Kai always there. Afraid of him. She paused, then added, They believe he is a saint.
“Probably not now that your backyard has been dug up.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then signaled, He is a monster.
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how many horrors you’ve experienced, being at his mercy since you were injured.”
He did it.
“He injured you?”
Yes.
“But I thought-oh. Before he left for school that day-”
We fought. He pushed me.
“And left you to lie there?”
He hoped I would die. Later, he forced me to live.
She closed her eyes, and I thought I might have worn her out, or further depressed her by talking.
But she seemed just to have wanted a rest, for she opened her eyes and said, Good to talk. Glad you know code.
“Me, too.”
Should have tried with doctors. But afraid Kai is a liar. Told neighbors stories. Like his dad.
“Who is his dad?”
Parrish.
That rocked me back on my heels.
Did not know?
“No. No. I’m sorry. How… I mean…”
Was I raped?
I wasn’t sure that would have been my question, but I nodded.
No. See?
“See? See what?”
I am a bigger fool than you.
I was silent, waiting to see if she would say more, when the door to her room suddenly opened. Nick Parrish stood in the doorway, holding a gun.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Look who’s been exploring.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Quinn looked up at the tall man standing at the end of his hospital bed and tried to discern which held stronger sway over Frank Harriman, worry or anger. He wondered if most people would have detected either emotion and doubted it. He was fairly sure they would have seen the detective as a calm, self-possessed individual.
But Quinn thought there was much more going on beneath that serene surface than met the eye. The ability to perceive the emotions of others-especially the emotions they tried to hide, the ones lurking beneath bravado-had been essential to Quinn’s survival from the time he was a child. Later, that same ability had been a key element in his business success-and in his pursuit of pleasure. There were few people he couldn’t read. Donovan was one of them, which made his older brother all the more intriguing.
He could see that Harriman was tired and doubted the man had slept much since the previous night, when he would have discovered his wife was missing. Quinn decided that, for just this moment, Harriman’s worry was ascendant.
“I certainly want to be of help if I can,” he said accordingly.
“I appreciate that.” Harriman glanced around. “I’m glad you were able to get a private room.”
“Me, too-although I hope not to make use of it much longer.”
“I know you’re probably tired of talking about it, but would you mind telling me what happened to you?”
Quinn and Donovan had come up with and rehearsed a story during the drive back to Las Piernas, and Donovan had set up at least some matching evidence for that story.
“It began when I was checking on some of my properties last night. Not that late in the evening, about eight-thirty or so, but it was dark,” he told Harriman now.
He went on with a story that he had told so many times now, he could tell it with real conviction. He had driven to the warehouse and former cannery where the bodies had been found last summer-checking to see if the security measures he had ordered were still in place. Discovered an entry with a broken lock. Was just reaching for his cell phone to complain to his security workers when he saw the beam of a flashlight, and heard footsteps behind him. At first he thought it was one of the security guards. He turned. Was shot twice, although he was sure other bullets were fired and missed. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the hospital.
“I’m afraid he blinded me with the light. I never got a good look at him.”
“No recollection of being treated by someone with-let’s say, advanced first aid supplies?”
“No. I can’t figure that part out at all.” He touched the bandages on his head and winced. “I’m told this head injury may be affecting my memory.”
“Two head injuries. They must be quite painful.”
“Two?”
“No recollection of being punched in the face?”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said, reaching up to carefully touch his jaw, swollen from his father’s fist. “No, I don’t remember anything at all about that. I suppose that’s lucky, but why would anyone hit me after shooting me?”
Harriman shrugged, then said, “You said you were reaching for your cell phone when the intruder blinded you with the flashlight beam?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the phone?”
“I have no idea. As I said, I don’t remember anything after the gunfire. Sorry. Did you ask the hospital if it was among my things?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Damn. That was an expensive phone. All my contacts in it… I have that backed up, of course, but what a pain-”
Harriman interrupted. “Which car were you driving?”
“Which car?” Quinn asked, stalling. No one else had asked this question.
“You own several vehicles, right?”
“Yes, I do, but-last night I was driving my Lexus. Isn’t it there? The bastard stole my Lexus?”
“Seems so. Maybe that’s why you were attacked. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said, fearing a trap. He held a hand to his head, considered pleading dizziness. But one look at Harriman’s face told him that this would be a mistake. Well, he’d put the ball in the other court then.
“Have the police found any evidence?”
“You know it doesn’t work the way it does on television, right?”
“Of course not.”
Quinn could swear he saw a grim amusement flash in Harriman’s eyes before he answered. “Some shell casings that matched the caliber of the slug recovered from your leg were found on a sidewalk near the warehouse, but then we found casings of other calibers, too. You’re probably aware that gunfire isn’t exactly rare in that area.”
“I want to change that, you know,” Quinn said, happy to slip into the role of civic reformer. “It’s going to take time, but we have plans to revitalize that block. Artists’ lofts, galleries, restaurants, shopping… perhaps even a theater.”
“While I can only hope you succeed, maybe there’s someone else out there who isn’t too happy about your plans.”
“Do you think that’s what happened? One of the gangs…?”
“Hard to say. Doesn’t fit treating you for your wounds.”
“No… I guess not.”
“You were moved from wherever you were shot, it seems.”
“The other detectives mentioned that, but I don’t remember anything about it.”
“Funny thing is, some of that area was washed down, which a gang probably wouldn’t take time to do. Our crime scene evidence team said they can’t even find the spatter.”
“Spatter?”
“When a person gets shot and bleeds-and you must have bled somewhere-the blood makes patterns as it scatters or falls. We’ll find everything from fine spray to droplets to pools of it.”
“I wish I could be more helpful.”
“Hmm.” Harriman made some notes, then said, “Our crime scene team will keep looking for evidence, of course. And we’ll be searching for any remaining traces of blood that might match up to you.”
“Me? But I’m the victim here!”
“Exactly. We have to make sure that if we go to court, we can tell the judge that any bloodstains we find and examine are yours, especially since there have been other crimes connected to your buildings. Don’t want a defense attorney saying it was blood from an earlier victim.”