“You’re a shrink now? Stick with law.” I laughed. “Hey, truth is, I’m looking forward to meeting you.” “You’ll never see me coming.” “I’ve already seen you. Big, dopey-looking jerk-off who’s taken so many steroids your tiny dick’s stopped working. Maybe that’s why you enjoyed doing the women.” He paused a moment, then said, “ The priest… you were the one who yelled?”
“Confess to me, jerk-off. Tell me all how your mother mistreated you, how you saw her diddling Daddy, and how much that screwed up your head.”
“I’ll do better. I’ll tell you my life story as I cut body parts off you.” “I’ll be looking for the big pussy in ladies’ undies.” “Look all you want, Drummond. I never look the same twice.” “Discuss your identity issues with someone who gives a shit.” We both paused again, then I asked, “Incidentally, who trained you?”
“Self-help books and practice. Who trained you?”
“My little sister. That’s all I need to take your ass down.”
We both chuckled, a couple of adolescents trading dopey insults and playground threats. But we meant every word of it. And we both, through however we learned it, could deliver on our threats.
Then he said, “But in the interest of accuracy, Drummond, you don’t have a little sister. A brother, John, and a mother and father who also live in California, but no little sister. In fact, I have their addresses in my pocket.”
I felt a sudden chill. “Don’t even think about it, asshole. Go near them and I’ll make your death indescribably painful.”
He laughed. “Well, this has been really fun. I enjoy getting to know my victims. It makes my work so much more meaningful, and memorable.”
But before he could hang up I thought of something else, and I said, “Hey, don’t you owe Morris Networks a rebate? Weren’t you supposed to ice me before I figured out and exposed the scam?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Morris Networks, bozo. The assholes who overpay you for your screwups and mishaps. I know all about Jason Morris, and about Hal Merriweather and about… well, about the lawyers working with them.”
“Drummond, you’re starting to annoy me.”
“Wait’ll I kill you, sport.”
“And I’ll be sure you have the opportunity to tell me how much you regret your taunts.” He paused a moment, then said, “Ah… one last thing, please be sure to pass my regards to Miss Morrow. Tell her I haven’t forgotten her.” Then he hung up.
At that very instant the cops rushed through the door and all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
They came in like a SWAT team, rolling through the doorway, yelling and hollering. The lights were still out, so I yelled, “Just friendlies in here.”
A voice replied, “Drummond?”
It was a familiar voice, though I couldn’t place it. Spinelli, however, yelled, “Who the fuck did you expect, Martin?… It’s his fuckin’ apartment.”
Then a pair of flashlights popped on and somebody yelled, “Weapons down, and stand with your hands over your heads!”
I put the shotgun down, placed my hands over my head, and stood. Their flashlights and weapons were pointed in our direction.
One cop yelled, “Hey, asshole, I said put your hands up.”
Spinelli sourly replied, “Shut the fuck up. I’ve got a chunk of wood in my shoulder.”
I said, “Everybody relax.”
And everybody did. Somewhat.
Once the cops had collected all the weapons and determined that everybody was either disarmed, unconscious, or dead, two more figures came through the doorway.
A medical technician came rushing in first, and was directed toward Bill, who obviously needed more help than Charlie, who unfortunately was dead. Then in sauntered George Meany, sporting one of those nifty dark blue FBI windbreakers, an FBI cap, an FBI shirt, and for all I knew had “FBI” tattooed on his ass.
Nor had it escaped my notice that Meany waited until Martin cleared and secured the place before he decided to join us. George was smarter than I gave him credit for. Just a little chicken.
But there was something else that didn’t escape my notice. I glanced at my watch, and I recalled that the shooting started a little after 4:05, and while I didn’t know how long the firefight lasted, or even how long I chatted with Mr. Asshole on the telly, Martin and his guys got here awfully damned fast. I mean, it was only 4:15, and Supercop Meany is up and about at this hour, playing Johnny-on-the-spot.
But before I could ponder these facts further, the lights popped back on, and my eyes were drawn to the carnage. Two bodies were by the doorway, one inside the door, and one plastered like a swatted fly on the hallway wall. I was going to have to invest in new furniture, wall repairs, carpets, and so on. The guys hanging from the ropes had employed silencers, and until this moment I hadn’t fully appreciated how much lead they squirted through my porch door. The walls were peppered and my big-screen TV was a big-screen mess. It was a miracle only Bill and Charlie had been hit.
Also, I noticed that about three-quarters of the cops were dressed like Meany, so they were Feds.
Lieutenant Martin also looked around and said, “Jesus, what the hell happened here?”
I replied, “I fucked up. I let Spinelli spend the night.”
Spinelli and I both giggled, and everybody stared at us like we were weird.
But we were both, I think, nervous and jittery, not yet recovered from the aftershock of being ducks in a shooting gallery. Lieutenant Martin, particularly, appeared not to appreciate my dark humor and pointed at the gun shields and the pile of spent shot-gun and M16 shells on the floor. “Whose are those?”
Spinelli said, “Mine. Tell your dickheads not to touch them.” Danny, characteristically, was finessing the situation.
I mentioned to Lieutenant Martin, “You might want to get some people up to the roof. Three of the shooters hung down on ropes.”
While he shouted at a few officers to get upstairs, George Meany, I noticed, had moved into the corner, where he was talking quietly into his cell phone. I did not like the look or smell of this.
The nearest shotgun was a mere five feet away from my foot. Could I pick it up and blow George’s ass into the kitchen without anybody noticing?
But Martin was peppering me with questions-whose corpses were on the floor, why were there corpses on my floor, that kind of thing. So I ignored George Meany and informed him, “Before I say a word, I need to confer with my attorney.”
He shook his head. “But you are a damned lawyer.”
He appeared slightly frustrated as I pointed at Spinelli and added, “Yes. I’m his lawyer, and he’s got nothing to say.”
Meany overheard this exchange, snapped shut his cell phone, and moved toward me. “Forget it, Drummond.”
“Forget what, George? ” I mean, Meany had obviously stepped forward to show the idiotic locals how a real pro handles a recalcitrant witness.
But we were off to a bad start already. From his expression, he did not like my response or my tone. He said, “You have a lot of explaining to do, Drummond. And you must think I’m stupid if you believe I’ll allow you to conspire on your alibis.”
Actually, I knew he was stupid. But I resisted the urge to tell him that, and instead asked, “Would you happen to have a law degree?”
“An accounting degree. So what?”
“Yet, as a federal officer, you’ve surely been taught that I cannot be deprived of legal representation?”
“This… well, this is different.”
“Why?”
“Because you were involved in this… whatever the hell it was.”
“Crime?”
“Yes… maybe.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Maybe.”
“And what felony did I potentially commit?”
Thinking he was capable of playing this game, he smiled. “Possibly none.”
I said, “You heard him, Danny. We’re free to leave.”