The Yankee was going down.
It was a long way from his third-floor office to the interrogation room.
A regular gauntlet.
Curious workers filled doorways. People stood in clusters around drinking fountains and rest rooms. Familiar and unfamiliar faces jumped in and out of focus. In front of him, the hall was silent. But then, behind his back as he passed, whispers began.
David's personal history seemed to have taken on a life of its own, becoming an entity that filled the brick building. Everyone was talking about David Gould, discussing and debating the issue.
"I don't understand why they sent him here in the first place after being under psychiatric care."
"That doesn 't mean anything," another voice argued. "Half the force should be seeing a therapist."
Ha-ha-ha.
"Did you hear about his kid? "
"He has a kid?"
A story like David's couldn't remain a secret forever. The truth had finally followed him to Savannah.
"Had. Dead. Killed by his wife. That's why he left the FBI. Had a breakdown. Snapped. They sent him back home to Cleveland. Cleveland didn 't want him, so what do they do? Send him to us."
Don't listen, David told himself.
But he couldn't help it. They were all enjoying this too fucking much.
Don't think.
He couldn't help that either.
He was an outsider. The white horse in a black herd. The one the other horses killed for being different. It wasn't just that he was from the North. Some of his coworkers also took a twisted pleasure in seeing an FBI agent crash and burn.
In the interrogation room, Agent Spaulding, from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, was waiting for him. Starsky and Hutch were also in on the event.
Great. His three favorite people were going to be involved in questioning him. A regular David Gould Fan Club.
The assholes should have felt uncomfortable, interviewing one of their own, but even though they weren't smiling, David got the idea they were struggling like hell to keep a lid on their excitement.
He took a seat. A camera and two tape recorders were turned on. After getting down the date and time, plus David's full legal name and date of birth, Spaulding moved to the real questions.
"Are you currently under psychiatric care?"
"I was until fairly recently." David leaned back. "I personally believe every police department should have a full-time shrink on staff."
"Are you taking medication?"
"No."
"No?" Spaulding pulled out a manila folder. "We were given access to your files, and it seems it was recommended you remain on a high dosage of Paxil, plus a tranquilizer, for an undetermined amount of time."
"I didn't feel I needed it anymore."
Spaulding nodded. "Interesting. And you have a degree in psychiatry?"
"Cut the crap."
Spaulding was using a standard interrogation technique of getting information. Bait and switch. You changed the subject, hit with something from left field, then went back to the real issue. David had used the method many times himself. Of course, he'd done a better job.
"Did you know Flora Martinez?" Spaulding asked.
"Yes."
"How well?" Spaulding sat across the table from David, Starsky at the opposite end, while Hutch held up the wall near the door.
"Fairly well."
"Weren't you a client of Ms. Martinez?"
"I wouldn't call myself a client. We were acquaintances."
"But you-a Savannah Police Department homicide detective-made use of her services. Isn't that correct?"
David was pleased to note that Spaulding was getting one of those pear-shaped bodies that often caught up with detectives who spent too much time behind the wheel eating fast food.
"Once."
"Only once?"
Spaulding placed a small open day planner on the table. "This date book belonged to the victim, Flora Martinez. Isn't that your name and address on page twenty-three?"
David leaned forward. "Yes."
"And your phone number?"
"Yes."
"Strange that a onetime-"
David was sure he would have said fuck if the interview weren't being recorded.
"-exchange… would gain you a permanent place in her address book."
"I called her once. After that, we became… friends." Not the right word. What had they been? Lovers? Not the right word either.
"Isn't it true that Flora Martinez was obsessed with you? That she often parked outside your apartment, waiting for you to come and go?"
"Obsessed? I wouldn't call it obsessed. She liked me because I'm a detective. Some women get off on that kind of thing. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."
The GBI agent was the kind of guy who would have used his badge to get a woman in bed.
Spaulding placed a small plastic bag on the table. After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he unzipped the bag and extracted a chunk of red flannel. The nose-stinging stench of old urine filled the small room, and everyone but Spaulding recoiled.
The flannel turned out to be a small drawstring pouch. Spaulding opened it and removed an object wrapped in wet grocery paper. "We found this with some of the victim's belongings." He unrolled the paper and spread it on the table.
David's full name was written over and over. Going in the other direction were the words Love me or die, also written numerous times.
Jeez. That was sick as hell. David thought about the way Flora had started coming around, as if he would welcome her as a girlfriend. The way she seemed surprised and shocked when he told her she was going to have to stay away. "This place is so fucked," he said, shaking his head.
"Have you ever seen this?" Spaulding asked, indicating the weird mess he'd dumped on the table.
"No."
"Do you know what it is?"
"I'll bet you'd like to tell me," David said, trying not to blink as ammonia fumes stung his eyes.
"It's called a mojo. It's supposed to cast a spell over the person whose name is written on the paper. Which would be you. I asked around. In order to keep the spell active, Flora would have urinated on it every day. I'd call that obsessed, wouldn't you?"
David would simply call it fucked-up.
Flora. Jesus. What had she been thinking?
"In fact, she was stalking you, wasn't she?"
"She wasn't a stalker. I was usually glad to see her, although I did eventually ask her to quit coming around."
"Did she?"
"For a while."
"Why didn't you report her to the police?"
David looked at him. "Totally unnecessary."
"If a prostitute was calling me, sometimes several times a day, plus hanging around my residence-I would have reported her."
"Of course you would have," David said sarcastically. Lying bastard.
"When did you last see Flora Martinez?"
"May eleventh." David thought a moment. "May twelfth, actually." By the time they were finished having sex.
"So she was with you late on the eleventh, early on the twelfth? Is that correct?"
Spaulding stood and put a foot on the seat of his chair, an elbow on his knee, and leaned in closer. 'Tell me about May twelfth."
There was no way David was going to tell him what led to his breakdown that day. "I went jogging. When I returned, Flora was waiting outside my apartment. End of story."
"Did she, spend the night?"
"I don't know how long she stayed. I fell asleep. She was gone when I woke up."
The agent opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. The coroner's preliminary report. "You can skip down to the bottom," Spaulding said. 'To where it says 'approximate date and time of death.'"
May 11, 2000 hours, to May 13, 0200. "That's a big spread," David said.
"Water does that. As I'm sure you know." "Right."
"But as you can see, a significant portion of that time overlaps with Flora's visit to your apartment."
David slid the paper back across the table. "What are you saying, Spaulding?"
"I'm saying that you are a prime suspect in the murder of Flora Martinez."
"That's what I thought you were saying."