Steeled for Murder (20 page)

The room was hot. I took off my jacket and tucked the gloves carefully in the pockets. I draped it over the back of a chair with the scarf and put the bag holding still-damp sweater and shirt on the seat. Then I helped the kids get their jackets off.

When Carl’s turn came, he spoke to the lady, nodded, waved over at us, and went to the elevators.

Beth started fussing. I took a bottle from the diaper bag and popped off the plastic top. Leaning back on the couch, I lay her in my lap and propped her head in my elbow. She reached eagerly for the bottle. I smiled. I was getting pretty good at this. The older kids sat mesmerized by the TV.

Two men walked up to the information desk, pushing to the head of the short line. Rude, I thought, watching idly.

Something familiar about the men. I sat up and looked more closely.

Belkins was leaning over the information desk intently. He nodded at something the receptionist said, straightened up, and strode over to the elevator bank. The doors of one yawned open. He got in, and the door closed.

Montgomery stepped away from the information desk, his gaze sweeping the room.

I turned my back and bent my head over Beth, trying to shield my face without appearing to be hiding. When I glanced back, Montgomery faced the elevators. He watched the door of another one close.

“Sam,” I hissed. “I got to go. Think you can finish giving Beth her bottle and keep an eye on the twins till your grandma gets here?”

Sam’s eyes grew wide. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Aren’t you gonna stay and find out when Mom’s coming home?”

“Can’t. I got to get going. Say ‘bye to Uncle Carl for me. Your grandma should be here any minute.” I hoped that was the case.

Keeping my back to the elevators and resolutely not looking in that direction, I stood up and handed Beth over to Sam. Then I grabbed my jacket and the plastic bag.

I risked a glance behind me. Montgomery stood by the elevators, watching as a door opened. Once again, the door closed without him stepping in. Another elevator arrived.

I had to get out of there before he looked around the waiting room too closely. I stepped close to the wall, skirting the perimeter of the room. Resisting the urge to look over toward Montgomery again, I made an effort to straighten my shoulders and hold my head high, facing away from him. I stepped through the double doors leading from the waiting room.

Breathing a little more easily, I hurried through the short hallway, past the gift shop, and out the front door.

Looked like I’d made it. I gulped a grateful breath of cold, free air.

Too soon.

“Damon.” A rich, cultivated, commanding voice came from behind me. Montgomery. “Stop.”

I stopped.

Chapter 12

“Drop your things.”

I tossed the jacket and the plastic bag a few feet away from me, spread my feet apart, and put my hands behind my head.

Montgomery stepped up and picked up the jacket and the bag. He peered into the bag.

“Put your hands down,” he said. “Keep them where I can see them, but put them down. People going into hospitals tend to be upset already. No need to make a spectacle of ourselves.”

I lowered my hands, careful to keep my arms at my sides.

“Come sit down.” He indicated a bench outside the front door, under the entry canopy and out of the wind. Pale sunlight glinted off the metal slats of the seat without warming it.

I sat, resting my hands on my knees, hoping that was sufficiently in plain sight. I stared straight ahead.

Montgomery put my things on the other end of the bench. He stood in front of me, waiting. I could wait, too, even though my jeans and boxers were no match for the cold of the metal seat.

Finally, he said, “We got a weird report about somebody who looked a lot like you coming to the emergency room yesterday with Mitch Robinson’s widow. Maybe posing as her brother. Seemed pretty incredible, but the source was reliable. Belkins insisted we check it out right away. Of course, he’s right; we should check out everything, no matter how unlikely it seems. So he asked the hospital to call it in if anybody checked in to visit her. Especially the brother.”

I had no idea how I could possibly respond to him reasonably. Anything I said was going to dig this hole deeper.

Montgomery rocked back on his well-shod heels. “So we get the call, and when we get here, we find out that the brother has already gone upstairs to see Mrs. Robinson. Belkins figures if you were saying you were her brother yesterday, maybe it’s you again. Follow so far?”

I avoided eye contact. “Yes, sir.”

The hem of Montgomery’s heavy overcoat fluttered in a gust of wind. “So Belkins goes up to see who’s visiting her, and I wait in case you—or whoever—comes down before he gets up there.”

He paused again. I wondered what he would say if I asked to put my jacket on. Better not chance it.

“And who do I see in the waiting room?” Montgomery checked the buttons on the coat. “You. Jesse Damon. Over with a bunch of kids. You get up and leave the kids by themselves. Are they the Robinson kids?”

I shrugged.

“You may as well tell me. Not like I’ll have any problem finding out.”

I shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “They’re the Robinson kids. Tiffany’s mom is coming to take care of them. Should be here any minute.”

“Tiffany, eh? I thought you didn’t know Mitch’s wife.”

I shook my head. Better keep my mouth shut as much as I could.

“And what are you wearing?” Montgomery put his hand on the brick wall above my head and leaned over me. I could smell his minty breath and aftershave. “A hoodie that maybe belonged to Mitch Robinson. In fact, almost definitely belonged to Mitch Robinson.”

I started. The hoodie. I’d forgotten. It said “Mitch” across the back. How stupid could I be?

“And when you notice me, you decide to leave. Right?”

Direct question. Better start answering some of these or risk being “uncooperative.” “Yes, sir.”

“I’m wondering why you were sitting with those kids.”

I tried to find a more comfortable position on the cold bench. Not likely. “Just keeping an eye on them.”

“Uh huh. Funny that when we ask if you know Mitch’s wife, you say no. Then here you are, ‘keeping an eye on’ her kids.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Seems pretty strange to me. Seem pretty strange to you?” Montgomery folded his arms and glared at me.

I nodded again. Pretty strange was understating it.

“So who is Belkins going to find visiting Mrs. Robinson upstairs?”

That one at least I could answer. “Like the lady at the desk said. Her brother.”

“His name?”

“Carl Miller.”

“That the brother you were impersonating yesterday?” Montgomery took a step closer to me.

My wrists itched.

“I wasn’t trying to impersonate him.” I hadn’t really implied I was him; I just hadn’t corrected the receptionist’s misconception. “They just assumed I was him.”

“So it was you yesterday, was it?”

He was tripping me up already. Better stop saying anything. I pressed my lips firmly together. I looked down at the dirty water puddling on the sidewalk. If the hospital staff didn’t do something, put salt on it or sweep it away, it would freeze and someone might slip on it.

Montgomery looked at me for a few long minutes. “You’re not going to tell me much more than that, are you?”

Got to give him credit for being able to read his suspects. “No, sir.”

“And even if I did, by some miracle, get some information out of you, I would have no way of knowing if any of it was the truth. Isn’t that right?”

“I guess so,” I agreed reluctantly.

“You know Belkins has been looking for you?” Montgomery smoothed the front of his tweed overcoat.

“Not really, sir.” I was sure Montgomery knew I was skirting the truth.

“He thinks you have a lot more to tell us.”

I continued staring at the ice forming on the puddle.

“So do I.” Montgomery stood back and folded his arms.

I sat in bleak silence.

“Belkins thought he could pick you up at your apartment.” Montgomery leaned close again, looming over me. “But you know what?” he said.

“I wasn’t there.” I looked longingly toward the sidewalk leading away from the hospital.

“So right. You weren’t there. For hours. Funny, for someone supposed to be paroled on home detention.”

“Mr. Ramirez eased up the monitoring for the holidays.” They could check that out easily enough.

“I know. Belkins wanted to have you picked up right away and thrown in jail to wait for a violation hearing. But I decided to call the parole office.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Only to discover,” Montgomery said as he straightened up, “that you weren’t being monitored until after the new year. So you could be anywhere. And as long as you hadn’t left the state and you weren’t associating with known felons, it wouldn’t be a violation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I must admit I wouldn’t have thought to look for Mitch Robinson’s widow to see if you were with her. Or with her kids. After all, you don’t know Mrs. Robinson, do you?”

I didn’t answer that.

“Belkins will want to pull you in for more interrogation. You know that?”

“Yes, sir.” My hand wandered up to where the traces of bruising remained on my check bone. I snatched it down and forced it to lie still on my knee.

“But you know what?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t think he’ll get much more out of you than I’m getting now. You think I’m right?” He tugged his collar a little closer to his neck.

“Yes, sir.”

He leaned in closer, his bulk hovering inches over me. “So I’m going to let you go. For now.”

“Thank you, sir.” I glanced up at him.

“I want to spend Christmas Eve home with my family, not in a grungy interrogation room playing word games with some paroled convict who isn’t going to tell me what I want to know anyhow.”

I tried not to shiver. Not entirely from the cold.

“But Belkins, now…He hasn’t got much of a family, you know. Not since some pervert killed his daughter. I imagine he’d be happy to spend Christmas Eve trying to get something useful out of you. Probably keep at it all Christmas Day, too.”

Not an appealing thought.

Montgomery straightened up. “Don’t misunderstand me, boy.” He put emphasis on the “boy.” He turned away and looked out over the parking lot in front of the hospital. “It’s not that I don’t think Belkins might be right. You probably did have something to do with Mitch Robinson’s death. If I had any doubts about that before, they’re pretty much gone now that I find you with his family. But I want a clean conviction. So I’m going to keep at this until I find out what happened. If I have anything to say about it—and I will—when we take this to trial, there will be no procedural errors. No confession that can be challenged as coerced. No conviction that can be overturned on appeal. Do you understand me?”

A long speech and not particularly comforting. But not much I could do about it.

He turned back to face me. “Get yourself out of here before Belkins sees you. And make sure you stay where we can find you.”

“Yes, sir.” I got up, grabbed my things, and walked away, struggling into the jacket as I went.

As I turned the corner, wind kicked up and a cloud scuttled over the sun. I shivered and flipped up my jacket hood. I didn’t have the scarf anymore; I must have left it at the hospital. I patted the pocket of my jacket. I did still have the gloves. I pulled them out and slipped them on. They were thick leather gloves with a fleece lining. I shoved the plastic bag with my sweater and shirt as far into the pocket as it would go.

Sixty dollars and a pair of warm gloves. And a hoodie that said “Mitch” across the back. I’d have to get rid of that soon. Not bad, though, for taking care of a few kids for a day or so.

Tomorrow would be Christmas. Most businesses would be closed. In fact, they might be closing early today. I should stop at the library. Get a few books to read and then pick up something to eat. With the money Carl had given me, I could afford something more festive than just peanut butter sandwiches and instant coffee.

The thought hit me that I was disappointed I wasn’t going to be with those kids for Christmas. Made no sense. Not like I’d spent a whole lot of time with them or knew them well. They’d be much better off with Grandma and Uncle Carl. Now they had the presents Uncle Carl had brought. Grandma would fix a real Christmas dinner.

I had to keep in mind how I’d spent the last nineteen Christmases. A “special” turkey loaf meal in a noisy, crowded chow hall. Most of the day locked in with a cellmate I didn’t choose and probably didn’t like. Because they tried to give the day off to as much staff as possible, there’d be no classes, no library, no yard, no visiting hours. Not that visiting hours affected me at all. I wasn’t enough of a hypocrite to go to church services just to get out of my cell.