make all the jokes you want, but I personally feel that enough people have been broken or killed in this goddamn game! There's nothing funny about it!"

She turned her back to him, cursing herself mentally for letting her control slip. This wasn't the time or the place. He wasn't the man to lose it for.

She needed to hang on, tough it out. The hearing would begin Tuesday. She couldn't afford to let the pressure get to her now.

"I have to go," she whispered.

Jay watched her move toward the door, telling himself to let her go. Leave awkward enough alone. Then he reached out anyway and caught hold of her shoulder.

"Ellen, wait."

She stopped but didn't turn. Over her shoulder he could see she had closed her eyes.

"You didn't have to come down here," he said. He was glad she had; it had to be a sign of a crack in her armor, one that he might charm open to let himself in. "You were worried about me?"

"It must be the sleep deprivation."

"Must be."

He stepped around in front of her, hooked a knuckle under her chin, and lifted her face. Her skin looked too pale, accented by harsh shadows of exhaustion and etched with fine lines of strain.

"Thanks anyway," he whispered.

She let him settle his mouth against hers. It was just a kiss. Something both of them could easily walk away from, and would.

"Get some sleep," he murmured. The pirate's smile showed. "Will you dream about me?"

"Not if I have any sense left at all," she said sadly, and walked out.

Paul sat in his borrowed car at the end of Lakeshore Drive. He wouldn't dare stay long for fear some cop car would come rolling up and hassle him, and then the press would descend again. Two weeks ago he had sought out the media. Now he found himself sneaking around, driving someone else's car so he wouldn't be recognized. He was being made to feel like a criminal.

There was no one he could turn to for support. His family in St. Paul had never been anything but a burden and an embarrassment to him. He wasn't one of them—blue-collar, beer-drinking dullards. Collectively, they had the intellectual depth of a mud puddle. He had no real friends, he was finding out. The people who had called to offer their sympathy at the start of this ordeal now looked at him with a subtle reserve in their eyes. He saw it, sensed the emotional barriers they were erecting.

None of them had offered him the use of their car. None of them would have understood his sudden need for anonymity. A reporter had bartered with him for the use of this one—exclusive comments for occasional use of the dirty, nondescript sedan.

Karen was the person he wanted to go to. He had tried to call her tonight just to hear her voice as she answered the phone, but the number had been changed and the new one was unlisted. He couldn't go to the house because Garrett was there. Karen wouldn't come to him because she was frightened.

It wasn't that she didn't love him. He knew she did. He thought back to the last time they had made love, a week into the search for Josh. The day they found Josh's jacket out on Ryan's Bay. He had fought with Hannah that night. He had fought with Mitch Holt. Holt thought he should be more supportive of Hannah, that he shouldn't blame Hannah. Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. He had retaliated in his own way by going to Karen. Karen understood him. Karen loved him. Karen didn't blame him for anything.

They seldom met at her house, because the risk was too great. But he had gone there that night. She had taken him into the guest bedroom and they had made love on clean peach sheets. She did all the work of arousing him, teasing him, caressing him, riding him until he grabbed her and rolled her beneath him and fucked her until he couldn't see. She took everything he gave her and clung to him afterward.

"I wish you could stay."

"I can't."

"I know. But I wish you could." She raised her head and gazed at him. "I wish I could give you all the love and support you need. I wish I could give you a son. . . . I'd have your baby, Paul. I think about it all the time. I think about it when I'm in your house, when I'm holding Lily. I pretend she's mine—ours. I think about it every time we're together, every time you climax inside me. I'd have your baby, Paul. I'd do anything for you."

Of course, she couldn't do for him the thing he needed most now.

She couldn't be with him, couldn't support him, couldn't take his mind off his worries—because of Garrett. It was the fault of that North bitch that Garrett Wright was out on bail. He should have stayed in jail until the trial. After the trial he would be out of the way permanently.