Garreth thanked Lady Luck for the colorful reporting of the day. Maybe he had something here. This Madelaine with her face contorted in fury was a far cry indeed from the Lane Barber who stood him up against a wall years later and coolly proceeded to drink his lifeblood, then go back to work.
He pressed the button for a hard copy of the page and carried it into the reading room to study, underlining all names and addresses. He smiled as he read, amused at both the gossipy style of the story, laden with adjectives, and what he saw between the lines, knowing Lane to be what she was.
A woman named Claudia Darling, described as “a pert, petite, blue-eyed brunette,” was accosted in the Red Onion on the evening of Friday, October 17, by “a Junoesque” red-haired singer named Mala Babra. Lane could fill a phone book with her aliases. An argument ensued over a naval officer both had met the evening before, Miss Babra claiming that Miss Darling caused the serviceman to break a date made previously with her.
Oh how that must have frustrated Lane…supper all picked out and some other lady walked off with it.
When Miss Darling denied the allegation, the story went on, Miss Babra attacked. They had to be separated by police hastily summoned to the scene. Four officers were needed to subdue and hold Miss Babra. Miss Darling suffered severe bite wounds to one ear and scratches on the face, but “the familiar habitue of the nightclub scene is reported to be in satisfactory condition at County General Hospital.”
Garreth eyed the last sentence, ticking his tongue against his teeth. He sensed a sly innuendo, something readers of the time no doubt understood, but which eluded him, two generations removed. He studied the photograph: the four officers straining to hold Lane, obviously surprised by her strength; Lane ablaze with fury; and the Darling woman, showing what the photographer must have considered a highly satisfactory amount of leg as she crouched dazed and bleeding on the floor.
The bare leg caught Garreth’s attention, but the rest of the woman held it. Even with the differences in hairstyle and fashions, he recognized what she wore as just a bit flashier, shorter, and tighter than the dresses on the women in the background. Now he recognized what the reporter meant: hooker. Higher class than a street walker. Today she would call herself an “escort.”
That was a break. Being in the life, she must have been busted a few times, and that meant a record of her: names, addresses, companions.
But for that he needed access to Records. Which, unfortunately, meant going to the Hall of Justice and walking into the lion’s den.
3
Garreth twisted slowly on the spit over the fire pit. Or so it felt.
Coming down, he hoped to be indifferent to the interview. What happened to him did not matter. Let Internal Affairs ask whatever they liked, ascertaining the facts of the incident in order to submit a report to the Firearm Discharge Review Board, for their hearing to be held later. He just needed to give simple answers — as true as he dared — making sure as little blame as possible attached to Harry.
So he told himself walking in Homicide to face Serruto. Except, no Serruto. Belatedly he realized that being Sunday, Serruto was off. The whole office was almost deserted, only Art Schneider and Ron Cohen there. The indifference ended when Art glanced toward him and immediately away again.
Cohen eyed him coldly. “Lien keeps asking why you haven’t come to see Harry. Everyone else has. Don’t you give a damn how he is?”
That stung as hard as he knew Cohen meant it to. He wanted to yell back that of course he cared, just been afraid to ask. Now he knew Harry was at least alive! “I didn’t think I’d be welcome.” He paused. “How is he?”
“Hanging on.” Cohen turned away.
Art looked up from his typewriter, his expression kinder. “He hasn’t regained consciousness. You need to go see him.”
Garreth’s stomach lurched. So Harry might not be safe yet? “I’ll go…after…” He pointed up.
He left them looking torn between I hope they rake you over the coals and Better you than me and took the stairs up to the I.A. office on the fifth floor.
Now he sat…had sat for days it seemed, minus his glasses, head pounding with the misery of daylight…with Sergeants Fong and “Merciless” Mercer taking him over and over Friday’s nightmare. Making him feel like the fuckup of all time. A blackboard in front of him had a schematic drawing of Wink’s hideout, marked with x’s and o’s at the front and back doors, and big X in the middle of the livingroom marking where Harry had lain bleeding. The four uniforms had already given their versions of course.
Fong said, for maybe the hundredth time…or maybe the fiftieth — he and Mercer took turns asking the questions — “You weren’t on duty at the time, were you?”
But for the hundredth time, Garreth made himself reply in a calm, even voice. “No.”
“You were on sick leave because of the recent attack on you.”
“Yes.”
“And had an appointment that afternoon for a psych evaluation.”
“Yes.”
“Was Inspector Takananda aware of this?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us again, then, how you happened to be accompanying Inspector Takananda.”
A question not answerable with yes or no. “Harry had an interview with a witness in an unrelated case we had been working and I asked to ride along…not to participate, just to hear what the witness had to say. We expected to return in time for my appointment with Dr. Leonard.”
“Yet you did participate in the apprehension of Wink O’Hare.”
Garreth’s gut started to twist. “Yes.”
“Which Inspector Takananda permitted, despite your medical status.”
Each time, that question brought a flare of anger. Garreth bit it back once more. “I’ve told you, I talked him into it.”
“Despite your medical status.”
“I wasn’t thinking of that at the time.”
“What were you thinking, Inspector?” Mercer asked.
Blame the oppression of daylight, the repetitive questions, the fire in his throat from smelling their blood. Anger boiled over in him. Garreth jerked to his feet. “I’ll tell you what I was thinking! Here was this scumbag who killed a sweet old man for less than a hundred bucks, just for not opening the cash register fast enough, and now, if we hurried, we could nail the son of a bitch’s ass! That’s what I was thinking, that and nothing else!”
He caught a glance of satisfaction between the two of them. For cracking his seeming patience, which might have bothered them? Or were they thinking: cowboy, or loose cannon. Let them. Either could apply.
“So, now are we going through the deal with my gun all over again?”
The.38, which he let them examine in the first round of questions. It had been affirmed as his personal weapon, not issued by the department, but practiced with regularly so he was proficient with it and knew it to be in working order. The malfunction, he had admitted over and over, was him, not the weapon.
They were eyeing him, assessing his sudden aggression, when the door opened and Serruto came into the room, wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and a grave expression.
Garreth’s heart contracted in fear for Harry. He dropped back into the chair, dry-mouthed, while Serruto pulled Mercer aside and murmured in his ear.
Mercer came back to Garreth. “You haven’t told us everything about that day, have you, Inspector? You’ve left out the incident in the restaurant when you and Inspector Takananda went to lunch.”
Garreth stared at him, and then at Serruto. There was only one way for them to know about that. Relief and elation made him feel boneless. “Harry’s conscious? He’s talking?”