Damnable Page 13

  Hatcher tossed his chin toward the mirror. “In other words, whoever was behind the glass wanted to see what I had to say. Hear it for themselves.”

  Maloney curved his lower lip up like a fish, disguising a smile, and raised his eyebrows. “Reynolds, why don’t you go on ahead and get Mr. Hatcher’s personals together.”

  Reynolds glanced at Hatcher, then back at Maloney, who urged him on his way with a curt nod. He left the room, closing the door behind him. That name suddenly registered. The desk near Wright’s in the squad room, the one with the clown mask on it. The cop who caught the Clown Killer. Maloney hadn’t shown any signs, but Hatcher realized there was some kind of one-way tension between the two of them. Maloney acted all but oblivious to it. But him acting that way meant he obviously wasn’t.

  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Hatcher stood as the door to the room opened partially. Detective Wright stepped in from behind it, holding it halfway.

  “I had a feeling it was you back there,” Hatcher said. “So this was all for your sake?”

  “No,” Wright said, moving out of the way. Behind her, a brunette in a gray NYPD sweatshirt and matching sweatpants stepped forward. She was holding something that looked like a cross between a metal cane and a walker. It had a bicycle grip handle on one end and a square bottom on the other above four short legs with rubber caps. The woman’s face was a bit bruised, her hair combed flat. One of her arms was in a sling, a cast visible over her wrist, covering half her hand. But there was no denying her looks. Cane or not, bruised or not, Hatcher couldn’t help but stare. Any hotter, her clothes would be on fire.

  “It was for mine,” she said.

  Hatcher stared at her for several seconds. “You’re the one from the hospital.”

  “Yes. Deborah St. James. It is nice to finally meet you, Mr. Hatcher.”

  Her scent found its way to his nostrils. An earthy, intimate fragrance, musky and sweet. Perfume that smelled of lacy undergarments after sex.

  “Okay,” Hatcher said, lifting his hands and giving a light shrug. “I give up. What’s going on?”

  “Like I told you, I had a long talk with your CO,” Maloney said. “Had to get through a guy named Gifford or something first—”

  “Gillis.”

  “That’s it. Talked to him yesterday. That man definitely doesn’t think much of you. Your CO, though, was more accommodating. I explained to him that our initial impressions were . . . misinformed. That you were considered more of a witness than a suspect at this time.”

  Hatcher said nothing. His eyes skipped from Maloney, to Deborah, to Wright.

  “In light of that, he’s agreed to keep you on your current status, provided we have your cooperation.”

  “What kind of cooperation?”

  “I want to hire you,” Deborah said.

  Hatcher waited a few beats, hoping what she meant would become clear. It didn’t. “Hire me.”

  “Yes.”

  “To do what?”

  Detective Wright leaned back against the door. “We have reason to believe Ms. St. James may be a target,” she said. “Of what, we’re not sure. But we don’t have the resources to provide her round-the-clock protection.”

  “How can the New York Police Department not have the resources?”

  Wright and Maloney exchanged subdued glances.

  “It’s not just that,” Deborah said. “I know what you did in that hospital, what you went through. And your brother died trying to save me. I’m the one who asked for you.”

  Her face seemed controlled, not expressionless, but almost blank nonetheless. It didn’t matter, a blind man could see that he was being fed a line.

  “I have a novel idea. Why doesn’t somebody try telling me the truth? For a change.”

  Wright looked over to Maloney, who didn’t look back this time, keeping his eyes instead on Hatcher. A few seconds passed before Maloney abruptly spoke up. “Somebody tipped off Sherman’s counsel about . . . certain circumstances that forced us to let him go. According to you, Sherman was at the hospital, in her room. Detective Wright thinks you may be right. Her location may not have been a state secret, but we weren’t letting anyone know about it.”

  “I found out,” Hatcher said.

  “But he didn’t snoop around and follow a trail like you did,” Maloney said. “We checked. He must have gone straight to her floor, because no one remembered talking to him.”

  Hatcher studied his shoes for a moment. When he raised his eyes, Deborah and Detective Wright were staring at him. The blonde detective appeared uncertain. Deborah was completely inscrutable, her expression neutral.

  “Lieutenant Maloney thinks we have a leak in the department,” Wright said, breaking the silence.

  “And you want me to be her bodyguard while you figure out who it is.”

  Maloney scratched the flesh beneath his jaw. “Pretty much.”

  So that’s why he had me cuffed, Hatcher thought. Not because he thought I was guilty of anything, but because he knew I wasn’t. He remembered something a CIA operative once mentioned, almost in passing, during a training session. Ask any FBI agent and they’ll tell you, if you call a guy a liar in an interview and he takes a swing at you, you can bank on him being innocent. Hatcher had never actually experienced that, but then he’d never interrogated anyone who was innocent. There were no innocents in his line of work. Only enemies with knowledge and enemies without.

  “And if I say no?”

  “You won’t,” Deborah said.

  Hatcher took in her eyes. They were a light silvery blue. Round, with thick lashes. “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because your brother died saving me. You fought a brutal fight to keep someone from harming me. Protecting others is in your blood.”

  “Not to mention, you’d have the gratitude of the NYPD,” Maloney said, smiling.

  “Speaking of my brother, I need to get to his funeral.”

  “We need your answer,” Maloney said.

  “Let me think about it.”

  Maloney made a grunting sound and gestured toward Wright. “As long as you don’t take too long. Detective Wright will take you to the funeral home and wait for your answer. Ms. St. James can ride along.”

  Detective Wright nodded. “I’ll get an SPV from the motor pool and meet you out front. Ms. St. James, you should come with me. We don’t want anyone to see the two of you together at the station.”

  Deborah dipped her chin in a quiet gesture of assent. Wright opened the door and let her step into the hallway first. Before closing the door behind her, Wright turned, leaning back into the room. “You seem like a good guy, Hatcher. I’m sorry about your brother, and I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this.” She gave him a wan smile, then left.

  Hatcher and Maloney said nothing for an awkward moment.

  “What now?” Hatcher asked, finally.

  “We wait another minute, then I walk you down to the custodian and check you out.”

  “You know, you could have just asked.”

  “Amy wanted to,” Maloney said, shrugging. “I thought you might need a little prodding. And it looks like you’re proving me right.”

  The lieutenant shot a glance at his watch and stood. He held out his hand and gestured to Hatcher with a flick of his fingertips, then made his way to the door and waited. Just as Hatcher started to step through it, Maloney stopped him, grabbing Hatcher’s arm, wrapping his long grip tightly around as much of it as he could. His voice was a low, growling whisper.

  “One more thing, tough guy. She’s mine. You make a move on her, I’ll put a round in the back of your head and dump you in the East River.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE MANHATTAN TRAFFIC MOVED LIKE BLOOD FORGING a sclerotic artery, squeezing in fits and starts through bottlenecked passages of double-parked cars and road repair crews. Hatcher sat in the backseat of the Ford sedan, watching the city move around him, pedestrians and taxis and bicycle messengers. Th
ey had traveled several blocks before a question that had been floating around his mind found a foothold and flashed into his thoughts.

  “Didn’t they just release you from intensive care yesterday?” he asked.

  Deborah peered back at him between the seats. In the backlit shade of the car’s interior, her eyes were a magnetic shade of bluish gray. Alluring, haunting. They seemed to reach out, wrapping themselves around his field of vision until he could see nothing else. “Yes.”

  “So how are you up and around already?”

  “They didn’t want to let me go, but I wasn’t about to stay there. Not after what happened.”

  Hatcher glanced over to the back of Wright’s head, where her hair poked through a scrunchie. “I was led to believe you’d broken almost every bone in your body.”

  “That’s pretty much what I was told,” Wright said, giving him a half look back over her shoulder. “I suppose it’s safe to say the doctors were exaggerating.”

  Hatcher considered that, remembered Deborah in the hospital bed. He gestured toward her with his chin. “Yesterday you were bandaged up.”

  “The other wrappings were a precaution, I guess. I’m tougher than I look.” Deborah raised her cast, a blue fiberglass wrap, patterned like webbing. She tapped her finger against it. “The X-rays showed this arm only had a hairline fracture, not a compound fracture.”

  In the confines of the car, her scent was almost unbearably arousing. She ran her cast-free hand back over her ear, tucking her hair behind it. A simple movement that sent a mild current through his testicles. He knew it couldn’t be even close to the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, but she definitely made it seem that way. Whatever “it” was, this woman had bushels to spare.

  “You’re a lucky woman.”

  “The truth is, I think your brother shielded me with his body. I don’t really remember it, though. One of the doctors told me that might explain it. That I was thrown clear without being hit as hard. He saved my life.”

  Hatcher felt a twinge of something unfamiliar, realized it was pride. Family pride. His brother sounded like a real hero. If, he reminded himself, this Garrett fellow really had been his brother. He shifted his view out the window.

  “What time is it?” Hatcher asked.

  Wright glanced at the dashboard clock. “A little after eleven thirty.”

  Hatcher twisted to look over his shoulder. A black sedan was two cars back. He was almost certain it had been there when they left the station, same number of cars behind them.

  “I need to stop and get some clothes.”

  “Do you have a place nearby?”

  “No. I mean at the store. Any store will do.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Look, I’ve worn this outfit for three days, washed it once. I slept in it last night, thanks to Lieutenant Hair Club’s crack detective work. I haven’t showered since yesterday morning. I can show up without a shave. I can show up without a suit. But I’m not showing up without a new shirt and some clean underwear. That’s where I draw the line.”

  “And I said I don’t like the idea. I’m not a taxi service. I’m giving you a ride to the funeral home. That’s all.”

  “I thought I was released from custody.”

  “You were.”

  “Fine.” Hatcher leaned forward between the front seats and pointed. “You can drop me off at the next corner then. Have a nice life.”

  Wright rolled her eyes. “All right. You win. One stop. Just be quick.”

  “I need you to come in with me,” Hatcher said.

  “Why?”

  Hatcher sat back and stared out the passenger window, watching the reflections for the sedan. “I’ll tell you when we’re inside.”

  Wright looked back. Narrowed eyes studied him. Hatcher ignored her.

  “In that case, Mr. Mysterious, we all have to go.” She glanced at Deborah. “I’m not leaving you by yourself.”

  The car slowed. Wright ducked her head slightly, taking in the storefronts. After a minute, she pulled over and parked against the curb directly beneath a no-parking sign, then placed a police-business sign on the dashboard.

  Hatcher stepped out onto the sidewalk. Deborah was already out of the car, pushing herself up on her cane. She was moving away from the street before he had a chance to help her.

  The sedan passed by. The windows were tinted. It didn’t slow down. That didn’t mean anything, he knew. But he also reminded himself he wasn’t in a red zone.

  “Stacy’s Men’s Shop,” Wright said, gesturing toward a store twenty or so yards back. “Let’s make it quick.”

  The door buzzed when Hatcher pulled it open, the noise dissolving into the hip-hop music playing through a speaker system. He took in the styles pinned to the wall and dressed on headless mannequins for a moment, then headed for a rack of shirts. The store was cramped and dark, geared toward a younger, more urban look than he was used to, but he managed to find a short-sleeve khaki button-down with epaulets that looked relatively conservative and a plain tan T-shirt to go underneath. The closest thing to normal underwear they carried was an assortment of silk boxers. He found a pair of dark gray ones in his size, then took everything to a dressing room in the back and changed.

  “Looks good,” Wright said, watching him as he approached a counter along the wall in the new shirt. Her lips curled into a faint smile. “Guy with a build like yours can probably wear anything.”

  A thin kid in a jacket with rolled-up sleeves and a skinny leather tie asked him if he was ready to checkout. Hatcher handed him the tags, asked him for a bag to put his old clothes in.

  “With tax, that will be fifty-eight ninety.”

  Hatcher gestured to Wright. “Don’t look at me. It’s on her. Courtesy of the NYPD.”

  Wright’s mouth parted into a semi-gape and stayed that way. A crease ripped down her forehead as she bore her eyes into him. The only sound she made was a short grunt that seemed to have a question mark at the end of it. Hatcher almost felt bad for doing it to her. Almost.

  “I’ll pay for it,” Deborah said.

  “No.” Hatcher waved her off. “They owe me. Don’t worry, Detective.” He patted Wright on the shoulder, gave it a gentle shake. “I’m sure Maloney will approve your chit and reimburse you. Besides, I’m broke.”

  Shaking her head, Wright removed a wallet from her purse and pulled out a credit card. She was making some more noise now, little puffs of disgust under her breath.

  “This better mean you’re going to say yes,” she said.

  Hatcher was already heading toward the door with the bag. “I’m still thinking about it.”

  The drive to the funeral home took a little over thirty minutes in moderate traffic. It was a brick building, low and long, with a wide green awning reaching out from an oversized set of front doors. Wright was able to park close, since the lot was almost empty. It was painted with continuous white lanes instead of spaces, designed to allow cars to file out in rows.

  “Do you want us to wait here?”

  “It’s up to you.”

  Wright and Deborah stayed. Hatcher went in through the front. A small placard on an easel indicated the home was holding services for Garrett E. Hatcher, Beloved Son and Brother, with dates and times for the viewing and burial.

  There were two sets of doors, one on each side. The doors to his left were spread open to form a wide entryway. He wandered through them into a large reception area. It was daintily furnished with formal, ornate furniture, like the tearoom of someone very old and very wealthy. And very boring, he noted. Wood chairs with rounded backs and lion’s-paw feet. Gold velveteen upholstery. Pairs of matching prints in gilded frames depicting floral arrangements adorned the walls.

  Another set of doors opened near the far end of the room. Hatcher’s mother passed through, holding a Kleenex to her nose. Carl had a supporting arm around her waist. Hatcher watched her face. She wasn’t exactly weeping as much as exhaling sad, labored breaths
like sighs.

  Karen Hatcher noticed her son and tilted her head. She was forcing a smile, but the edges of her lips sagged, tugged by some unseen weight. The lines roughing her brow seemed to be deeper than those caused by crying, and Hatcher sensed what she was feeling was different than the simple heartache of burying a son. More solitary. The kind of sorrow she could probably never share. The anguish of burying her chance to reclaim something lost, perhaps.

  “Jacob. I didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “Sorry. There was a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  Carl made a short humming noise, but didn’t say anything. His upper lip twitched into a sneer. The man sneered a lot, Hatcher recalled.

  “They’re about to take him to the cemetery,” his mother said. “We’re supposed to follow. If you go in, they may still let you see him.”

  Hatcher nodded and headed in the direction she indicated, not particularly wanting to see his brother’s body, but knowing she would take it the wrong way if he declined.

  The viewing room was much smaller than the waiting area. It did double duty as a generic chapel, with pictures of doves and clouds and a few framed prayers in Victorian script. A man in a black suit was securing latches on the casket as Hatcher walked up the aisle between the rows of chairs. A mortician, Hatcher presumed. The man glanced back and stopped what he was doing, smiling politely. The smile of someone trained, either by himself or others, to appear pleasant but not happy. Hatcher wondered if people called him Mort. He looked like a Mort.

  “I’m Jake Hatcher.”

  Mort’s eyebrows rose in understanding and he nodded. Without introducing himself, he turned back to the casket and undid the latches on one side. The casket lining was a shiny white satin that glowed brightly as Mort propped open half of the lid. Hatcher wondered whether funeral directors were also trained not to shake hands or volunteer their names. It seemed possible. Grieving people were probably not in the mood to make new acquaintances.

  “I’ll give you some time to pay respects,” Mort said, before leaving through a side door.

  This is probably how I’ll end up, Hatcher thought, pausing before he approached the casket. Alone in a box, mourned by a mother, maybe a father, but likely no one else. Hatcher stepped closer, stared at the body.