“Who’s that?”
“Preston Walls.”
Nautilus growled and pushed through the door of the interrogation room. Shuttles was sitting in a chair at a small wooden table, Preston Walls beside him, nodding.
“Hey, Harry,” Walls said. “How you been keeping yourself?”
Nautilus ignored the attorney and stuck his face in front of Tyree Shuttles.
“What do you know about a location B?”
Walls put his hand on Shuttles’s back. Patted it. “My client has nothing to say, Harry. Sorry.”
“Shuttles just call you, Walls?” If Crandell knew Shuttles was in jail, it was all for naught.
“Minutes ago,” Walls said. “Evidently Mr. Shuttles knows of my expertise with the wrongly accused.”
Nautilus put his palms on the table, glared into Shuttles’s eyes.
“If I don’t find out where location B is, Carson could die. How’s that, Shuttles? There a glimmer of conscience in there anywhere?”
Shuttles looked away. Walls leaned back in his chair, flicked the tassels on his shiny Italian loafers, shoes as sleek as eels.
“Maybe we can come to a deal, Harry. Mr. Shuttles, if I’m given to understand the problem, was an unwitting pawn in someone else’s game. He might have unknowingly mishandled evidence, but that was an accident. In return for anything he might tell you, my client wants immunity from prosecution.”
Nautilus glared at Shuttles. “I doubt he knows where location B is anyway, Walls. He’s low level, a gofer.”
Shuttles nodded to Walls. The attorney walked over, listened as Shuttles whispered in his ear. Walls straightened.
“He perhaps knows pieces of what you need. He knows them inadvertently, of course, not as part of any crime or conspiracy. Maybe someone from the prosecutor’s office could talk deal? I believe Ms. Barnes is in the building.”
“I don’t think so,” Nautilus said. “I’m done here.” He walked from the interrogation room with Walls in his wake. He stopped at a water cooler a dozen feet down the hall.
Come on, Walls, come on…
The lawyer parked himself a few steps behind Nautilus, his voice wheedling. “Harry, we can make a nice deal here. The kid made some kind of mistake. He’s not even sure what. You got weight with the DA.”
Walls bargaining without even knowing what had gone down.
“Bye, Preston.” Nautilus wiped his mouth, started away.
“Harry, we can do something good here. I know it.”
Nautilus paused. “Do you know what Shuttles did? Who he’s working for?”
Walls puffed out a righteous chest. “My client asserts his innocence. And that, Harry, is all I need.”
Nautilus started down the hall. A dozen feet away, he turned his head over his shoulder, said, “Crandell.” Nautilus got three steps before Walls was in front of him.
“Christ. What did you just say, Harry?”
“The Kincannons have a pipeline into Shuttles for various ongoing necessaries. Crandell’s the intermediary. You ratted Crandell out to me, Walls, remember?”
Walls looked seasick. “Harry, I did no such-”
“I’m in contact with Crandell by e-mail. I’m gonna go write him back, remind Crandell of his old friend Preston Walls from Barton, Turnbull and Pryce. ‘Rabies sloshing under his pupils.’ That’s what you said about him, right?”
Walls’s flesh had turned the color of lard. Sweat peppered his forehead.
“You can’t do this.”
Nautilus clasped the attorney’s shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. “If Crandell doesn’t come to me, Walls, I bet he comes to you.”
Walls said, “Let me go talk to my client. Perhaps I can-”
“Lie to him, Walls. You know how it’s done. I’ll be right here.”
Five minutes later, Walls came through. Shuttles, apparently thinking he was showing good faith for a deal agreement, wrote a return message on a slip of paper.
Loc B cnfirm. 11 pm cnfirm. IO 50G to man in? Route per rehrsl. 90 min. Don’t frgt: IO 50Gs.
A confirmation of location B at eleven tonight, two hours; “I owe 50 grand.”
Shuttles also passed along driving directions. Not far, just on the north side of Mobile. Nautilus called Forensics, had Claypool send the message from Shuttles’s computer. He took out his service weapon, checked the clip, patted the two extras in his pocket. He’d get there early, scope out the territory. Wait.
He checked the weapon a second time, a Glock 17. Then raced back to the department to pick up the. 380 in his locker, a little something to tuck down the back of his pants. Maybe he’d check out a shotgun as well.
I petted Puppy after he’d liberated me- Good dog, good dog- then told Freddy his pet needed a reward. Freddy wandered to the kitchen area to fix Puppy and himself a snack. I followed, drank a glass of milk and jammed a slice of pizza in my mouth, fuel, then started searching for a weapon and a way out.
I heard a rumble in the distance, and my heart froze. Crandell coming up the drive?
The rumble again, this time clearly thunder.
There was nothing equivalent to a weapon in the kitchen, only soft plastic implements. A closet by the door provided a pair of men’s painter pants and a woman’s dark blue raincoat-Miss Gracie’s, I assumed-better than the loose pajamas I had been dressed in upon arrival.
Shoeless, shirtless, the raincoat flapping in my wake, I set about finding my escape.
The windows were barred and wired: Breakage would trigger some form of alarm in the security detail’s offices, I assumed. All doors were steel and secured by electronic locks. No phones.
Everything seemed designed to keep Lucas inside if he ever breeched the confines of his two-room Zenda.
That left the second floor.
I found a staircase to the second floor: tiny windows, steel doors locked tight. The elevator was turned off. I searched closets and cupboards to locate a pry-bar, finally discovering a utility mop and bucket. The mop handle was hardwood, tipped with a steel attachment to fasten mop heads in place. I tossed the mop, kept the handle, jogged to the elevator. Passing a room off the kitchen, I saw Freddy eating from a bowl in his lap, raptly watching a videotaped cartoon, the volume louder than Miss Gracie would have allowed, I suspected.
The attachment on the mop handle slid between the brass-plated elevator doors, and I tried to jimmy the doors without breaking the handle. The doors opened several inches before the handle slipped and the door slammed closed. Sweat streamed down my forehead, burned into my eyes. I gripped the handle tighter, going for brute force.
The doors separated four inches and I jammed my bare right foot between them, laying my full weight into the task. With a sound like a gunshot, the mop handle snapped. I fell forward, my foot wedged between the doors. I heard a second gunshot from my ankle. Pain exploded up my leg and I fought my way to standing. I jammed my elbow between the doors, roared with agony. Pushed with everything I had. The doors widened until I tumbled into the elevator.
The doors closed behind me. My ankle was on fire.
A hard knocking at the door.
“Carson?”
I tried to still my breath. “What, Freddy?”
“I heard you yelling real loud. What are you doing?”
“Exploring. I’ll be back in a while.”
“What are you exploring?”
“The elevator.”
“Can I come in and explore, too?”
