Moon Music (29 page)

"Just leave it," Poe dismissed her. "Hey, Brenda, it's Sergeant Poe…. Thanks, I'm doing all right. Be doing a lot better if I was over there instead of here. Is Patricia at her desk by any chance?…Sure, I'll wait."

He looked up. Lilith was still holding the tray.

Poe said, "Hey, thanks a lot. Just put it on the bed."

The nurse sniped, "How about opening the folding table?"

"What folding table? Where is it?"

Rukmani took out the folding table. "Happy, Lily?"

The nurse set the tray on the table. "You're quite the charmer, Dr. Kalil. I can see why you work with dead people."

"They never talk back." Rukmani smiled. "Thank you, Lilith. I mean that sincerely."

The nurse shook her head and left.

"Poe!" Patricia shouted over the line. "You can talk!"

"I can indeed."

"It's good to hear you. How are you doing?"

"I'll live. That's all that matters."

"Did you hear about Alison?"

"Yes. Terrible."

"Jensen left about ten minutes ago for lunch. Poor guy. Like Weinberg would say, Steve is such a schlemiel. You know what that is?"

"Yep."

"He's making an effort, but he's really out of it."

"Yes, it's a pity," he said quickly. "I've got an assignment for you."

"Working from a sickbed," Patricia stated. "That's true dedication."

"I want you to go around the local golf courses,
especially
those courses frequented by Parker Lewiston. I need you to pick up some grass samples."

"
Grass
samples?"

"Yeah, grass samples." Poe laughed. "The lawn kind of grass, Patty. The other kind is still illegal in our fair state even for medical reasons."

"That's too bad."

"Isn't it, though." Poe sighed. "Just my luck. Here I am laid up, sick and nauseated, and a little too far east and south to get legally buzzed. Instead, I'm stuck here with a snippy nurse and a diarrhea lunch."

TWENTY-SEVEN

W
EINBERG SHIFTED
in the chair, trying to hide his anxiety. Hospitals made him nervous. He wondered how long it would take Poe to make a full recovery. Or at least how long before the kid lost the bag. The lieutenant had decided it was the catheter that was making him squirrelly. Tubes belong in laboratories, not in bodies, especially not in private parts.

Another shift. He said, "Interesting theory, Rom. And it's good that you're thinking in…professional terms—"

"You're shining me on."

"Not at all." He was having trouble making direct eye contact. The bag kept getting in the way. "It's a good conjecture, but we can't
do
anything with it."

"Yes, we can," Poe insisted. "We can go into Parker Lewiston's office, take a sample of the grass, and see if it matches the scrapings taken from Sarah Yarlborough's fingernails—"

Weinberg interrupted, "Poe, you have nothing to link Lewiston to Sarah Yarlborough. It was Brittany Newel who had this quasidoubtful link to Lewiston, according to her disgruntled boyfriend. And Newel didn't
have
any grass under her nails."

"Lieutenant, the grass from Yarlborough's nails seems to be unique. Nothing like it is sold anywhere around here. If we match it to Lewiston's office, we have—"

"Circumstantial evidence." Weinberg forced himself to look at Poe's face. "Say Lewiston's office is the only place in the city…hell, the only place in the entire country that has that kind of grass. It still isn't enough. If the samples match, then possibly you could postulate that Sarah Yarlborough was in Lewiston Parker's office. But it won't tell us if she died there. And even if she
did
die there, it doesn't tell us who committed the crime."

"Sir, how many people are allowed into Parkerboy's office, let alone commit a murder—"

"Poe, first you need to tie Lewiston to Yarlborough through evidence—a witness or photograph placing them together.
When
you got something, we can continue the discussion."

Weinberg had adopted a mulish look. Poe backed off. "Maybe I'm moving too fast. Why don't we get a limited warrant for Parker's office, stating that we're there to get a grass sample—"

"On what grounds do we file the warrant?"

"Loo, Parker screwed Brittany Newel—"

"Sergeant, we're going round in circles. Brittany Newel did not
have
grass under her nails. You want a warrant, find something that can link Parker to Yarlborough."

"I'd ask Yarlborough's pimp about it except Ali Abdul Williams died in a freak accident with twenty grand worth of fresh bills. Know what I think? After Parker popped Yarlborough, he paid Williams off to keep his mouth shut. But even with the payoff, Parkerboy didn't like loose ends."

Weinberg said, "And following your logic, Lewiston must have set up Williams's car accident?"

"Lewiston could have rigged the car."

"Maybe he
did
rig the car. But even Lewiston couldn't guarantee Williams's death." Weinberg tried to remain patient. "Poe, your head is full of conjectures. Nothing wrong with that. But I can't ask a judge for a warrant based on a fertile imagination. Being sworn officers of the law, we gotta follow due process."

Poe said nothing.

Weinberg said, "You know, Lewiston's been around these parts forever."

"So what does that have to do with anything?"

"Don't get snappish," Weinberg whipped back. "All I'm saying is that
I've
never heard a rumor that he liked the underage set. Have you heard something different?"

Poe shook his head.

"So he's suddenly changed his taste in playthings?"

Poe regarded the lieutenant while he analyzed the question. The response came in a sudden rush of loose thoughts. He tried to organize his words. "Lewiston is a gambler from the get-go."

"So?"

"He's reached his pinnacle, sir. The man has gambled and won in the ultimate city for gamblers. Lewiston made it to the top in
Las Vegas
. He owns four casinos, he owns celebrities, he owns sports arenas as well as sports figures. He's got a slew of material playthings and hookers. The man has the Midas touch—everything turns to gold. A risk-taker like him, sir, a man who has built himself up on dares and challenges…what does he do for thrills now?"

"He plays golf."

Poe chuckled. "Right."

"You sneer. But he plays four days a week—"

"Golf may be a way for him to pass his time, but it doesn't get his blood pumping. Because in golf, you have to play by rules. Lewiston doesn't
follow
rules, sir, he
makes
them. The ultimate—playing by your own rules. And maybe that means raping underage kids
and
getting away with it. Especially thrilling because it's such a vile thing to do. And maybe even the underaged sex wasn't enough. To get the charge, he had to get away with murder—"

"You really don't like this man, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Okay, Poe. Let's assume the man is trying to get away

with something. Get me evidence. Then we get the warrant."

Poe was frustrated, but said nothing. His limbs ached and his head was swimming in a very choppy ocean. Plus, he still had to call Alison's shrink.

"I'm tired, Loo," he announced.

Weinberg stood, grateful to get away from the bag. "Anything I can do for you, guy?"

"No, I'll be fine. Thanks for coming out."

"My pleasure. You did me the favor, actually. As a Jew, I did my good deed for the day."

"What's that?"

"Visiting you." Weinberg patted Poe's wiry shoulder. "Heal up, Sergeant." He hesitated, then pulled a cigar from his pocket and tucked it into Poe's bedcovers. "When you're feeling better…a Cohiba."

"I must rate," Poe said. "Thanks."

"Get better. I mean that."

As soon as he left, Poe's head hit the pillow. He closed his eyes, trying to think about the case. Thinking about Lewiston's office…he needed to get a sample. A small sample of grass. Had to skirt the law. He had to find a link….

The dungeon was driving her crazy. She
had
to get out.

Because there was work to be done. Her research files moldering. Had to get out, had to do it. If only she had the energy to do it with her powers. But they had sapped her with their binds. She was just too tired. Plus the moon wasn't right.

How to get out?

The most
expedient
way was to cooperate. Say the right things, and behave the right way. At least talk to the shrinks. But she didn't
want
to talk. Not to these idiots who didn't understand her powers and her quests and what she needed to do—

"Alison?"

The voice was in the medium range. Not the nurse's squeaky voice. It sounded like one of her shrinks. The new one—the redheaded woman.

Of course, Alison wouldn't answer her. She didn't even move, remaining immobile in her bed, swathed in a clean white cotton gown, staring at her mittened hands. They had done that to her, encasing her hands in padded gloves so that she couldn't hold a spoon even if she had wanted to eat. They tried to feed her, shoveling in food that she let drip out of her mouth. Claiming that they had been worried that she might hurt herself.

Again, the voice spoke. "Alison, there's someone on the phone for you."

She refrained from moving physically. But the fact that the shrink was allowing her to talk on the phone…to someone on the outside. It wouldn't be Steve. Steve would have come in person. And they already knew that she wouldn't talk to Steve. Not that Steve anyway. Not even any Steve—the new one
or
the old one.

Shrink was talking, "…is Romulus Poe. You know Romulus, don't you?"

Alison remained quiet. But her eyes must have given away something. Because Redhead continued talking.

"He wants to talk to you," she said. "Because he likes you, Alison. He's your friend."

Her heartbeat had quickened. If he was calling her, well then that was a good sign. It meant he wasn't dead.

"Would you like to talk to him, Alison? He'd like to talk to you."

Alison didn't respond; she wouldn't dare give that bitch the satisfaction of seeing her
want
something. This place had nothing to offer her. Nothing. For the millionth time, she cursed her husband. Why didn't he just let her ride it out? She
always
got better.

"…put it next to your ear. You don't have to talk if you don't want to. But it might help if you listened. You might like hearing a familiar voice."

Alison continued to be silent.

Then that awful pause. The shrink giving her that little exasperated sigh. She had to be new to the profession. Seasoned shrinks would never, ever sigh. Seasoned shrinks would have endless patience. Because her condition wouldn't be frustrating to them. Because they'd seen it all, done it all.

Why'd they give her someone so inexperienced? Maybe they didn't think she was sick enough to merit a real shrink.

"…don't even have to listen if you don't want to." Another sigh. "But since you're not talking, I can't know what you want or what you don't want. So how about if I just hold the receiver up to your ear."

Her heartbeat was racing. Did she really want to hear Rom's voice?

The shrink was approaching her.

No, don't hit her. Don't slug her, don't push her, don't scratch
her. You can't do that. That would be bad. Just let her be, let her
be, let her be.

The shrink put the receiver up to Alison's ear, leaned over, and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Sergeant Poe, I have the receiver up to her ear. You can talk now."

Poe saying, "I'm okay. Say something."

Alison stayed silent.

Poe said, "Dr. Braverman, can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you."

"Do me a favor. I know her hands are protected. Can she hold the receiver at all?"

"Probably." Dr. Braverman put the phone to her own ear. "The thing is, Sergeant, I don't think she
wants
to hold the receiver."

"Then just drop it on the bed and leave. I'll shout and hope she can hear it. I need to talk to her in private."

"I really shouldn't do that…leave the phone here—"

"Alison won't talk if people are scrutinizing her. Give me five minutes with her in privacy."

"This is unorthodox."

"I realize that," Poe said. "But you're not having any luck. Give my idea a try."

"All right…but not too long."

"Agreed."

Dr. Braverman put the phone on the bed, but she remained in the room.

Poe shouted, "Is she gone?"

No response.

Poe said, "Dr. Braverman, I know you're there. Please give my idea a whirl."

He waited, then heard a robust sigh over the line. Footsteps, then a door slamming. Poe counted to ten.

Again, he said, "Is she gone?"

Alison muttered something.

"Pick up the phone, Alison."

Nothing.

Poe tried to be patient. The woman was fragile. "Alison, if you can, please pick up the phone and tuck it under your chin. I'll wait for you."

He heard nothing, then static over the line, loud crackling sounds as if the receiver was being manhandled. Then, abruptly, it stopped.

"Are you there?"

Nothing.

"Alison, listen to me. I'm not mad. Could I
ever
stay mad at you?"

Again silence. Poe decided to wait her out. He sat up on the mattress, changing position to avoid bedsores.

She whispered, "How are you?"

Poe said, "All right. It's good to hear your voice."

She started to cry. "They have my hands tied up. They won't let me see the boys. I'm afraid."

One of the few times Poe heard sincerity in her voice. Because Alison was terrified of losing her sons. He said, "Ali, listen to me. You're in on a seventy-two-hour hold. That means they're going to reevaluate you. You know the drill. If you want to leave, you have to talk to them. You have to convince them you're okay. That you're not going to hurt yourself."