Cole frowned. Had the shooter left them? He could not remember the kids messing around with tape in the car.
Hamada introduced himself to someone else before asking: “Do you have a Sara Benay employed there? … Will you transfer me to Bookkeeping, then? I need to speak with her.” His brows rose. “Well, that’s handy.” His brows climbed higher. “She’s where? … Do you have a number where we can reach her? … Yes, sir, I can hold.”
Razor laid down the memo sheet and began shuffling through the Polaroids.
Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Hamada said, “No surprise…Benay isn’t there, but this fellow says she flew home for a family emergency. He’s checking to see if she left a number.”
The Polaroids showed the Taurus…the blood-spattered dash, a blood-soaked headrest. Why blood-soaked, Cole wondered. It was too much for blowback blood.
Then he thought of the tape pieces and had a vision of his body, too difficult for the shooter to move to the trunk, taped upright in the seat. Had the shooter really risked driving like that? Cole whistled soundlessly. Even at night and with the windows rolled up, it was ballsy. Give the shooter credit for good nerves.
Another photo showed the front license tag. Which had a different number from his. The shooter must have switched plates. No, not switched plates, Cole realized moments later. A photo of the rear tag showed smeared numbers. In a third photo, some of smeared numbers were gone, revealing his tag numbers. The shooter printed a fake number on label paper — before or after killing him? — and stuck it over the real one.
Cute. No wonder the ATL failed to locate the car for so long. The fakes would never stand up to a close inspection, but the shooter had gambled on no one looking closely. More evidence of his nerves…though he also probably drove conservatively until he dumped the car. The gamble paid off. Without the tag getting wet and smearing, the car might have sat undiscovered for weeks.
“Tex,” Dennis said. “I’ve got Lockhart’s number. The number Benay called is the American Airways desk at SFO. Maybe she did fly home.”
Willner strolled over. “Neil says he doesn’t know anything about the message on the computer. He swears he didn’t write it. I wonder who could have. There wasn’t anyone near his desk after he left.”
Razor rubbed his neck.
Cole grinned at the goosebumps there. “Yeah…no one material. Just the same individual using your computer. And Holly told you who that was.”
Razor kept staring at the Polaroids, shuffling through them again.
“Go ahead,” Hamada said into the phone. He jotted a name and number on the memo sheet under his transcription of the computer message. “Thank you, Mr. Lamper.” He jiggled the switch hook and punched in the new number.
Cole leaned close to hear the other end of the conversation. The warm-voiced woman who answered identified herself as Sara’s mother. No, Sara was not there…nor expected. Nor did her mother know of any family emergency.
Anxiety crept into the distant voice. “Where did you hear there’s one?”
Hamada’s drawl thickened. “I wouldn’t worry if I were you, ma’am. It was third hand information and I reckon I misunderstood.”
Top that for soothing an anxious citizen, Cole reflected, and backed off to sit against the edge of the desk. His best Jimmy Stewart imitation never came even close.
He expected Hamada to hang up, but Hamada went on, his voice going lazily casual, “Oh, one more thing, ma’am…do you happen to know your daughter’s blood type?”
Of course he needed to see if the blood could be Sara’s.
The question must have worried the mother. Apology filled Hamada’s voice. “Oh, I didn’t mean to, ma’am. It’s just that the party who asked us to locate your daughter thinks, or maybe that’s hopes, she’s type AB?”
Dennis gave the lie a thumbs up.
Hamada listened…shook his head. “Well then maybe I won’t worry about finding her. I thank you very much for your time.” He hung up and sat back in his chair, looking around at them. “Mom doesn’t know her blood type but it can’t be AB. Mom is type O and Dad type B.” He pushed to his feet. “Charlie, contact this Lockhart fellow and see if he has any idea where Benay is. I’d better tell Madrid that instead of a killer cop, we’ve got a cop killer. We’ll need to change the ATL on Benay to an Alert.” He headed for the lieutenant’s office.
Even though he knew this would happen, dismay shot through Cole. “No! Damn it, Hamada, she didn’t kill me!”
Being a suspect did have the benefit of ensuring a concerted hunt for Sara. He hated the idea, though, of her parents hearing their daughter was suspected of murder. He had to prevent that. By the time they found Sara, he better be able to prove who really killed him.
He slapped Razor’s shoulder. “Start seeing me! We’ve got work to do!”
Razor’s hand tightened on the Polaroids. After a moment, he returned them to the desk. The one showing the bloody headrest sat on top, Cole saw. Looking from the Polaroids to the phone, Razor sighed.
Cole felt his chest tighten. Was Razor thinking of calling Sherrie?
“Dennis, mind if I use the phone?”
“Help yourself.”
Definitely calling Sherrie. When Razor punched in the number, Cole recognized the tone sequence for his home phone. “She won’t be home. She’ll be at work.” Staying busy to keep from going crazy. Joanna would tell Razor that. Was the delay going give him the chance to reach Sherrie and be there with her when she heard?
Cole sprinted through the outside wall and up high enough to see San Francisco General off to the south, and the roof area over the ER. Too much distance to cover on foot and beat a phone call. If only…
Before the thought finished, he stood on the roof. Staring around in exasperation. Would he ever understand this, he wondered, running for the edge of the roof and down the building.
He still lost the race with the phone. By the time his search of the ER located Sherrie in the orthopedic room, she stood with her face frozen and her fingers bloodless from their grip on the phone there. A male nurse hovered anxiously at the door.
In a choked voice, she said, “There’s no chance it’s…someone else’s?”
Cole’s heart lurched at the mixed hope and fear in her tone. He moved close to hear Razor’s end of the conversation.
“It definitely isn’t Benay’s. We’ll need to check the DNA, of course, but my gut says…” Razor let the sentence trail off. He cleared his throat. “We have a bullet, too. I don’t know what shape it’s in but let’s hope good enough to match it to the gun it came from.”
Sherrie’s mouth trembled. “I — ” Her voice broke. She sagged against the wall. “I don’t care about that. I want him back.”
A strangling hand closed around Cole’s throat.
A brunette nurse passing by stopped to listen.
“Razor…please find his body.” It came out as little more than a whisper.
Whether she felt it or not, he wrapped his arms around her. If only he could really hold her…make her pain go away. “Sherrie…” How did he apologize enough for putting her through this.
She hung up with a shaking hand and, shivering, turned away from the phone. Slipping out through his arms. Knowing she would did not stop the bleak ache it brought.
The male nurse said, “I’m so sorry. I’ve been praying he turns up alive. Do they have any idea who did it?”
She stared blindly at him, face so tight it looked ready to shatter. “Not yet. Excuse me; I’d better get this room cleaned.” She turned and looked around, but Cole doubted she saw the jumbled casting cart or the crumpled sheets on the exam bed.
“I can do it,” the male said. “You go sit down for a few minutes.”
“Thanks, no.” She fumbled toward the bed. “I don’t want time to think.”
The nurse watched while she started stripping off the sheets, his face creased in concern, then he left the room.