Bogart rubbed his face. “What else?”
“They had her for two hours. Probably some of that time she was conscious before they killed her.”
“What would they do to her?” asked Lancaster.
“Try to find out in which direction the investigation is going,” said Bogart.
Decker nodded at this. “They would want to know what we know. If we’d gotten to certain points or not.”
“Well, Lafferty would tell them nothing,” Bogart said sharply.
“No one is invulnerable to interrogation, depending on the tactics they use,” said Decker. “She may have talked, against her will. Regardless, to be safe, we should assume they now know what we know. Principally, that we found the underground passage.”
Bogart looked at the frozen screen, at the hand around his colleague’s neck. “But how could she not know the guy was following her?” he said. “He must have been right behind her.”
Lancaster said, “He could have been hiding in the alley.”
Bogart shook his head. “What, waiting for her to come along? How would he even know she was going to the pharmacy?”
“He could have been waiting and watching and followed her when she came out. She’d been to the pharmacy before at least once. Maybe they knew this somehow and saw an opportunity if she went there again. And she could have known he was there but for some reason didn’t feel threatened,” added Decker.
“Not feel threatened?” exclaimed Bogart. “A dark alley? A murderer running around? How would she not be on her guard?”
“She might not feel threatened if it was someone she had no reason to suspect,” elaborated Decker.
Bogart’s face turned crimson and his features ugly. “Are you accusing me or one of my men of her murder?” he snapped. “Because she doesn’t know anyone else in this shithole!”
“Not my point really,” said Decker calmly.
Bogart pointed a finger in Decker’s face. “She was left at your doorstep. Maybe you killed her, you son of a bitch!”
Decker’s face remained impassive and his words slow and deliberate. “And left her on my doorstep to incriminate myself? And then called the cops while I just sat there? If I really did something that stupid I could beat the rap on an insanity plea.”
Bogart looked like he wanted to punch Decker, but then he mastered his emotions and looked away.
Lancaster said, “Amos, do you mean someone in uniform? A cop? She wouldn’t suspect someone like that?”
“Yes,” said Decker. “That’s exactly what I meant.”
Bogart glanced at him sharply and nodded. “Right. Sorry I jumped down your throat.” He paused and then declared, “Okay, we’re going to tear that damn alley apart.” He got on the phone and called in his team. Then he turned to Decker. “We need to work on this together. We have got to stop this guy.”
Decker shook his head. “Not guy. Guys.”
“What makes you say that?” asked a startled Lancaster as Bogart stared at him. “The shooter appears to be a loner. You said that.”
“And I was wrong,” Decker said decisively.
“But what specifically makes you think there could be more than one man involved?” asked Bogart.
“Because no one can be in two places at the same time.”
Chapter 31
Sunrise.
The clouds had gone and with them the rain. So it was a true sunrise, where the colors changed at first subtly and then suddenly transformed the heavens in a way that no other occurrence could. Short of a nuclear bomb and its towering mushroom cloud.
Yet both were transformative in their own right. One side of the world was lit, the other enveloped in blackness. The bomb’s kiss was for real. The sun’s movement was a metaphor for either darkness descending or light arising.
Decker stood there on the pavement and watched this all take place. Despite the coming light his mood remained trapped in the deepest darkness. He had not gone back to sleep after leaving Bogart and Lancaster. There would have been no point.
The 7-Eleven faced him across the width of the asphalt. It was open. It was always open. Through the glass he could see the same woman counting packs of smokes. But a different punk was mopping the floors. Perhaps “Billy” had moved on to another bucket in another town. Or maybe he was recovering from a night out with the ladies.
He didn’t know why he had come here after leaving Lancaster and Bogart. But this place kept drawing him back like metal to a magnet.
He stepped through the door, and when the little bell tinkled it felt like a drill bit boring right through his skull.
“Are you all right?”
Decker refocused and found the woman’s gaze on him. She looked a bit frightened, and when he caught his reflection in the mirrored door of a chiller cabinet containing soda he could understand why. He looked wild and demented and his clothes were dirty and his hair disheveled.
“You... you were in here the other day,” she said. “Looking for someone.”
Decker nodded and looked around. “Where’s Billy? The floor mopper?”
“Today he comes to work in the afternoon. Did you find the man you were looking for?”
Decker shook his head. “But I’ll keep looking.”
“You look like you could use some coffee. It’s fresh. I just made it. In the back there. Only one dollar for a large. It’s a good deal. Maybe some food?”
The doorbell tinkled again and two men in dungarees, work boots, and flannel shirts stomped in. One went to the counter for some cigarettes. The other went to the soda fountain and proceeded to fill a giant cup with Coke.
While the woman attended her new customer, Decker drifted to the back of the store, got his coffee, hooked a packaged pastry from a shelf, and went up to the counter. He waited behind the guy ordering smokes, who also wanted lottery tickets with particular numbers. As Decker waited his gaze flicked absently to the newspaper stand next to the counter. The paper lay flat on it, the upper fold of the front page fully exposed. He nearly dropped his coffee and pastry. He set them down, snatched up the paper, and commenced reading.
He unconsciously started to walk out of the store as he did so.
The woman called after him, “Hey, you need to pay for this.” She indicated the coffee and pastry. “And the paper.”
Decker stuck a hand into his pocket, pulled out a five and dropped it on the counter, and walked out, leaving the coffee and pastry behind. The woman and the two men stared after him.
He stumbled across the street and perched on the edge of a trash can under a flickering streetlight.
The story was long, detailed, and had a picture.
My picture. My story. No, not my story. Someone’s version of a story that holds far less truth than blatant speculation. And lies.
He glanced at the byline, though he needn’t have bothered. He already knew who it was.
Alexandra Jamison.
He caught a bus to the Residence Inn, hustled to his room, sat on the bed, and read the story three more times. It didn’t change, of course. But it beat into his head with a little more force each time, like a knife repeatedly stabbing flesh.
He fell back on the bed and finally slept for a bit. When he woke it was nearly nine in the morning.
He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, went down to the buffet, stuffed his plate with food, poured out three cups of black coffee, carried it all to his table, and then sat there staring down at it.
The sun was well up now and light flooded through the front plate glass windows. The illumination seemed to broadcast him in stark relief, like he was an actor performing onstage under the withering heat blast of a spotlight.