Requite (17 page)

Tom clicked off the light.

He crossed the hall to the adjacent closet and clicked on the light. A custom made cedar closet system filled the walls. Every inch had hanging racks, multiple drawers, and shelving. T-shirts, sweatshirts and golf apparel packed the room. A large shoe rack made up the back wall. It looked like a locker room at a golf club. Tom sorted through the clothing until he found something that looked like it would fit. He sat the bottle of whiskey down and pulled a golf shirt and a gray V-neck sweater from their hangers. It was a challenge to dress himself. His shoulder felt as if it were on fire. The makeshift stitches and duct tape pulled at his skin with each movement. He rummaged through the rest of the judge’s drawers and found a humidor. He removed one of the cigars from inside, clipped the end and held it in his mouth.

Tom walked back downstairs to the kitchen and lit the cigar from the stove. He took in a puff.

“See you in hell, Casey.”

I got to the station a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. I sat at my desk and sipped at a coffee that Callie sent me out the door with. She grew on me more and more each day. She did a lot of little things that showed me how much she cared. It didn’t go unnoticed. What I assumed was a fling had started to turn into something more.

Hank gave my door a tap and strolled in.

“Talk to Bostok yet?”

I took another sip and shook my head. “Nope.”

He plopped down on the couch in the back of my office and avoided the guest chairs in front of my desk.

“You’re still too good to sit in those?”

“They should be burned or we should swap them out with the chairs in the interrogation boxes. After a few minutes of that torture, we could up our amount of confessions. You still want to go out to Casey’s?”

“If Bostok gives us the green light.”

Hank stretched back into the couch. “Not having a car sucks.”

“No. Not having a sports car sucks. You should be happy to not have the electric snot rocket anymore.”

“Karen is going to find me another one.”

“Of course she is. How did the insurance adjuster thing go?”

“Fine. I should know something within a week.”

“How did you get to work?”

“Karen let me borrow her truck. She hitched a ride to work with one of her DEA agents.”

I smiled, but said nothing.

Captain Bostok walked past the front of my office window and banged on the glass. He stuck his head in the door. “Meeting room.”

Hank and I got up and followed him over. Two uniformed officers sat inside when we entered.

“Take a seat guys,” the captain said.

We did.

“These are Officers Stephen Pine and Robert Anderson from District Two.”

They sat across from Hank and I. Pine had a thin face with short blonde hair, he had to be in his twenties. Anderson was a bit older, a little rounder, and appeared to be in his mid-thirties.

“These were the two officers that Spearman attacked a few months back. Why don’t you guys tell Kane and Rawlings how it happened.”

The one on the left, Pine, spoke up. “We were at the hospital checking on another one of our guys from patrol. He laid his bike down off-duty and messed up his leg pretty good—couple screws and a rod connecting the bone. Anyway, we were walking out and this patient a few doors down was going ballistic on the hospital staff. The guy had a rolling monitor of some sorts attached to him. He was ripping tubes and cords from his arms and trying to break through the staff to go after someone.”

“Spearman?” I asked.

Pine nodded in confirmation.

Anderson spoke up. “Yeah, it was Spearman—tall guy with red head. You couldn’t see much of it though. His head was all bandaged up. Man, did he want to tear into whoever he was after. So we tried to assist in restraining this guy and he gave us the same treatment. He screamed, yelled and tried to claw his way free.”

“Who was he after?” Hank asked.

“We didn’t notice anyone that looked like they shouldn’t have been there. It was all doctors and nurses. He kept shouting a name though, Jack, I think.”

“Could it have been Jake?” I asked.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Do you remember him saying anything else?” I asked.

“Just that name and I’ll kill you, I’m going to get you, things of that nature.”

“But you didn’t see who he was going after?”

“No.”

“Then what?” I asked.

“He tried to get away from Pine and I again. After a few more failed attempts he seemed to calm down.”

“Or so we thought,” Pine said.

The captain gave him the hand motion to continue.

Anderson went on, “Well, then the guy looked me dead in the eye. He acted real calm, like he was done with whatever sent him over the edge. He cracked his neck from side to side and then the asshole head butted me square in the face.”

Pine chimed in, “So after he head butted Anderson, I reached for my Taser and the guy kneed me in the groin. I dropped, and the guy ran down the hall.”

“Did you chase him?” Hank asked.

“We didn’t get a chance to. Big guy from hospital security tackled him and held him down until we could get over there and get him in cuffs. The judge who presided over the case gave the guy a slap on the wrist—counseling or some such crap. He should have gotten a felony charge.”

“Who was the judge?” I asked.

“Koehler.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“No reason.” I looked to Bostok. “I have everything I need.”

“Thanks for making the drive over guys. Keep an eye out for this guy, spread the word.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Pine said.

The two walked out and closed the door.

“That was a nice history lesson, but it’s not giving us anything that we can use to catch the guy,” I said.

“Well,” Hank said.

“Well what?”

“He mentioned Spearman got sentenced to counseling. Remember the stress ball?”

I nodded.

“Place over by the hospital. Retten… something.”

“You want to make the call and see what you can find out?”

“Yup.”

Hank walked out leaving the captain and me.

“I checked into the judge. He doesn’t have a concealed carry permit,” the captain said.

“So you’re thinking that he knows something more too?”

The captain’s face said he was wrestling with something in his head. “OK, when I took Casey from here yesterday over to the medical examiner’s he was acting strange.”

I interrupted, “Strange how? He just saw his daughter dead. Acting strange would be acceptable under the circumstances.”

“Not in that way. He started firing off text messages to someone.”

“Text messages?”

“Yeah, it didn’t sit right with me so I called up Santos for a favor. I wanted to keep it off the books in case it didn’t pan out.”

The only Santos I knew of was a retired homicide detective. He left years before I took the job, but would pop into the station and shoot the breeze every now and again. “Retired Santos?” I asked.

“Yeah, retired Santos. He owed me one, so I asked if him to keep tabs on the judge. Santos said Casey left his house last night and met with someone described as the
organized crime type
in a Hookah lounge north of the city. The guy left with a large envelope from the judge. After that, Casey went on a drinking binge. Santos followed him back to his house around midnight. Said the judge was all over the road. Guess he hasn’t left since.”

“What would he be meeting someone for? A payoff for something? We need to have another talk with him. You want me to put out a call to bring him in?”

The captain stood. I followed suit.

“No. Just take Rawlings and go out there. Remember he just lost his daughter and we don’t know what transpired with the other guy.”

“I’ll go easy, but if he starts dodging my questions or says he wants to talk to his lawyer, I’m bringing him in.”

“Use your better judgment. I’ll stand behind you either way.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

I headed out to go find Hank. The captain walked back to his office. Hank sat at his desk on the phone. I took a seat and waited.

He hung up the phone. “Doctor Fay Rettenburg was Spearman’s shrink. She said she saw the news coverage, but couldn’t tell us anything. She did mention that she was planning on taking a trip to Argentina soon. That was kind of weird.”

“She was trying to throw you a bone, Stupid. Spearman must have told her that’s where he planned to go. Be ready to go to the judge’s in ten minutes. I need to call Faust.”

“Cap gave us the OK to question him again?”

I nodded. “I’ll fill you in on the rest on the way over.”

I walked to my office and dialed up Faust.

“Hi, Kane. What can I do for you today?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“I’m just kidding. Phone records from the Miller’s should be ready later today.”

“I appreciate it. We have an I.D. on our suspect and no longer need the murder victims named Claire. It was his wife, she wasn’t murdered.”

“OK. I’m guessing you still need something though.”

“Sorry.”

“Spill it. How can I help?”

“I just wanted to see if you could spread the word and make sure he has the most difficult time possible evading us.”

“I’ll get him added to a couple lists. If he tries crossing a border, using a credit card or getting on a plane, we’ll get a hit.”

“I appreciate the help—again.”

“Not a problem.”

I gave Faust all of Spearman's information, and hung up.

“Housekeeping?” A woman asked from the other side of the door.

Tom rolled in bed.

“Housekeeping?” The maid swiped her card in the door and entered the room.

“No. No thank you,” Tom said. His voice was groggy from sleep and alcohol.

“Oh, sorry, Sir.” She closed the door.

Tom lay in the resort room bed and tried to focus his eyes on the clock—it was 8:22 a.m.

He surveyed the room, taking in his surroundings. Between the loss of blood and consumption of whiskey, he managed to book himself a room. He scooted himself up against the headboard, trying to sit up in the bed. The sheet peeled away from where it stuck to the duct tape on his shoulder. The tape pulled at the washcloth, which pulled at the homemade stitches. The pain hit like a blowtorch to flesh—he winced until it began to subside. Every new movement sent searing pain through his shoulder and into his chest. He reached for the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand and brought the bottle to his mouth. There wasn’t a drop left. The pain from drinking the entire bottle started to build in his head.

This has to be addressed
, he thought.

He tried rolling from bed and standing. His body swayed. Tom used everything in the room to steady himself as he tried to make his way to the bathroom. At the sink, he filled two handfuls of water and splashed it across his face. He stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes refused to focus. Tom carefully removed the tape and washcloth bandage. He rubbed his fingers across the fishing line stitches in his shoulder. There was blood leaking through the stitching.

“Get it together, Tom.”

He pulled the curtain to the side and reached turned on the shower. The water warmed. He stepped in and pulled the curtain closed. The water rolled over his head. He fumbled to get the small bar of soap from the package. Once out, he began to clean the bullet wound. The water over his shoulder turned a color of pink as the blood mixed with the white lather of soap. The pink suds cascaded down his side—then the drain.

Tom finished his shower, dressed back in the clothes he borrowed from the judge and left the room. The
do not disturb
tag was hung on the door as he exited. He walked the hall of the eighth floor to the elevator and hit the button to take him down. The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. A couple already occupied the elevator. The man, thin, in his sixties and wearing a flowered shirt, flip flops and a straw golf hat. The woman equal in age, but heavier in weight sported a pink striped shirt with a towel draped over her shoulder. Tom stepped inside with the older couple to ride down.

“Morning. What floor?” the man asked.

“Lobby please.”

“It looks like we’re headed to the same place.” The man reached out and hit the door close button. He returned to his place against the back wall of the elevator next to his wife. “Rough night?”

“A little,” Tom said.

“Vacation?”

“Just a quick getaway.” He hoped that keeping his responses short would limit the conversation. It didn’t.

“We’re down here from Cincinnati. It’s our first time in Florida. Is this weather about normal for this time of year?” the woman asked.

Tom eyed the elevator floor indicator as it passed floor six. He hoped it didn’t stop again before the lobby. Tom noticed the couple staring at him. They waited for a response.

Tom nodded.

“We have a place in Myrtle Beach that we’re heading to after this. We were through with the snow years ago,” the man said.

The floor indicator lit the fourth floor, and the elevator stopped. The doors opened. A family of four stood outside. The parents were in their thirties dressed for the pool. Their kids, a boy around seven and a girl around five wore swimsuits and arm floats. The man smiled and nodded a hello as he entered. The woman herded the two kids into the elevator car.

“What floor folks?” the old man asked.

“Lobby please,” the woman answered. She used the beach towel to tend to a snotty nose on the little girl.

“Family vacation?” the old woman asked.

“Kind of. We have family being married at the resort here.”

Tom reached out and hit the door close button to speed the process.

“Oh, that’s nice. This place is so beautiful,” the old woman said.

“Isn’t it?”

“Where you folks from?” The old man asked.

“Columbus area. Ohio,” the man answered.

“Hey, we’re from Cincinnati. Bengals or Browns fan?”

The father smiled. “Bengals, of course.”

“Oh boy. Here comes the football talk,” the mother said.

The women had a quick laugh.