“It wasn't via lottery.”
Lucas breathed this information in. “He heard plenty about me in Dallas, didn't he?”
“Everybody knows about Dallas, about John F. Kennedy's assassination there and about your accident there, but with Lawrence, when you went after the city in that court battle, that was enough to destroy any chance you had on his force.”
“What a ya know… it all goes back to Dallas, doesn't it? They warned me that Houston's still a small town in many ways.”
“Most Texas cities are…”
He raised a hand to his chin and nodded in silent agreement.
“And everything about a police department is small-town,” she added. “A lot of cable's been laid between here and Dallas, and you're something of an infamous fellow. And here you are, pretty much alone, and I'm… well, I'm pretty far out on a limb with Captain Lawrence, too.” She now stared purposefully once more into the rippling and layered pools of his marble-hard brown eyes. This time, he held her stare as if daring her to break it off, as if studying her level of intensity, or sincerity, or both. Or was he thinking sex? She did not know.
“How do you know I'm not a racist or a sexist?” he asked her. “Many Indian men are proud to be both, you know…”
She laughed lightly at this, realizing that he was kidding for the first time with her. Maybe the bourbon wasn't such a bad idea, after all.
“Seriously, Dr. Sanger, just what is it you want from me? You certainly didn't come here to warn me about Phil Lawrence.”
She snatched a notepad from her purse and slipped on a pair of reading glasses that made her look like a school teacher, he thought. “What I'm going to tell you, Lucas, must remain confidential if-”
“So long as this entire meeting remains confidential, I think I could agree to that,” he countered with a snakelike reaction.
She looked from her notepad over her glasses and across at him. “A greed. Like I said, I've got more important fish to fry than your ass over an indiscretion more suited to the concerns of Internal Affairs.”
“But don't you work closely with IAD?”
“IAD doesn't work closely with anyone. Listen, I am not your enemy.”
“Shall we shake on it, to ensure the bond?” he suggested, still unsure of her motives, still not certain he could trust her. “God, next you'll be asking me to slit my wrist and mingle my blood with yours in some pagan ritual out of-”
“Not a bad idea either.”
“Okay, all right already.” She reached across the rough, scarred tabletop, and he firmly took her hand in his, testing her strength for a moment, allowing his hand to linger in hers as they shook. She frowned, tugged her hand from his and turned her attention back to the notepad now lying between them. “I've mapped out my suspicions for several weeks now, all brought on by the Mootry killing.”
A glazed, unknowing blink was quickly masked, even as he said, “Okay…
“A brutal mutilation murder like that doesn't go unnoticed and-”
“Then this isn't a dead file case? It's not something out of the Cold Room?”
“Well, it is and isn't.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Well, let me finish. The Mootry case is current, but a less recent killing, a senseless murder here ten years ago come Friday, held some fascinating similarities. I wasn't on staff here then, but I read about it in the Seattle papers.”
“You've only been here how long?”
“Four months come Tuesday.”
“And you're from Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Your people all there?”
“Yes, now let me finish. Anyway, it occurred to me… I mean, I… the Mootry murder immediately brought back memories of similar deaths both here and elsewhere. I wondered if the three crimes could possibly have been connected. So I did some checking.”
“I don't get it. Why didn't you just turn your suspicions over to the detective bureau?”
'That's just it. I did, but no one's taking me seriously, least of all Lawrence.”
“Well, you are sticking your nose into his territory when you-”
“God, I hate that kind of thinking.”
“What a ya mean? What kind of thinking?” he countered.
“We're going to let macho shit-head territorialism come before the truth?”
“It usually does.”
“With men, yes.”
He smiled. “You got me there. Something to do with the testosterone levels, I believe.”
Well spoken, well read, fast on his feet, she thought. “Will you just listen?” she suggested.
“Shoot, Doc.”
“I've found several suspiciously similar former cases, some of the information coming out of your dead file room down in the basement.”
“Well, from all appearances, a lot of cases wind up in that twilight zone.”
“One was the file I just gave back to you this morning.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Have you re shelved it yet?”
“No.”
“Good, then read it; see what you think. Then go back and check out the others I've read over the past few weeks. That's all I ask, Lucas.”
“The way I had to remind you to check that file in this morning?
How am I going to know which ones you've checked out before?”
“I checked 'em all back in, in order.”
“You mean you were just a little flustered this morning?” he teased. She managed a smile. “You might say that.”
“All right, so what if these cases are linked?
“What?” She gave him a confused stare.
“If they're in the Cold Room, they're like me.”
“Come again?”
“They're not likely to be of any great interest to Lawrence or anyone out ranking him.”
'They will now… or should.”
“Meaning?”
“Where've you been. Chief?” She realized now that he had no notion of the enormity of the Mootry case. “The Mootry case, the one that's been front page for the past week?”
“I don't read the newspapers. They depress me. Besides, I've been working my tail off night and day as a rookie, remember? Work detail by day, class work by night.”
“Couldn'tve been easy after the years of rehab you've gone through,” she replied, her tone consolatory, sincere.
“No one said it was going to be easy…”
'Tell me about the most important single event in your life, the accident,” she blurted out, her training as a psychiatrist getting the best of her, coloring her tone with condescension, making her immediately sorry, wishing she'd found a smoother transition into this touchy, obviously unhealed wound. “I know you want to talk about it to someone…” she said, trying to repair the damage done by the blatant nosiness that accompanied her profession.
“I'm going to make you work hard for this,” he said, his smile a curling snake.
“So I've noticed. Look, I'm sorry if I've overstepped my bounds. I must appear nosy, but in fact I'm… well, just…”
“Interested?”
She nodded, smiling. “Yes, interested.”
He shook his head like a big dog and then fixed his eyes on her. “I talk to the One God, the Great Spirit, about it.
That's enough.”
“Bullshit. Tell me about it; trust me, it'll only make you feel better.”
“Me? Feel better? Not ever going to happen in this life, Doctor. Maybe when the Great Spirit comes for me, but not on this plane ever again. Besides, I had a shrink on my case, along with six physical therapists.”
“Yours is a real success story. Surprised the movie people haven't sought you out for one of those-”
They did and I refused. It wasn't exactly Robert Zemeckis and DeNiro beating down my door to make the offer.”
He dropped his gaze, staring through the solid oak table, and he began to tell her the story in as brief a clip as possible, knowing that if he fed her this, maybe she'd see him as more than the cripple he'd become, and perhaps she'd better understand why he was here now, downing whiskey. She listened without interruption.
“My partner, Jackson, and I, we had just gone off duty. We had hoisted a few when we heard the radio call on a heist nearby. In fact, we believed it had to do with a case we'd been working for months, so we responded.” He explained that the car accident had happened while he was on what had begun as a rather routine call, since it appeared the gunman had abandoned the scene long before they'd arrived.