BLUE MERCY (27 page)

Her jacket hung over the back of the other chair, and her shirt was stuck to her back. It was wrinkled and the fabric bunched around the empty holster where the butt of her gun would have ridden all day. When she crossed to the table, she spun the chair around and straddled its seat.

“I listened to your taped confession on my way over, Bernard.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And you are so full of shit it’s a wonder it doesn’t stink even more in here.”

“You think so, huh?”

“I only
guessed
you hadn’t killed those women last year, but after hearing your taped performance today, I
know
you didn’t.”

“Are you sure I’m supposed to be talking to you?”

She grunted a laugh. Shook her head. “You’re a piece of work, Bernard. You want your lawyer here? I’ll save you the quarter and call him myself. I’m sure he’s got nothing better to do right now after you’ve already wasted half his weekend.”

He met her stare. Amusement gave way to reason. Sure, he didn’t owe the bitch anything, but what were his options right now? Back to his cell, where Darnell was nursing a case of the shits?

“No. I’ll talk to you,” he said. “But you gotta get my car.”

“No deals. There’s nothing you got that I want.”

“You sure about that?”

He studied her. Except for the butch haircut, she wasn’t too hard on the eyes. Not
his
type, with those small tits and her tight, little ass. He liked more meat on his women. More curves. But she was definitely in line with Roach’s tastes, even though she was probably a pussy-eating dyke.

“No jury’s going to buy your confession, Bernard. You got too many holes in your little story.”

He shrugged. “State’s attorney didn’t seem to think so.”

“She will once she takes a closer look at the evidence.”

“So I forgot a couple things. I told you, I had them alcoholic blackouts. Forgot a lot.”

She shook her head. “Too many holes.”

“Like what?”

“Right. And I’m gonna tell you where you fucked up in your statement so you can prep some lame-ass retraction?”

“You talking ’bout them cuts to the chest? I covered that.”

“Oh, right. ‘I heared their hearts beat-beat-beating in their chests and had ta cut ’em out.’ ” She looked ugly when she mimicked him. “Are you planning to have Grogan present an insanity defense?”

“You think that’d work?”

“Don’t hold your breath.” She paced again, two lengths of the holding cell, then returned to the table. “Why the false confession, Bernard, hmm? You afraid someone’s going to steal your limelight? I mean, Patsy’s paying for that flashy website for you, bringing in money. Even got people out there believing you’re a worthy cause. Can you believe that? Sorry sack of shit like you.”

“I can’t help it if I got fans.”

“I tell you what I think, Bernard. I think you got scared when I started talking about looking at someone else for the murders. I think you’re worried someone’s gonna prove you’re just a dumb-ass Bawlmer billy-boy with a bad temper, so you figured you’d better give the SA’s office what they want. Nail down that fifteen minutes of fame, huh?”

“Well, you got that wrong.”

“I doubt it.”

“So what about my car?”

“What about it?” she snapped. Impatience narrowing her mouth.

“I want it released from the impound.”

“Yeah? And who’s gonna want that piece-of-shit antique?”

“Patsy’s gonna take it.”

Kay laughed. “I’ve met Patsy, and there’s no way she’s gonna take your car. The girl’s blind as a fucking worm.”

He choked on a laugh because he knew Delaney was right. “She can still use the car. Have someone else drive her around.”

“And where’s she gonna ride, Bernard? In the trunk? Does she know you chauffeured dead women around in there?”

When he didn’t answer, Kay shook her head. “Fine,” she said at last, “you want your car? Tell me who killed those women.”

“You’re looking at him.”

“You really are dumb as shit, aren’t you? Are you even remotely aware that if you
do
convince a jury you killed those women, you’re getting the death penalty? Ever heard the term
capital crime?
Cuz that’s what you’ve got coming, Bernard. Those girls were murdered in the commission of a felony.”

“What felony?”

“You robbed them.”

“Like hell.”

“Their belongings were in your house. Jewelry. Clothes.”

Grogan hadn’t said anything about that. He’d have to talk to the moneygrubbing prick.

“But I guess that doesn’t really matter though, since shooting a cop is what’s gonna stick that needle in your
arm anyway. And don’t count on some trumped-up self-defense argument, because I was there. I identified myself at the door. You
knew
I was police. Who do you think the jury’s gonna believe?”

When she leaned across the table, nailing him with those angry eyes, he felt the lick of adrenaline quiver through him, the muscles in his legs and shoulders twitching.

He could clear the table in a quarter of a second. Come down on top of her and have her throat in his shackled hands before she ever knew what hit her. And by the time the guard swung his stick, he’d at least have crushed her windpipe. Maybe even snapped the bitch’s neck.

But then one link of chain on his leg-irons rattled.

It was the only warning she picked up on. The bitch backed away. The opportunity passed. Another regret settled in.

When she lifted her jacket from the back of the chair, he was glad she was going. But not soon enough. “Unless, of course,” she added, “you’re going to start saying it wasn’t even you who shot my partner.”

She was fishing. He knew it. No way he was taking the bait. He watched her shrug on her jacket, pace a few more lengths of the cell, before returning to the table.

“Who was there that night, Bernard? Who else was in your house when I knocked?”

She couldn’t know, otherwise she’d have questioned him a lot sooner.

“There was someone else there. I know, cuz when you were beating me, he found my gun on your porch. It was him who shot my partner. Not you.”

“First those three skanks, and now you’re thinking I didn’t shoot that cop either? What? You gonna try ’n’ prove me innocent on all the charges now? Hey, maybe I
should be payin’ you instead of that shit-for-brains attorney of mine.”

When she leaned in that last time, there were daggers in her whisper. “Trust me, Bernard, I’m sure as hell not doing it for you. I want whoever it is that shot my partner, whoever you’re covering for. And I swear to God I’m going to get him.”

“SHOULDN’T WE SAY SOMETHING?”
Kathleen Koch whispered.

Valley’s best friend had worn black. Standing between Kay and Vicki in the mausoleum sanctuary of the Dulaney Valley Memorial Gardens, the girl looked wan as she wrung her hands.

“You can say some words if you like,” Kay said.

Koch stared at the marble niche that now housed Valley’s ashes. Its front was marked with a piece of card-stock bearing nothing but a number, soon to be replaced with an engraved bronze plate, the director of the cemetery had promised.

“I don’t know what to say.” Koch held back tears, and Kay suspected Valley was the first loss the girl had experienced in her young life.

“Then you don’t have to say anything.” Kay touched the girl’s hand. It was cold. “It’s what you feel that’s important.”

An early-evening breeze swept over the seventy acres of grounds, lacing through the granite benches and pruned hedges. It ruffled the pink and yellow blooms in the rows of flower vases designating the flat grave markers and found
its way to the shade of the mausoleum. Kay welcomed the coolness.

After leaving Eales, Kay had gone over the disappointing interview with Finn. She’d left him at the office and gone to the gym. But even a strenuous workout and a shower hadn’t cleansed her of the visit with Eales. Vicki had picked her up at five and they’d battled traffic north through the city and up to Timonium. Kathleen Koch had already been waiting for them.

Now, in the quiet shelter of the mausoleum, Kay tried to rid her mind of Eales. Past Vicki’s shoulder and beyond the arch of the outdoor sanctuary, Kay looked to where the grounds leveled down to a small man-made lake. Beyond it lay the Fallen Heroes section of the Gardens. It didn’t feel like fourteen months had passed since she’d stood on that slope, Gunderson holding her up. A full police funeral with honor guard, a mile-long motorcade halting traffic along the beltway, and the mounted unit leading the procession through the cemetery grounds off Padonia Road. Kay remembered flinching at each round of the twenty-one-gun salute, watching numbly as taps played and Grace was handed Spencer’s departmental hat.

Kay hadn’t been back since. Hadn’t been able to face the guilt.

She turned to Valley’s unmarked niche. Now she had two reasons to come here. She made a silent vow to do so.

“We should get going,” Vicki said, then slid her arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Are you going to be all right, Kathleen?”

Koch nodded.

“And you’re okay to drive back?”

“Yeah.” Koch forced a smile and let Vicki guide her to where they’d left the cars on the cul-de-sac.

Kay followed, but not before laying her palm against the
smooth marble of Valley’s niche. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, but didn’t feel better for saying it.

As the sun lowered into a haze of smog, they left the grounds and drove south from Timonium. In the passenger seat of Vicki’s blaze red Del Sol, Kay had lost sight of Koch’s Chevy long before the city limits. She thought of the girl, going home alone.

With only enough time for a quick change, Vicki waited while Kay slipped into her dress and heels. Kay had tried to get out of their symphony date, but Vicki had argued that the night out would do Kay good. Take her mind off things.

They parked in the Mt. Vernon cultural district and walked the three blocks to the $24 million brick-and-glass hall on Cathedral and Preston, and by the time they took their seats in the center orchestra section of the Joseph Meyerhoff, Kay tried to shed the job and her frustrations.

Sitting in the elegant, wood-appointed interior of the hall with its sculpted box seats and modern sound-baffles, with the din of decked-out concertgoers buzzing around her, Kay felt the excitement rise. Wearing suits all day, she loved putting on the tight black dress and rubbing elbows with the elite of Baltimore, even if she did feel slightly misplaced. She didn’t feel like herself in this place, and she liked that. Liked the escape. Liked pretending to be someone else just for one night.

Still Eales was with her. And Patricia Hagen. Kay closed her eyes, tried to block them out, but found herself strategizing.

“I’m going to call Hagen in the morning,” she said, leaning over to Vicki.

“The old man?”

“No. Patsy. Maybe I can get something out of her if I
sympathize with her, convince her that I believe in Bernard’s innocence. If she
does
know anything about the murders, maybe she’ll be more willing to give it up if I promise to help her get Bernard off. If I play her right, I might get a name.”

“You really think he had an accomplice?”

“More than ever.” Given Eales’s confession and his attitude this afternoon, Kay was almost certain of it.

“You said Bates implied to you that Hagen was seeing Eales
before
his incarceration, right?” Vicki asked, taking out a compact from her purse and checking her lipstick.

“Yeah, which means Patsy Hagen might know who helped Eales.”

“Then talk to her.” Vicki snapped the compact shut and tucked it away. “It can’t hurt. Now, are you going to listen to some music or keep chewing at this case all night?”

The din in the hall hushed as the orchestra tuned. Kay tried to focus on the concert program in her hands, but her mind was crashing.

Patsy Hagen … Eales was covering for someone. Kay pictured Patsy, standing in the doorway of her Mt. Washington home, distrust in her eyes. The woman had lied about her history with Eales. What else would she lie about?

Maybe it was Patricia Hagen who’d been at Eales’s that night, Hagen who’d found Kay’s gun on the porch while Bernard beat the shit out of her.

It made sense that Eales would cover for Hagen.

The orchestra settled and the lights dimmed then.

In the darkness of the symphony hall, Kay conjured up Patricia Hagen—the calloused hands and strong shoulders. She imagined the woman’s childhood; Hagen admitted to being numb to the death that pervaded her life as
an undertaker’s daughter. What better person to help Eales dispose of a body? Or three? A woman blinded by love with a stomach for death.

It took the first quarter of the first movement of Corigliano’s
Red Violin
Concerto for the last traces of the case to seep from Kay’s thoughts. There was no escaping the power of the music. The strains of the strings swelled over her, reflected off the soundboards overhead, and filled the hall, consuming her entirely.

It swept her away. Away from Eales and Hagen, the dead women, Valley and Beggs. Away from Spencer, the job, the streets. The clean vibrations of the violin solo took her home again, to the most vivid memories of her mother. She’d spent many afternoons sitting at the top of the stairs, listening to her mother administering violin lessons to the children of Jonesport. It helped pay the bills, but Kay had always suspected her mother would have done it for nothing. And after the lessons were done, after the last student had left their weather-beaten clapboard house that overlooked Chandler Bay, Kay would sit and listen to her mother play.

If she were still alive today, Kay would have liked to bring her here. She imagined her mother sitting next to her, breathing in the beauty of the music.