The Accidental Exorcist (8 page)

"He’s hanging on."

"You should get some rest."

"I spent the night at Children’s."
From the corner of my eye, I noticed his partner looking our way. I
turned my head and again he averted his gaze. "What’s with
Chris?"

Jim drew a deep breath. "Dunno. He’s
been in a mood since he found out. He really liked your family.
‘Specially the kids." Suddenly, I felt the need for Zantac. Jim
pulled his hat from under his arm, placed it on his head and
nodded. "Don’t hesitate."

"Thanks."

"Oh, by the way," he stopped and
handed me my cell phone.
"Found this under your bed. It’s already been dusted and checked,
so I guess you can have it back." With a strong pat on the back, he
said good-bye and got in the car with his partner, who for some
reason hadn’t looked my way once since I arrived.

Just then, a news van pulled into the
cul-de-sac.

"Oh jeez, not again." My
rifle-in-the-chest standoff had been captured by a photographer and
the picture appeared in the North County Times. Made me look like
freakin' Tank Man of Tienanmen Square. One thing led to another and
the next thing I know, I’m doing a taping in my house for Channel
Seven news. A couple of days later, Brent Stringer, best-selling
writer and op-ed writer for the
Union
Tribune
did an interview feature. The
media, in all its wisdom, spun me up as San Diego’s Superdad. The
subsequent fame was about as welcome as a tax auditor in mid-April.
I’d just gotten out of the limelight.

O'Brien stepped out again and
intercepted the reporters and paparazzi.

"Thanks, Jim," I said silently. A
young woman stood in my open door. I hadn't noticed her until I
padded halfway across the lawn. She wore black slacks, a black
blazer and black sunglasses. I figured it was her black BMW parked
in my driveway. Had to wonder what her favorite color was. Silently
counting the steps to the second floor, she dabbed the air with her
index finger repeatedly.

I cleared my throat, extended my
hand.

"Mister Hudson?" Her hand felt like a
dead fish. "I'm detective Pearson, County Sheriff's Department. Do
you have any form of identification?"

"Do
you
?" I reached for my
wallet.

"Driver’s license, social?" Pearson
flashed her badge quickly then examined my driver’s license. She
looked back up at me, scrutinizing my face. "Hmm." She handed it
back. "Let’s go over a few questions, shall we?"

"Would you like to come
inside?"

"No." She proceeded to ask the same
questions the deputy had asked last night at Children’s.

"I’ve already answered these
questions."

She looked up from the PDA. "It’s
routine. You’re probably thinking clearer after
resting."

"Doubt it."

Again, Pearson tapped her PDA with a
thin, black stylus. She fired off the rest of her questions with
chilling detachment. "What time did you come home?"

"About eleven o’clock." A thousand
cockroaches skittered up my back as she studied my face.
Thankfully, she returned to her PDA.

"What room did you go into
first?"

"My daughter’s"

"When did you first realize something
was wrong?"

"No wait. I first went into the master
bedroom, where I found Jenn." My knees grew weak. I braced myself
against the door frame.

"So, you first went into your own
bedroom, not your daughter’s."

"That’s right. I was thinking of which
child’s room—"

"Once again, Mister Hudson," she said,
enunciating. "When did you first realize something was
wrong?"

"I didn’t think anything was wrong
until I found Jenn, stabbed and bleeding to death."

"Let’s not jump to conclusions. Exact
cause of death has not yet been officially determined."

"Excuse me?"

"Why don’t you leave that to the
coroner and stick with the facts."

"Fine."

"Are you aware that we came here to
speak with you last night about the pornographic materials found on
your work computer?"

Taken aback, I gasped. "No, but that
stuff wasn't mine. What the hell’s that got to do with
anything?"

"Where were you around 7:30 PM last
night?"

"On my way to a client meeting in La
Jolla. Is that when you came?"

"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts
around 11:00 last night?"

"I was on the 52 freeway, driving
home. Alone. Oh my god, did you say anything to my wife about the
porn?"

"No, sir."

"It wasn’t mine!"

"As I said, we didn’t mention it.
That’s still under investigation." More tapping. "Mister Hudson,
relax. I’m sure you’ll want to do everything to help us move this
investigation along. Right?"

"Of course."

"Then you won’t mind going to the
crime lab to provide samples."

"Samples?" The hair on the back of my
neck became thistles.

"DNA swabs, blood,
fingerprints."

"What for? Am I a suspect?"

Her dark brown eyes glazed. "We
routinely take samples to exclude you as a potential suspect. The
longer you wait, the colder the trail gets. Refuse, and you’ll
raise the question as to why, and then—"

"Of course I’ll do it. It’s just
that...it feels like you’re treating me as a suspect."

"Unless you’ve got something to
hide—"

"What is your problem?"

She scribbled something on a business
card and handed it to me. "County Sheriff Crime Lab. That’s the
case number. You don’t need an appointment. If I were you, I’d get
to it this morning before eleven, or things might start to appear
unfavorable."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I would never do that,
sir."

"Yeah, well…" Before I could say
another word, she was halfway to her BMW. She got in, lifted her
wrist, tapped on her watch, then pointed at me.

My head spun as her Beamer roared out of the
cul-de-sac, leaving me standing in the doorway. Dread coursed
through my veins like Freon.

~~~

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