They're Watching (2010) (37 page)

A scalding thought cut through the haze--She's dead--but my mind recoiled, fled toward other possibilities.

They could've released her. Or maybe the cops had rescued her when they found me. I was desperate to believe anything.

I was able to move four paces parallel with the wall, the cuff sliding along the rail until it caught. I could reach nothing. Swallowing a few times finally got my voice working. I stared at the two-way mirror. "Where am I?" Hoarser than Brando.

An unseen door opened and closed, and a moment later a detective entered from the adjoining room, badge hanging around his neck. He was so broad that I almost missed his colleague slipping in behind him.

The big guy ran a hand over his blond, grown-out flattop and gave a businesslike wave at the mirror. "Okay, we got him, thanks. You recording?" His wide face, big-featured and handsome, fixed on me. He looked quintessentially American, a Norman Rockwell football player. "I'm Lieutenant DeWitt, and this is Lieutenant Verrone."

Lieutenants. I'd been upgraded.

Verrone had a cigarettes-and-booze complexion--tinged yellow, rugged and sickly all at once--and he looked like he could fit in DeWitt's pant leg. His mustache turned the corners of his mouth, aiming at a handlebar but cut short, no doubt, in keeping with department regs.

"My wife," I croaked.

"What about her?" DeWitt asked.

Verrone dropped into the chair in the far corner. His button-up shirt pulled tight against his torso, revealing a surprisingly sinewy build. He only looked insubstantial next to DeWitt.

"Is she okay?" I said.

"I don't know," DeWitt answered carefully. "Did you hurt her?"

"No, I--no." There was a ring of shiny red skin at my wrist. My head wasn't back online yet; everything seemed so uncivilized, so bewildering. "You . . . you didn't see her?"

DeWitt squatted in the middle of the white tile, facing me. Such a big guy and yet his movements were precise, graceful. "Why should we see your wife?"

From his chair, Verrone continued to stare at me. Not a glower per se, but dispassionate eye contact, menacing only in its reptilian endurance. Since sitting, he hadn't broken eye contact or moved any part of his body, at least not that I could gather from the glances I'd allocated myself.

I shook my head to clear it, but that only compounded the pain. "How am I . . . ?" The rest couldn't make it from brain to mouth.

DeWitt obliged the obvious question anyway. "Stun grenade, military issue. You add the overpressure of being in a car, you're looking at a pressure wave of thirty thousand pounds per square inch. You're lucky you're not more seriously injured."

Had it been my attacker's plan to knock me out all along? Or had he spotted the butcher knife at my side and decided to drop the grenade? They'd let me live. Which meant they still had use for me. Clearly they'd realized that the blank CD I'd brought was a sham. Maybe they thought I could still lead them to the real one. Hope flared in my chest; if that were the case, they'd keep Ari alive to ensure my cooperation.

If you talk to the cops, she dies.

Shivering off the remembered threat, I did my best to focus. I had to get out of here without revealing anything, and make myself available to Ariana's kidnappers. No step of which would be easy. First thing would be to get myself to a lower-security building. Like a hospital. "Am I . . . Can I see a doctor?"

"Medics cleared you at the scene. You were conscious--remember?"

"I don't."

"We brought you here, then you dozed off."

"Where's here?"

"Parker Center."

LAPD headquarters. Great.

"I should be at a hospital. I was unconscious. I don't remember anything."

DeWitt cocked an eyebrow at Verrone. "We'd better re-Mirandize him, then."

"Nah, we got him on tape. And he signed." Verrone's mouth had barely moved, and for a moment I wondered if he'd spoken at all. He remained eerily still.

I tried to stand, but the cuff jerked me back onto the bench. "You can't arrest me. I can't . . . be in jail right now."

DeWitt said, "I'm afraid it's a little late for that."

"Can I talk to Detective Richards?"

"She's no longer involved with this case."

"Where's Gable?"

DeWitt said, more firmly, "We're above Gable."

"Sixth floor," Verrone said.

My brain revved and revved but couldn't find traction. With Ariana's life on the line, was I finally out of plays?

"A neighbor called in the blast a few hours ago." DeWitt eyeballed my handcuff, unconsciously jostling the dive watch on his own right wrist. "Keith Conner's house, you know?" He whistled. "So we got on our horse. Then you, there. Look at it from our perspective. I gotta be a hard-ass here and get some answers out of you."

I could feel Verrone's impassive face pointed at me, those steady eyes posing some unspoken challenge. I realized he scared me.

"I don't know that I have any answers," I said.

"Who assaulted you?" DeWitt asked.

"I didn't see. And I don't know names."

"But they didn't kill you. Which means you must have something they want."

"No, they don't want me dead. I'm the fall guy for Keith Conner's murder. If I die, it looks suspicious."

"And this doesn't?"

"Sure it does. It makes me look suspicious. That's why I'm the one under arrest."

"Listen closely, assfuck," Verrone said. This time there was little uncertainty that he was talking. There was also little uncertainty about who would be playing bad cop. A crime-scene bag appeared from inside his jacket. The butcher knife. Swaying. "We want an explanation for this. And we want an explanation for what you were doing at Keith fucking Conner's house."

I said, "Assfuck?"

"You know how to boil a frog, Davis?"

"I know the story," I said. "You can't throw it in hot water or it'll just hop out. So you put it in a pot of cold water on a stove, then you turn up the temperature, a degree at a time. It's so gradual, the frog doesn't notice. It sits there until it's cooked. And just in case I haven't noticed--to coin a phrase--how fucked I am"--I gestured to my cramped surroundings, my cuff rattling--"this is where you tell me I'm the frog."

I could have sworn DeWitt looked mildly amused.

Verrone stood up swiftly, the chair rolling back. After his perfect stillness, the gesture was intimidating. DeWitt rose and turned to face him. Verrone studied me, his jaw corded with muscle. He pointed at my face. "You get one of those for free."

DeWitt walked over and breathed down on me. "This is the end of the road. You can't wriggle off this time. The pieces are lined up from the DA to the chief to the investigative file. You've gotta come clean. Why were you at Keith's?"

Even when I bowed my head, that broad shadow pressed in on me. I could feel the heat off his body. The CD was out there somewhere. Ariana was out there somewhere, too, terrified. I was behind bars, powerless to help her. And if I talked, they'd kill her.

I said, "I want to see a lawyer."

DeWitt sighed. Took a step back.

Verrone said, "Wow. He wants to play it that way." He turned to leave, disgusted. "I'm gonna take a leak." He walked out.

Me and DeWitt, alone. I glanced nervously at the two-way mirror, but it just looked back at me.

I said, "You have to give me access to counsel."

"Sure." DeWitt took another step back. His big, pleasant face looked disappointed, as if he'd caught me in the backseat with his girlfriend. "Sure thing. Lemme just tell the chief."

Leaving the door partially ajar, he walked out, moved a stack of crisp manila folders, and sat on the edge of the desk. The desk didn't sound too happy about it. His fist encompassed the phone. "Yeah, Chief? I'm in Interrogation Five with Davis. He wants to lawyer up. . . . Yes, I stopped asking him questions immediately. . . . I know, I know." He made a clicking sound. "Bad traffic now? He'll have to wait while his lawyer drives over. But the holding tank's filled with those Familia bangers that Metro just rolled up." Those soft blue eyes swiveled to take me in. "Look, he's a white-collar guy. I don't think he'd want to mix with--" He nodded. And again. "Okay. I know. I can't inform him how much we can help him if he's just willing to have a conversation with us. . . . What? . . . No, I don't think he's aware that you think Detective Gable is incompetent and shortsighted. . . . Right, the whole forest-for-the-trees thing. If Davis would walk us through this mess, we might be able to get somewhere, but he feels we're past that point. It's a shame, since I get the vibe that he's a decent guy who's in over his head. But he's not giving us any options. . . . Okay. . . . Okay." He hung up.

"Nice performance," I said.

He sat down at the desk, ruffled through some files. I stared at him through the sliver of open door, but he didn't look up.

"I can't talk to you," I said.

He turned and called to someone out of sight. "Murray, we're gonna need a transfer form on Davis."

I said, "My wife . . . My wife could be in . . ."

He looked through the slender gap in the door. "I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"

"Come on."

"You're willing to continue talking to me about the events of earlier today, even in the absence of counsel?"

I looked over at the two-way so they could get it on tape. "Yes."

He came back inside, crossed his arms.

I said, "I can't tell you anything helpful." He started out again. "Hang on, just wait a second. I'm not dicking you around. My wife is in danger."

"Tell us whatever you know, and we will get on it. If your wife is at risk, we can protect her."

"You don't understand. They want . . ."

"What do they want?"

"They think I have something."

"What do you have? We can't help you if you don't let us."

"They will kill my wife. Do you understand? They will kill her if I tell you anything."

"No one has to find out what you tell us." Frustrated at my silence, he tried a different tack. "Who is 'they'?"

"I don't know."

His blue eyes glowed with intensity. "Where is your wife?"

"They have her."

"Okay," he said calmingly. "Okay. First things first. You can't tell us anything without putting your wife at risk. So we're gonna locate her ourselves."

"You won't find her."

"Finding people is what we do. And when we find her, then you'll come clean?" His gaze was level, unblinking. "I want your word."

"Okay," I said. "If you find her. And I talk to her, to know she's okay."

He looked up at the two-way and nodded briskly, a call to action. "I'm going to have you wait here. Do you have to use the restroom?"

"No. Just keep her safe."

"Don't go anywhere." A soft smile. He closed the door behind him.

I stretched out on the bench and tried to slow the pounding in my head. I must have drifted off, because when the door opened again, the wall clock over Verrone's shoulder showed 8:15.

DeWitt was sitting behind the desk in the other room, the phone wedged into the shelf of his deltoid, his head tipped forward into a hand. Stressed.

Verrone grabbed the chair from the corner, dragged it over so he was sitting right across from me. I shoved myself up, rubbing my eyes. "What? Did you find her?"

In the other room, DeWitt leaned back in his chair, hoisting his feet onto the desk. He was holding eight-by-ten photos, but I could see only the backs of them. He raged into the phone, "I know that, but we need to get a shrink here now." Verrone shot him a look, and DeWitt raised a hand apologetically and quieted.

Verrone turned back to me. His whole demeanor had shifted. He leaned forward, as if to take my hand. His lips pursed, and a line appeared between his eyes--a line of empathy, concern. My fear skyrocketed.

"What?" I said. "Tell me."

"A hiker found your wife--"

"No." My voice was thick, unrecognizable. "No."

"--in a gully in Fryman Canyon."

I stared at him without sensation, without thought. I said, "No."

"I'm sorry," Verrone said. "She's dead."

Chapter
47

The crime-scene photo, a close-up of Ariana's face, quivered in my hand. I couldn't handle the sight, and yet I couldn't look away either. Her eyes were closed, her skin an unnatural gray. Her dark curls straggled across dead weeds. I'd refused to believe it, and so Verrone had produced proof. My wife, dead in a gully.

My voice was tiny, far away. "How."

Verrone shook his head.

"How."

"Stabbed in the neck." He licked his lips uncomfortably. "You're a suspect, obviously, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt until the time of death and evidence come in." He tugged at the photograph, and finally I let it go. "My wife was . . . uh, I lost her to a drunk driver. There's never . . ." Leaning back, he picked at the leg of his jeans, his mustache twitching. "There's never anything anyone can say." He looked at me directly and tilted his head in a show of respect. "I'm sorry."