"I'll be right back."
I left the interrogation room and met up with Herb in the hall. He handed over Phin's rap sheet.
There were several charges for assault, two for attempted murder, one for manslaughter, and two for murder in the second degree. No convictions -- in every case charges were dismissed, dropped, or he was acquitted.
"You busted this guy once?"
"Yeah. He was jumped by some gang-bangers. Killed two of them, put three more in the hospital. Self-defense. Phin wasn't even armed."
The other victims of Phin's crimes had case numbers after their names; they all had criminal records as well.
The single nonviolent crime on his sheet was for the cocaine. This was recent, only five months old. The amount was substantial enough for the DA to charge him with dealing rather than straight possession.
I went back into room C. Phin had his legs crossed and looked completely at ease.
"What do you do for a living, Phin?" I asked.
"I get by."
"By selling drugs?"
He made a face. "I don't sell drugs."
"You were arrested with thirty grams of cocaine in your possession."
"I wasn't selling it."
Herb snorted. "That was for personal use?"
Phin sized up Herb. "Morphine makes you sloppy. The coke helps with the pain and I can still stay alert."
"Where'd you get the coke?" Herb asked.
Phin ignored Herb and focused on me. "Are we helping each other, or are we going to keep pointing fingers?"
I stared into Phin's eyes. His personal life was none of my business, but I really disliked drugs, especially those who used them and sold them. On the other hand, he saved my ass back at Joe's Pool Hall, and he also may have just given us our biggest break.
And, even though I was a professional who never let personal feelings influence me, I kind of liked the guy.
"Deal. I'll get it squared with the DA."
"Can I get that in writing?"
"You have my word."
He nodded, then handed over the notebook. The first entry was "White Jeep, Ice Cream Truck, F912 556."
"Herb, run these plates. This may be our guy."
Benedict disappeared with the notebook. Phin stood up and put his hands in his pockets.
"I can go?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"Thank you. I heard you got shot. Leg okay?"
"I've got a spare."
He grinned.
"You're a pretty tough chick. Maybe I'll see you around. We never got to finish that last game."
"I'll check my social calendar."
"I'll save a table for you."
He turned and left.
I met up with Herb in his office. His expression told me everything I needed to know.
"Plates belong to a Chrysler Voyager. Reported stolen six months ago."
I let out a deep breath. There wasn't any way to trace stolen plates. At most, we could put out an APB and hope someone picked him up.
"Did you run any of the others?"
"In the process. In the meantime, we should keep going with the dragnet. The perp may still be watching our guys."
It was a long shot, but all we had for the time being.
"Agreed. I'm going to my office to tune in."
The scanner on my desk let me follow the action. Short, staccato bursts of cop talk in between long stretches of static. Several other suspects were questioned, but none were brought in. After two hours of feeling like a spectator on my own case, I switched off the radio.
Depression settled on me like a heavy blanket.
"You hungry?" Herb popped in with a bag of BBQ pork rinds.
"No, thanks." I had no appetite at all. Even the prospect of a home-cooked meal held no appeal for me. I should probably call and cancel my date with Latham.
"We'll catch him, Jack."
"I don't want to spend the rest of my life obsessing about the one that got away."
My friend sat across from me.
"Then don't obsess."
"It's different with you, Herb."
"How so? I want to catch the guy too."
"But you have a life outside the force. This is all I have."
Herb set the bag down. You knew Benedict was serious about something when he pushed away food.
"You're the total of all the choices you've made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose."
I looked at him. "I've spent more than twenty years working hard at being a cop. I don't have a social life. I ruined my marriage. All I can do is this job. But if I'm not good enough for this, then what the hell is the point of my life?"
I bit my lower lip, my eyes welling up. I hated being weak, and I hated self-pity, but Herb's words really hit home.
I was here because this was the life I chose.
But what if I'd made the wrong choice?
My partner put his hand on my shoulder. "Jack, you're the best cop I know. If anyone can catch this guy, it's you."
I took a deep breath and held it, hoping in my heart of hearts that Herb was right.
Chapter 34
AFTER THE MAN LATHAM ANSWERS ALL of his questions, he ties him up with some extension cords and locks him in his own closet.
A dating service. How mundane. But how convenient for him.
Rather than try to circumvent Jack's surveillance team, all he has to do is wait here at Latham's house, and she will come to him.
He closes his eyes and imagines Jack in her bathroom. Putting on lipstick. Picking out a sexy dress. Perhaps she's even hoping to get laid tonight.
He decides that she will, whether she wants it or not.
The clock creeps up on eight o'clock.
The spider sits in his web and waits.
The fly will be here soon.
Chapter 35
BY SEVEN O'CLOCK I'D HAD MY fill of feeling sorry for myself. I stopped at the cleaners on the way home, but they hadn't even begun my order. After yelling for five minutes at a man who probably didn't deserve it, I got them to do a rush job on one of my pantsuits.
In my book, yelling was always more therapeutic than crying.
By the time I got home and showered, rebandaged my leg, and got dressed, I was late for my date. I called Latham on my cell to tell him.
The line was busy. After putting on perfume, grabbing the bottle of wine I bought Don an eternity ago, and strapping on my gun, I tried again. Busy.
Well, if his line was busy, then at least he was home. I informed my surveillance team of my destination and got on my way.
I was kind of excited. A home-cooked meal with an attractive man was the perfect way to get my mind off things.
After some torturous stop-and-go-stop-and-go, I made it to Latham's home half an hour late. He lived in a charming two-story brownstone, not too far from Benedict's house. I found a fire hydrant, parked the heap, and gave myself a final look-over in the rearview.
Not bad. Maybe I could do with a rinse in the near future, but not bad.
I grabbed the wine and hobbled up his porch. The doorbell rang with a Big Ben chime.
"Come in!"
I opened the door, assuming he was still on the phone. The house was dark, quiet. I sniffed the air, but couldn't make out any cooking aromas.
Next to me, on the foyer floor, a chair was overturned.
Warning bells went off in my head. What if the killer had been following me, and saw me with Latham?
What if the killer was here?
I let go of my wine and reached for my gun -- stopping when I noticed the one already being aimed at me.
"Hi, Jack." The Gingerbread Man stood at the foot of the staircase, several feet to my left. "Take out the gun, slowly, and toss it over here."
Fear swam up my spine, like a cold and clammy fish. My feet had frozen to the floor.
"Where's Latham?" I managed.
"He doesn't matter. The gun. Now."
The killer smiled and moved two steps closer. He looked vaguely like our composite picture, but more wolfish and grubby. A bandage covered most of his left profile, and his one black eye bored into me.
"I won't ask again. The gun."
But I wasn't going to play by his rules. In one motion I dropped to my knees and yanked out my .38. My injury screamed at me, but I managed to squeeze off two rounds.