Mirror Image (10 page)
We found Richie Ellner sitting on a bench in the A-V room next to a rack of vending machines. His clothes were still wet, spattered with mud. He clutched his broken glasses in thin fingers pock-marked with cigarette burns.
“Richie,” I said. “Are you all right?”
Nancy and I flanked him as he rocked back and forth on the bench. Indoors, out of the rain, I got a better look at him.
Twenty-eight going on sixty. Deeply delusional. Eyes bright with fear, clouded with madness, tinged with grief. His father was a senior state senator.
Richie was making an effort to sit still, wrapping himself in his arms, planting his feet firmly to stop the rocking. But he kept shivering, as though having just been pulled from the sea.
“What happened?” Nancy asked him.
“Your standard chick fight. Probably over some guy. Or maybe another chick. Around here, doesn’t make much difference what you got goin’ on between your legs.”
“Who started it?” she asked.
He smiled. “Let me see…I think it was the crazy one.”
“Dammit, Richie.” Nancy squatted and faced him. “Give me a break here, will you?”
“Hey, I was just screwin’ with you.” He glanced up at me knowingly. “Not too many laughs around here since you went over the wall, Doc.”
“Not too many on the outside, either,” I said.
Nancy got to her feet. “Look, we can talk about all this later. Anything I can do for you in the meantime?”
“Depends. We talkin’ blow-jobs?”
“In your dreams. I was thinking more along the lines of asking staff to clean you up, bring you a hot drink.”
“Nah. I don’t wanna miss anything.”
“I think the show’s pretty much over for today,” I said. I reached down and gently took his broken glasses.
He moaned. “Man, those are two bad-ass chicks.”
Nancy took the glasses from me. “Why don’t I see about getting these fixed?” She looked at me. “Take care, okay?”
I nodded. She patted Richie’s shoulder, then headed out of the room.
“Hey,” Richie called after her, “
this
time, see that they leave out the micro-transmitter, okay?”
“Right,” she called back from the hallway.
Richie gave me a look. “Nice lady. Too bad she’s CIA.”
His shivers had subsided. Only his eyes, rapidly blinking back tears, betrayed his level of anxiety.
“How’ve you been, Rich?”
“Fine, man. No complaints.”
“Great.” I paused. “Now, how’ve you been?”
“
Oh
. Life sucks, man. It sucks dry tittie and shits green down my face. I tell you my old man finally croaked?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, that’s probably ’cause he’s still alive. But it was a swell thought, though.”
“He still won’t come and see you?”
A dark laugh. “Would you?”
I could have answered in some therapeutic, bullshit way, but I had too much regard for him. He seemed to appreciate my silence.
“By the way,” he said, finally. “I wasn’t shittin’ you before. I mean, Nancy’s all right, and she’s got some ass on her, but this place just ain’t the same without you.”
“I’m not sure Dr. Garman would agree with you.”
“Garman’s a feeb.”
“You’re wrong there, Rich. Bert Garman is a good doc, and he’s done wonders for this place.”
“Yeah, right. That’s why he sold out to UniHealth.”
“Might be a smart move. Who knows?”
He became suddenly animated. “What is this, make nice-nice with the mental patient? These health-care goons are just another cog in the corporate Wheel of Fortune. A cosmic Fuck-You from Vanna White and the wonderful wizards of Wall Street. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain! It’s like Roswell, and Ruby Ridge, and sabotaging our microwaves. It’s all connected, man. Oliver Stoned to the max. The World Wide Web. The International House of Panic. Indra’s Net and nothin’
but
net!”
His teeth were chattering now, and he’d started rocking back and forth again.
“See, the world ain’t goin’ out with a bang
or
a whimper. Those Newtonian dichotomies are strictly old-school, horse-and buggy fantasies. Like poets even know what the fuck’s up, right? Absinthe-sucking, transgendered freakazoids. No disrespect, but that’s not how us
homo
sapiens
are checkin’ out. No way, Jose. Mankind’s gonna be techno-fuckin’-morphed into something even the True Christ wouldn’t recognize, and we’re all lining up with credit cards to pay for the privilege of goin’ first.”
Then, as if short-circuiting, he suddenly froze. Body rigid, hands on his lap.
He looked up at me with soft, moist eyes.
Blinking.
“Richie?” I said quietly. “You in there?”
He smiled crookedly. “Hey, did I tell you my old man finally died? Bastard took long enough. I thought he was gonna hang on till the
next
millennium. Man, I’m thirsty. Chick fights always make my mouth dry. That happen to you?”
Before I could say anything, a heavy fist rapping the doorframe behind made me turn in my chair. It was Harry Polk, cell phone in hand, eyes narrowed with purpose.
“C’mon, Doc, gotta go. I just heard from Lowrey.”
“What’s up?” I said. “And shouldn’t we go back to Garman’s office for those files?”
“Don’t need ’em. We got the killer in a holding cell downtown. They picked him up ’bout twenty minutes ago.”
Polk was behind the wheel, steering with one hand, trying to light another Camel with the other. He’d practically floored it since we pulled out of the clinic parking lot, and was pushing it even harder as we headed downtown. Under a black sky weeping rain, with traffic coiled like a bag of snakes, he was making turns that had our bodies straining against the seat belts.
“Look,” I said, as we bounced over the cobblestones on Grant Avenue, “want me to light that for you?”
“Thanks. Got it.” He took a deep drag.
“So, what’s going on?”
“It’s over, that’s what. Second canvas of the area turned up an eyewitness who saw the perp leaving your office building right about the time of the murder.”
From the west, thunder rumbled. That new storm was coming in hard.
“Somebody
saw
the guy?”
“Yeah. Witness is named Doolie Stills. Real bottom-feeder. Numbers, that shit. But he picked the killer outta the photo array, and that’s good enough for the DA.”
Traffic slowed, and we found ourselves behind a line of trucks and SUV’s. Polk hit the lights and siren.
“Hold on.” He barreled past the line of cars.
“Suspect’s a real hard-ass named Arnie Flodine,” Polk went on. “Some Oakie from out west, got a sheet as long as my dick. Assault, armed robbery. Lately, he’s been bustin’ kneecaps for some local loan sharks.”
I considered this. “I don’t know. This doesn’t seem like the work of a career criminal.”
Polk laughed. “No kiddin’, Columbo? Like you know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”
“Harry, this murder was
personal
. Brutal. There were multiple stab wounds. That sound like a hired job to you?”
“Hey, I knew a collector for the mob, used to motivate dead-beats with a claw hammer. Specialized in facial makeovers.” His grin showed nicotine teeth.
“Okay, let’s say you’re right about Flodine. But don’t loan sharks want their muscle to
scare
the guy, not kill him? You can’t get your money back that way.”
“I already thought of that. The way I figure it, Flodine confronts Kevin in the parking garage, thinkin’ he’s you, and starts separatin’ ribs. Only Flodine realizes he’s got the wrong guy, and—”
“Even if you’re right, why would he come after
me
?”
Polk stubbed out his Camel. “
You’re
the only one who can answer that. What’s your thing, Doc? Drugs, gambling?”
“Give me a break.”
He snorted. “Once we run your financial records, bet we’ll find out you’re in debt up to your ass. Whoever you owe money to sent Flodine to put some dents in your piggy bank, only Kevin got killed by mistake.”
I looked out the window at the Old County Building shimmering in the rain. “This is nuts, and you know it.”
“All I know is, we got the prick.” He let out a satisfied sigh. “Funny. Same old story. Sooner or later, somebody just drops a dime on the guy.”
Polk swung the car into the parking lot. As he was pulling into a space, my cell phone rang.
For some reason, I took it.
“It’s Phil Camden. Again.” As usual, my ex-father-in-law wasted little time on pleasantries. His voice sounded even more clipped, more imperious, over the phone.
I spoke quickly. “I got your earlier message, Phil. But this isn’t a good time. Maybe tomorrow…”
I glanced at Polk, who was already opening his door. A gust of cold wind, laced with rain, pushed in.
“Don’t misunderstand,” Phil said sharply. “I don’t care whether it’s a good time. My calling is a courtesy, one I’m not sure you deserve.”
I felt the familiar anger surge in my chest. “Man, you’ve got a lousy way of showing moral support.”
His laugh was a rasp on the tinny cell speaker. “Is
that
what you think this is? Astute as ever, Daniel.”
Then he hung up. I sat there, looking at the phone. What the hell—?
I caught sight of Polk through the rain sheeting the windshield. He was side-stepping puddles on his way to the front door. I ran to catch up, and we shouldered through the heavy double doors in unison.
***
Like most government buildings when the weather’s bad, the lobby felt airless and over-heated. It was also swarming with uniforms, plainclothes, and a dozen print and broadcast reporters. Everybody knew something was up.
I followed Polk down the lobby and up the stairs. The second floor was even more crowded, and it took us at least a full minute to get to the holding rooms.
Two uniforms stood at the entry door, Polk nodding to them as we went through. Inside, we found District Attorney Sinclair and Lt. Biegler, looking pretty grim.
Polk strode up to his boss. “Where’s Flodine?”
“Holding One.” Biegler glared at me. “What’s
he
doin’ here?”
“Doc was with me when I got the call. I figured—”
“You figured wrong,” Biegler said.
“That’s not a concern at the moment,” Sinclair said sharply. His eyes were pinched with worry. Whatever the problem was, he wasn’t in control. And it was killing him.
I also remembered that Sinclair had been scheduled to meet with Miles Wingfield and the mayor first thing this morning. Bet
that
hadn’t been much fun, either.
“I thought we
had
the guy.” Polk frowned.
“He’s got an alibi,” Biegler replied. “Lowrey’s in there with him now, trying to poke a hole in it.”
As if on cue, a balding guy in a dark three-piece suit came through the entry door. As soon as I saw his briefcase, I knew who he was.
What
he was.
“That’s it,” Biegler groaned. “He’s lawyered up.”
The attorney shook Sinclair’s hand, ignoring the rest of us. “Jerome Rossi, representing Arnold Flodine. I’d like to see my client, please.”
Without a word, Sinclair and Biegler led Rossi down the hall to Holding One. Polk and I followed behind.
We gathered at the holding room, looking through the one-way glass, as Rossi went in. Inside, sitting across from each other at a formica table, was Det. Lowrey and the suspect. A uniformed cop stood mute in a near corner.
Arnie Flodine was pretty much as Polk described him. Thick, broad-shouldered under a gray overcoat. His face was flat-planed, coarse with stubble. His eyes were dead.
“That’s enough, Detective,” we could hear Rossi say to Lowrey through the speaker over our heads. “This conversation with Mr. Flodine is over.”
“They don’t got shit, man.” Flodine grinned up at his lawyer. “I was at Vickie’s the whole time that night—”
Rossi put a hand on his shoulder. “Shut up, Arnie.”
Flodine glared at him, but Rossi kept his eyes on Lowrey. “I understand my client has an air-tight alibi, so there’s no way you can detain him.”
On our side of the glass, Beigler was shaking his head. “Who’s banking-rolling this prick?”
“Probably the loan shark who employs Mr. Flodine,” Sinclair said evenly. “I should think that obvious.”
The scraping of chairs on linoleum drew our eyes back into the room. Lowrey could only stand there, jaw taut, as Rossi led Flodine out of the room. Frustrated, she drummed her painted nails on the table top.
“Gentlemen.” Rossi and his client worked their way past us. Flodine was stiffly buttoning his coat, the wronged citizen indignantly enjoying his freedom.
After they’d left, Sinclair turned to Biegler. “Is Casey still with this Doolie person?”
Biegler nodded miserably. “In the Box.”
Lowrey, chagrined, joined us out in the hall. Without a word, we all trudged down to the interrogation room.
Standing guard outside the second holding room was another uniformed cop. As we joined him, I could see why. ADA Casey Walters was in there alone with Doolie Stills.
The witness, bouncing nervously in his seat, was reed-thin, jangly. Like Ichabod Crane on speed.
Casey was standing across from him at the table, arms folded. Eyes cool as blue diamonds.
“Everything okay?” Sinclair asked the cop standing guard. The DA peered into the interrogation room.
The cop shrugged. “So far.”
I turned to Sinclair. “Does she always go in the Box?”
“Always.” Sinclair spoke with a kind of paternal pride. “I’ve seen her sweat guys twice the size of Flodine. And she doesn’t take any shit from their lawyers, either.”
Lowrey said, “Usually she’s got a detective in there with her. Want me to go in, Lieutenant?”
Biegler knew enough to glance at Sinclair before answering. The DA gave a subtle shake of his head.
“Let’s see what happens,” Biegler replied to Lowrey officiously. “The witness seems benign.”
