Playing God (40 page)

"Tell me about that night."

"We'd been watching Dr. Pleasant. I say we... mostly it was Randy. We knew his habits. Picking up girls and having them... uh... service him in his car. We'd found this creep O'Leary who sometimes fixed him up with girls. I told O'Leary I wanted to party with Dr. Pleasant. He said he'd let me know. I suppose he hoped to recruit me or something. One night he called. Said to meet him at the donut place."

She grabbed a handful of tissues. "It's amazing what you can bring yourself to do..." There was a loud thud. A bird crashed into the glass, fell to the ground, flopped a few times, and lay still. "Oh no!" she said, her hand to her mouth. "I should go see—"

"Finish the story." Pain had settled in at an almost intolerable level. He was somewhere in never land, hanging on by his fingernails. He needed to finish this.

She told this part like it was about someone else. "O'Leary picked me up and took me to this grungy apartment. There was another girl there. I didn't get her name. Part black, I think. Pretty in a rather bovine way. We... well, you probably know what we did. I'm no prude but I can barely make myself say it, let alone believe I did it, and I made sure I left with Dr. Pleasant. It wasn't hard to do."

"Go on."

"We went out for pizza, and he was flirting like a date. I suggested we go somewhere and park."

"All this time, Randy was following you?" She nodded. "Who had the weapon?"

"I did. Randy made it. He has a little machine shop in his garage."

Evidence. Tool marks. Little shreds of metal.

"We parked where he was found. He gave me another fifty dollars and I started getting him... uh... excited. I had the rod hidden in the lining of my coat. When I thought it was the right moment, I pulled it out and..." She stared out at the fallen bird. "All that trouble and planning. All those years of hating. Then when I was there with a weapon in my hand, I couldn't bring myself to use it."

"Somebody killed him."

"I want to show you something." She showed him the heel of her left hand. It was swollen, with purple and yellow bruises. Then she stood, unzipped her jeans, and pulled them down. "Look at my knees," she said. He did his best to concentrate on the scabbed-over cuts and the big, dark bruises and not on her long, strong thighs.

"So?"

"I'm sitting there wanting to stab this man I've hated so long. I've got the weapon out, ready to kill him, and I'm paralyzed. My brain is saying 'do it, do it, do it,' and my hands won't move. Suddenly, this man jerks the door open, grabs me and drags me out of the car. When I'm out, he pulls the rod out of my hand and flings me away like I was a little bit of fluff. I got these bruises when I landed. He ducked into the car with the rod in his hand, and I got out of there without waiting to see what happened. I found Randy, got in the truck, and we drove away."

She bent down and pulled up her pants. Burgess watched with a twinge of regret as her thighs disappeared. Regret that her wounds had made her so callous. Long ago wounds, not the ones she'd shown him. "Tell me about the man."

"It was only a couple seconds," she said. "He was big. Strong."

"What'd he look like?"

"I don't know. He was wearing a mask with eyeholes over his face and he had his collar turned up. You know what that night was like."

"Gloves?"

"I think so."

"How big?"

She considered. "Over six feet. An inch or two. Ran maybe two-hundred-and-twenty? But that's a guess. It happened so fast."

"Could it have been O'Leary?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

"What kind of coat?"

"It was dark. I saw him for a few seconds." Burgess waited. "Dark," she said. "Wool. Short. A jacket, not a coat."

"Anything else?" She shook her head. "He say anything? Anything at all?"

"Not that I heard."

"He grabbed you and threw you out of the car and you ran away?" She nodded. "You went there to kill Dr. Pleasant, but this guy shows up and you run like a scared bunny? After all your planning?" Another nod. "Let's back up. While you were getting out the weapon, what was Dr. Pleasant doing?"

For a second, she seemed at a loss. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Sitting there with his eyes closed, feeling good."

"You had to stop what you were doing, get out the weapon. He didn't ask why?"

"No."

"How did the man who pulled you from the car know you had a weapon?"

"How the hell should I know? I guess he was watching through the window."

"And this whole time, Pleasant just sits there, waiting to be killed?"

"I wasn't taking any chances. I used roofies."

Rohypnol, just as Dani has surmised. "The guy who grabbed you, did you notice his car?" She shook her head. "Notice anything about him?"

She stared at her hands. Brought them up and twisted them thoughtfully. Then, slowly, "He had tattoos on his wrists."

"It's a hell of a story," Burgess said. He sighed, wishing she were a better storyteller or a better liar. Moved by her story about her mother, a story he knew was heartfelt, unconvinced by the ending. He wanted to tell her to run along and play and not be naughty again. Knew that was what she expected. Knew, regardless of his sympathies, that he couldn't condone homicide.

"It's true," she snapped.

"Then why didn't you come to us and tell it?" he snapped back.

"You know why."

He wasn't sure he did. "Think Randy might have seen anything?"

"I don't even know where Randy is. I'm pretty worried about him. He brought me back here, had some coffee, staring out the window like a man who's already moved on, and then left. I don't think he said more than a few words. I've called him a bunch of times. He's not there."

"I asked if you thought he might have seen anything."

"I don't know. I doubt it."

"Could the man have been Randy?"

"How could he be killing someone in a car when he was waiting for me down the street in his truck?"

"Was he waiting down the street?"

"Yes. Yes, goddammit, he was!"

"Did Randy hate him as much as you did?" She nodded. "But this man who pulled you out of the car was not Randall Noyes? Seeing that you were unable to complete the act, he didn't take over and do it himself?"

"No. I already told you. No. Randy doesn't have tattoos. You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

"You tell me how you went out to kill a man. I'm a cop. What do you expect me to do, congratulate you?"

She probably did. Despite the sad story and the "frank" confession, there was no remorse or regret. No doubt or uncertainty. Everybody lied in threatening situations, lied to cops. The problem was knowing when it mattered. Could she have seen tattoos in a split second on a man wearing a coat and gloves as she was being unexpectedly hauled out of a car? Could a man outside have seen in through iced-up windows? Was it realistic to think the doors had been unlocked and then this phantom killer had locked them? Was she lying for herself? Covering for Noyes?

He felt like he'd run a long race and reached the end only to find someone had stolen the finish line. Now it was his job to find it. That, at least, could wait until later. He closed his eyes, silently cursing the whole damned case.

Chapter 30

When he opened his eyes, she was dialing the phone. "What are you doing?"

"Calling the doctor."

"Forget it," he said. "We're going to Portland." His words seemed far away.

She tossed her shining hair, arranging herself to give him the full benefit of her drop-dead figure. "I'm not going to Portland."

It was wasted effort. She could have stripped off all her clothes and not have gotten a rise out of him. He was beyond any synaptic response except finishing the task at hand. "Willingly or unwillingly, you're coming," he said. "The easy way is you get in the car and ride. You talk to us. You go home. The hard way is someone guards you until I get a warrant and you go to Portland in handcuffs. Your choice."

Slowly, she hung up. "God!" she said. "I just poured out my guts to you and you're arresting me?"

Much as he wanted to strong arm her, he'd have a better shot at cooperation and a useful statement if he could get her to come willingly. "I'd rather you came voluntarily."

Sarah Merchant spoke from the doorway. "You're going to what? Make her go to Portland. Forget it."

"You're the one I ought to arrest," he said.

"I don't believe this."

"Believe it." What planet did they come from? Why would a person who'd admitted plotting a crime, stalking a victim, setting up the victim, manufacturing a weapon, and going to the murder scene with the weapon, find it odd when he didn't believe her
deus ex machina
explanation of the ultimate result? Why would a woman who'd shot a cop assume all would be forgiven because she was nice? "And go get me that picture of you and Randall Noyes."

She turned and stalked out of the room. Banging angrily up the stairs and back down again. Like he gave a damn.

He took the picture from her, shoved it in his pocket, and got cautiously to his feet. Would he make it across the room and up the stairs without falling flat on his face? How do you arrest someone when they can knock you over with a feather? That, he supposed, was why he had a gun. He limped to the phone and called Kyle. Woke him. He could tell by the sleepy tones and the woman's question in the background. "Write this down, okay?"

Bless Kyle, he didn't complain about the hour or what he'd been dragged away from. "Shoot," he said. Unfortunate choice of words.

Burgess gave him an economical shorthand version and said he'd be there in an hour and a half. Told him to wake Stan and send him to Brunswick to get Alana. Somehow this whole damned thing was coming together in the next twenty-four hours, or he was going to die trying. He felt like that might be preferable to his current state.

"You sound like hell, Joe," Kyle said. "Been up all night?"

"Up all night. Got kinda shot up. Tell you when I get there. Get a home address for Dr. Kenneth Bailey. And queue up that video store surveillance tape."

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

"Maybe some Band-Aids. We'll see." He turned to Kara Allison. "Let's go."

Sarah Merchant stepped in front of her niece. Shorter, rounder, and considerably more frightened. When she put a hand on his arm, he smelled that herbal scent again. Wished things had gone differently. A woman looks less attractive after she's shot you. "Look, detective, she's been cooperative. She's done everything you asked. Answered every question. What more do you want?"

"To get it all on the record. A proper interview by a cop who isn't bleeding and hasn't been up all night. A signed, formal statement. So we can eliminate her as a suspect." Didn't add that he wanted fingerprints, a polygraph, hair and saliva samples and information concerning the whereabouts of Randall Noyes, or that he wanted his best interrogation team working on her.

"You don't need handcuffs for that!" she said. "I'll drive her down later."

"Of course I don't need handcuffs. But it took me days of tracking to get here. She's the closest thing I've got to an eye witness. I'm not letting her out of my sight until I get her statement."

"She's not going." Sarah folded her arms stubbornly.

"What are you going to do? Shoot me again? One more word of argument and I
am
arresting
you
. Assault on a police officer is not a small thing."

Sarah stared in amazement. In her mind, shooting another person should be overlooked if done for a good reason. Yet she'd probably be surprised to learn she was no different from most of the criminals he dealt with. They all had good reasons. Among his favorites, a man who'd shot his brother, explaining, "I hadda shoot him. He wouldn't give me the remote."

"If I collapse at the wheel, it would be good to have a nurse along."

Kara gave him a look. If it was meaningful, the meaning was lost on him. He was beyond subtlety and nuance. "Okay," she said. "I'll come if it'll help straighten things out." She gave her aunt a quick hug. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. I'll be calling you to come get me in no time." Then, with a pointed look at Burgess, she said, "You'd better call me a lawyer. A good one." With a disdainful toss of her head, she started up the stairs.