The Answer Man (20 page)

Hound Dog emerged from the darkroom and pinned four wet prints to a small clothesline stretched before a rotary fan. The fan was stained by the dried blood of a friend who had tried to duplicate a David Letterman “Stupid Human Tricks” segment. The dumbass had attempted to stop the fan blades with his tongue. Hound Dog swore he still spoke with a lisp.

“Surely you don't think Myth Daniels killed Don Browne,” she said.

“I don't know. I don't know if she's the one who tried to kill me. I don't know if she's the one who broke in here that night either.”

“Funny you should say that,” Hound Dog said. “Because I have a way we might be able to find out.”

“How?”

She pointed to her drying photos. “Look.”

It took Ken a moment, but he soon realized he was seeing Myth's front yard. Two of the photos showed a security service sign next to the mailbox. Ken read the company name aloud: “
APEX ALERT
.”

“It's an alarm company. If she left her house, they would know it.”

“As long as she had activated her system.”

Hound Dog nodded, smiling at him.

“I see what you're getting at,” Ken said. “You want to see if she was home the night your boyfriend was shot.”

“Or the night that boat rammed you.”

Ken thought about it. “Good idea, but the alarm company won't turn that information over to just anybody.”

“They would turn it over to the police.”

“With a court order, maybe.”

“Without a court order. Those armed response security firms are mostly ex-cops anyway. They're all one big happy family.”

“So how does that help us?”

Hound Dog was already flipping through the yellow pages for Apex Alert's number. She found it, grabbed her cordless phone, and dialed.

“What are you doing?” Ken asked.

“Shhh.” She listened, then spoke in a casual tone. “Good afternoon, Linda, this is Tamara Brooking calling from the Atlanta P.D. How are you doing?”

Ken rolled his eyes.

Hound Dog gave him a shove as she walked across the room with her phone. “Good. Listen, I'm looking into a burglary complaint. The victim thinks it may have been a member of her own family, so she doesn't want any paper on this until she knows for sure. I'm keeping it out of the system, but I'd appreciate it if I can get a copy of her activity records for a couple of dates.”

Hound Dog picked up a pen and notepad and tossed it to Ken. He scribbled the day and time of the boat attack and flashed it to her.

She nodded and spoke into the phone. “The address is 2525 Sandy Plains Road. I need records for June third and June fifth, all day for both.” Hound Dog turned to Ken. “She has me on hold.”

“You're nuts.”

“I hear that every day of my life.”

“I don't doubt it.”

“This will work!”

“
That
I doubt.”

Hound Dog spoke into the phone again. “Yes? Okay. But can't you read me the entries now? I see. I was just hoping to save myself a trip. I understand.”

Ken gave her an “I told you so” look.

Hound Dog wrinkled her nose at him as she continued
speaking into the phone. “Okay, but I won't be able to make it by until this evening. Can you leave it with someone? Okay. Great. That's Sergeant Tamara Brooking. B-r-o-o-k-i-n-g. Thank you, Linda.” Hound Dog hung up the phone.

“Well?”

“The records will be at the guard desk in their lobby. The guard will hand them over when Police Sergeant Tamara Brooking comes in and shows her badge.”

“How is that going to happen?”

“It's not. There is no Tamara Brooking.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, at least we know where the records will be.” Hound Dog put the phone back in its cradle. “We'll just have to go steal them.”

“We?”

Gant huddled with Sergeant Andrew Stanton, watching the video monitor carefully. It had taken most of the day to get a court order freeing up the building surveillance tape from the other morning. If, as Gant suspected, the firebomber had made an escape around the back of Ken Parker's building, the camera may have picked it up.

Gant stared at the digital time stamp in the lower right-hand corner of the picture. “We're getting close. It happened at about nine-forty
A
.
M
.”

Stanton turned the jog shuttle dial, running the video at two times normal speed. He slowed the picture, freeze-framing it when a figure stepped into view. It was a person wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, and carrying a small paper bag.

“There,” said Gant. “Can you zoom in?”

“I can do it, but it's pretty blurry. These security camera lenses aren't the fastest in the world. Let me see if I can find a frame that's sharper.”

Stanton shuttled back and forth on the tape, but none of the images were noticeably more defined than the other. He
zoomed in on the face, but the result was a diffused black and white mess.

Gant sighed. “Let's go forward a minute or so. Let's see if our friend comes back.”

They watched, and after a few moments the figure returned. The bomber turned to look back for an instant, then continued across the frame.

“Look, no bag,” Gant said intently. “That was the firebomb. A Molotov cocktail.”

“We may be in luck,” Stanton said as he ran the picture back. “I might be able to get a good still shot here.”

Stanton froze the picture. He zoomed in on the bomber, and the result was a grainy yet identifiable picture.

Gant burst into a broad smile.

“Anybody you know?” Stanton asked.

“Yeah.”

B
enjamin Dietz liked graveyard duty. The other guards in his building preferred days, but he relished the peace and quiet of the eleven-to-seven shift. His post at the guard desk was particularly serene, given that there were seldom visitors to hassle him. The only overnight activity in the twelve-story building was from Apex Alert on the second floor, which employed only a small night staff to monitor their alarm systems.

Yes, this was his favorite job ever. Much better than the armored car company where he'd worked for seventeen years. Better than the Coweta County sheriff's deputy job.

His only real responsibility tonight was giving a manila envelope to some lady cop. If she even showed. The guard on the previous shift had passed it along, and it rested on the counter in front of him with the name
SGT
.
T
.
BROOKING
printed on its front.

He'd been on duty twenty-five minutes, when he heard a scream.

He looked right and left. Where had it come from? Inside or outside?

He stood up as a young woman ran in front of the building's glass entrance. She fell to the sidewalk. Behind her, a man pounced and pinned her down.

Dietz ran around the guard desk and unsnapped his holster. The woman's assailant, wearing a stocking cap, looked
Dietz in the eye. The woman threw a vicious punch to the attacker's face and threw him off. The man, still eyeing Dietz, jumped to his feet and ran down the street.

The guard pushed open the glass door and kneeled beside the woman.

“Ohhh. God, it hurts…” She was clutching her stomach.

“Take it easy, honey. What did he do to you?”

The woman looked up. She was about the same age as his daughter, a junior at the University of Georgia. “He just came after me. He hit me in the stomach with a pipe or something, then he chased me.”

“I'll call an ambulance.”

“No.” She pulled herself up. “It's not that bad. If I could just—have a drink of water.”

“Sure, honey. I'll get it for you.”

“Don't leave!” she said, her gaze darting down the street. “I'll come inside with you.”

He helped her to her feet. They walked through the entrance and he pulled out his stool behind the guard desk. “Sit down.”

“Thanks.”

The woman sat as Dietz picked up a paper cup and walked across the lobby to a water fountain. He filled the cup and came back with it.

She sipped the water. “Thanks.”

“Just relax, honey. I'm going to call the police.”

“Don't bother. The guy's gone.”

“You should still file a report.”

“Why? What do you think they'll do about it?”

Dietz picked up his phone. “Don't be silly. They'll be here in five minutes.”

Her hand came down on the hook. “Please. I just want to go home and go to bed.”

“You're just upset.”

“You got that right.” She pulled her hand away and stood up. “Thanks for your help, but I just want to forget about this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure. Good night, Officer. Or whatever you are.”

Dietz watched her leave. He put the phone back on the cradle. Crazy kid.

He looked down at the counter. Where did that manila envelope go?

“Who taught you to punch like that?” Ken gingerly touched his cheek. He drove down International Boulevard as Hound Dog pulled the envelope from under her shirt.

She tore into it. “I got carried away. Spirit of the moment.”

“That
hurt.
”

“No pain, no gain.”

“Uh-huh. So what exactly did we gain?”

Hound Dog angled the printouts into the streetlights' glare. “Let's see. Her alarm activity is here in military time. On the day of your boat attack, she deactivated the alarm at twenty hundred and eleven hours.”

“Eight-eleven
P
.
M
. When she got home from work.”

“Right. Then activated it again at twenty-three hundred and fifty-eight hours. Eleven fifty-eight
P
.
M
. Probably when she went to sleep.”

“So she was home.”

“That's what it looks like.”

“What about the time your boyfriend was shot?”

Hound Dog flipped to the next report. She studied it and let the pages fall to her lap. “Home. She was home.”

Ken didn't know whether to feel discouraged or relieved. “She didn't do it. Either time.”

“It doesn't mean she wasn't behind it. It just means she didn't do it herself, that's all.”

Twenty minutes later they pulled up to Hound Dog's trailer. “Are you heading over to the hospital?” he asked.

“A little later. I'll call right now to see if there's any change. Maybe I'll ride around for a while, to unwind.”

“Scanner-surfing?”

“Yeah.” She climbed out of the car. “Good night, Ken.”

“Good night.”

Ken watched as she shuffled across the patio and walked up the three short steps to her trailer's front door.

As much as she tried to hide it, her boyfriend's condition was hitting her hard, Ken thought. After seeing that she was safely inside, he drove back to his apartment.

The phone was ringing when he entered. He ran across the room and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Where have you been?” It was Myth.

He was still clutching her security system activity reports. He tossed them onto his coffee table. “Out and about,” he said.

“I'm ready to discuss my ideas for finding Sabini's money.”

“Okay. Discuss.”

“Not over the phone. Let's meet tomorrow night. The pier again? Ten
P
.
M
.”

“Why there? Why so late?”

“You're a suspect. We can't be seen together, or it's all off. It has to be this way.”

“If you say so.”

“It'll be good to see you, Ken. I've missed you.”

“Yeah.”

There was hesitation, as if she wanted him to say more, but finally she just said, “Good night.”

“Good night.” He hung up the phone.

What was he going to do?

He couldn't meet her. Could he?

Ken paced the small living room, remembering Michaelson's warnings. Myth would have to kill him “somewhere out of the way,” the private eye had said.

The pier certainly qualified.

With all that had happened, he'd have to be an idiot to trust her. But he still wasn't entirely convinced of her guilt.

Ken looked at the alarm activity reports again. If Myth wasn't behind the attacks on him and Hound Dog's boyfriend, who was?

There was a full moon that night, for which Gant was grateful. There were no streetlights on the block.

Gant, Lieutenant Jim Ringland, and two uniformed officers approached the two-story duplex nestled in a neighborhood of brick row houses. Gant had known Ringland for years, and was happy when the detective offered to help with the pickup. Gant had not worked with him since transferring to day shift six years before.

“Fireworks?” Ringland asked.

“I'm not expecting any. If our firebomber shows a gun, he goes away for a long time.”

“If you're right about this, he's going away for a long time anyway. It might not matter to him.”

“I'm not going to argue with that.”

Gant drew his revolver and checked the chamber. Ringland and the other officers also produced their weapons. Gant motioned for Ringland and one of the uniforms to cover the rear of the house as he and the other approached the front door.

Gant took a good look at the cop accompanying him. He was a kid fresh out of the academy, and his ruddy cheeks were offset by a square jaw and bright blue eyes. Gant remembered how he felt in his own days as a uniformed cop. On these pickups, where the shields called the shots, he had always felt like the anonymous expendable crewmen on
Star Trek
who got killed whenever they beamed down to a planet with the principals.

Gant read the officer's nameplate. “Okay, Gordon, let's make an arrest.”

They walked quietly up a set of stairs to the front door. Gant rapped on it hard. He waited, looking toward the adjacent window. One of the horizontal blinds pulled up slightly.

“Open up. Police!”

Retreating footsteps pounded inside. In the same instant, Gordon broke the door open in one ferocious kick. The two
officers rushed into the house, guns drawn, as they barreled through the living room and down a narrow hallway.

Shattering glass echoed in the back bedroom. They hurtled through the doorway to see a broken window frame with pieces of glass still falling and breaking on the floor. Gant holstered his gun and leapt through the second-story window, grabbing hold of a tree branch outside.

He yelled back to Gordon, “Get Ringland's ass out here!”

Gant half fell, half climbed down the tree, all the while trying to keep an eye on his suspect. For a moment he thought he lost him, but he spotted the man as he reached the ground. Gant dropped the last few feet and literally hit the ground running.

Middle age and a little extra weight had not slowed him much, and what he lacked in speed he more than made up for in endurance. He was well known for his ability to wear down a fleeing suspect; the detective just kept going. When the suspect glanced back to see if he was still being chased, Gant always felt encouraged. When the suspect looked a second time, he knew the collar was his.

They had run three blocks when Gant heard the squealing tires that told him Gordon or one of the other officers was in the car and joining the pursuit. The suspect looked over his shoulder, cueing the lieutenant to put on an extra burst of speed.

The car roared behind them, and Gant watched as the man cut across a yard toward a tall wooden fence. His suspect jumped for the gate and scaled it. Sliding across the dew-soaked grass, Gant sprinted for the gate and yanked on it. He swung the gate forcefully against the brick side of the house, hammering the man's face against it. The suspect collapsed in a heap at his feet, moaning as blood spurted from his nose.

Gant pinned the man's shoulders and cuffed him. He turned him faceup. It was Jesus Millicent, Carlos Valez's smart-ass friend.

“This is your lucky day, Jesus. If one of those hothead rookies had caught you, they'd be having a nightstick party on your skull.”

Jesus squirmed and shouted, “Man, I didn't do nothing!”

“You mean you didn't do
anything
.”

“What are you, a fucking teacher?”

“No, but my wife is. I don't appreciate your lack of respect for the profession.”

Gant turned him over. Ringland and the other uniformed officer ran up, guns drawn. Ringland grimaced at Jesus's bloody face. “What'd you do to him, Gant?”

“I opened the gate. He happened to be on it.”

Ringland gave Gant a knowing look. “That's the way it looks to me.”

“Really,” Gant insisted. “He was trying to climb over, I swung it open and he hit the wall.”

“Of course,” Ringland said with a conspiratorial smile.

Gant decided to let him think what he wanted.

“Let me get this straight, Jesus. You didn't firebomb this building. But you just happen to have canisters of gasoline and oil, and a ripped-up rag, in the backseat of your car.”

Jesus looked at Gant and Ringland on the other side of the table in the small interrogation room. Two pieces of brown washroom paper towel protruded from his nose, sticking out at odd angles.

“Man, my nose is starting to bleed again.”

Ringland tore off another piece of the brown paper towel. “Here. Put this between your upper lip and gum.”

“I want a lawyer, and I want a doctor.”

Gant smiled. “We told you. A public defender is on the way. You don't have to talk to us. But you've already resisted arrest, and that's a violation of your parole. We can put you away. Even if we don't get anything else, you're in lockup for two more years.”

“Aw, shit…”

“You get a lawyer in here, he'll tell you to clam up, and
you're gonna piss us off. And even if we can't get this other stuff to stick, we'll get you for big-time parole violation, and we'll make sure you serve it out.”

“I didn't do it!”

Gant nodded. The grueling process of interrogating suspects was one of his least favorite parts of police work. Other officers loathed the tedium of stakeouts, but there at least the cop could listen to music or sit with his thoughts. Gant had no fondness for the psychological back-and-forth of getting a suspect to spill his guts.

He glanced at the video monitor. It was almost time to play the tape. Almost. It was good to let Jesus lie a little more before playing this trump card; the typical suspect's fear at having been caught in a lie was good for getting them to ‘fess up to other, possibly related crimes. They did this in hope of “making good” with the cops to whom they had just fibbed.

Gant looked at Ringland. “He says he didn't do it.”

“That's what he says,” Ringland replied.

“I told you
ten
times! I'm not saying another word until my lawyer gets here.”

“Fine.” Gant stood and motioned toward the monitor. “While you wait, we'll let you watch a video.”

The next morning Ken had been in his office only ten minutes when he heard a sharp knock at his door. He opened it to see Lieutenant Gant.

“Good morning,” Gant said. “Can we talk?”

Ken gestured wide for Gant to enter. What now?

Gant stepped inside and looked around the new office. “I have some good news for you. We got your bomber.”

Ken froze. “The bomber? Who was it?”

“It was a buddy of Carlos Valez's. His name is Jesus Millicent. He thinks you whacked his friend.”