Be disturbing if Tenley had seen anything. Her daughter hadn’t mentioned it, but then Tenley never mentioned anything about anything.
Catherine pushed open the glass doors into the reception area. A wide-windowed foyer designed to accommodate favor seekers and job hunters, it had been outfitted with lumpy low-slung couches and old magazines to discourage supplicants from hanging around. The receptionist, a dire wolf in cardigans who’d been around since the Flynn years, ruled the place with stabbing fingernails and a practiced glare.
Her reception desk was vacant at this hour. The corridors had been darkened by the city’s vaunted automatic energy-saving program, the air conditioners barely humming. For an off-hours meeting like this, that made the atmosphere close and gloomy and stuffy. Like being inside a submarine. Or a sinking ship.
Dahlstrom stood in the middle of the room, holding a flat plastic CD holder, waving it at her as she entered. “It’s all here,” he said.
“What’s all here?” Catherine nodded at Kelli Riordan. Even in her trademark pencil skirt and starched white blouse-at this hour!-the woman looked disheveled and sleep deprived.
“You mean the CD?” Catherine asked.
“The murder,” Dahlstrom said.
28
“He’s in a coma?” Jake rubbed a hand over his face, staring at the ICU doctor. Bobby Land, beaten and bleeding internally, was on the verge of death. Hard to grasp that this poor kid, now wired with tubes and monitors, was the same one who’d assured Jake everything was copa-cetic. All smiles, hiding five grand in his pocket.
One thing was sure. If he died, the mugging of Bobby Land would no longer be simple assault and maybe robbery. If he died, it’d be murder.
Either way, cops’ point of view, now two victims from the Curley Park episode. Connected, had to be. Should he send someone to watch Calvin Hewlitt?
“You’re sure?” Jake instantly regretted the words. Of course the doctor was sure. But it was three A.M., and Jake’s brain was running on empty.
Black embroidered script on a white lab coat identified him as Antonio Piva, MD. “I’m sorry.” The doctor quickly surveyed the empty waiting room. “Are you calling the next of kin?”
“We don’t know who that is,” Jake said. This night had crashed and burned. Bobby Land on a ventilator. All they’d gotten from him was a wallet and a cashier’s check. Calvin Hewlitt, Jake thought again. He and his lawyer certainly must have asked where the kid lived. That alone would give Jake a reason to go knock on Hewlitt’s door. But first Jake needed to finish with the doctor. “We’re looking.”
“We’ll wait to hear from you, then.” Dr. Piva flapped his aluminum folder closed, took a step toward the double doors of the ICU. “I’ll let you work.”
“You, too,” Jake said as he left. “Thanks.”
Land’s family must be missing him, whoever they were. Maybe they’d be smart, and lucky, and call the cops. Lucky, in this case, meant they’d learn their son was in a coma. If they weren’t so lucky, no one would ever know who this kid was, and if he died he’d be buried by the next funeral home in the city’s charity rotation. Jake wiped one eye, from fatigue and frustration. If he died.
His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out, looked at the caller ID. DeLuca, who was upstairs in maybe-tattooed guy’s room.
If that guy was dead, Jake was quitting and going to law school, like his mother always wanted. Lawyers got to sleep. And their wives could be reporters.
Back to reality. “Yeah?”
“Developments,” D said.
Jake dropped his head back, closed his eyes for a defeated second. He knew it. “Yeah, developments here, too.”
“You go first,” D said.
“Bobby Land’s in a coma.” Jake was still wrapping his brain around it.
“Shit.”
“Yeah. So tell me maybe-tattooed guy is hanging in.”
“Who?”
“Room 606,” Jake explained. D didn’t call him tattoo guy, of course. “The stabber.”
“Oh, him. He’s, yeah, hanging in. Worse than they’d thought, though. Medically, it’s iffy,” D said. “Legally, he’s screwed. Cuz here’s my news. You know we subpoenaed City Hall surveillance. That’s still pending, but Supe knows a guy who knows a guy who says City Hall might have gotten the whole thing. Might have. Pre-show, stabbing, and aftermath. We’re supposed to confirm. Wouldn’t that be a slam dunk?”
“They…” Jake pictured it. The whole crime caught on camera. Not from some random tourist snapshot, the hoped-for bonanza that so far produced nada. But from a flat-out kick-ass freaking videotape of the entire freaking thing. Good-bye to speculation, good-bye to conjecture, good-bye to interviews and court procedure and warrants and neighborhood canvasses and story-changing vision-impaired witnesses.
Good-bye to doubt.
“So it’s possible we could-”
“Yup,” D said. “Get some popcorn, bro. We might be going to the movies.”
For the five millionth time, Tenley put her hand on her bedroom doorknob. This time, for sure, she was ready. Her bag slung over her shoulder, good-byes said, decisions made. Hours ago. Her whole new life waiting. This time, for sure, she was ready. She put the bag down. But now it was, like, middle of the night.
She pictured what she’d have to do. Though thinking about it now, when did the buses stop running? Or start? She could check that on her cell. She should have done that first. Maybe…
She took her hand off the doorknob. Stared at the closed door. She could take one more minute to figure stuff out.
Okay. Her mother wouldn’t be home anytime soon. She’d told Ten to come to her office tomorrow.
And her dad sure wasn’t going to show up. He’d obviously dumped both her and Mom. Gotten tired of them, or too upset. Always acting strange. Always gone. Actually, if she allowed herself to think about it, he was weird even before Lanna had-anyway.
She sighed, still creeped out over this afternoon. Someone had gotten killed, somehow, right where she kind of was. Oh. That’s probably why her mother had to leave. Called in to-what did Mom call it? Spin. Put spin on it. A murder outside City Hall was gonna need a lot of spinning.
Tenley lowered herself to the floor and rested her head on her tote bag, using it like a big lumpy pillow. Crossed one ankle over a knee, stared at the ceiling. Flapped one black flat against her foot.
Thought about it all.
What if she waited? Went to work, like always, but took her bag of possessions. Her mom would never notice, and if she did, she could say it was for… she’d make something up when the time came.
And really, why hadn’t she and Bri planned it that way in the first place? She’d been so excited about getting out of here and starting over that she’d-
She took out her cell phone, went to messages, punched in Brileen’s number. Still lying on her back on the pale blue bedroom carpet, she held the phone up in front of her.
RTG. She typed. So Brileen would know she was ready to go. Then: Woot. So Bri would understand she was excited. And then: Sorry so late, tho. Mom at work thing. How abt CU in AM?
She hit Send.
The cell phone transmitted, and she imagined her words flying toward Brileen. She watched, her eyes blearing with exhaustion and kind of fear and kind of, whatever the word was for wondering if this was the right thing to do.