“Wait just one goddamned minute!” Robine shouted.
“Then, while you washed your bloody clothes,” Bryce said to Kale, “you cleaned up the ice-cream-smeared dishes and put them away because your story was that you had come home from work to find little Danny already dead and his mother already freaked out on PCP.”
Robine said, “That's only supposition. Have you forgotten motive? Why in God's name would my client do such a hideous thing?”
Watching Kale's eyes, Bryce said, “High Country Investments.”
Kale's face remained impassive, but his eyes flickered.
“High Country Investments?” Robine asked, “What's that?”
Bryce stared at Kale. “Did you buy ice cream before you went home last Thursday?”
“No,” Kale said flatly.
“The manager of the 7-Eleven store over on Calder Street says you did.”
The muscles in Kale's jaws bulged as he clenched his teeth in anger.
“What about High Country Investments?” Robine asked.
Bryce fired another question at Kale. “Do you know a man named Gene Teer?”
Kale only stared.
“People sometimes just call him ‘Jeeter.'”
Robine said, “Who is he?”
“Leader of the Demon Chrome,” Bryce said, watching Kale.
“It's a motorcycle gang. Jeeter deals drugs. Actually, we've never been able to catch him at it himself, we've only been able to jail some of his people. We leaned on Jeeter about this, and he steered us to someone who admitted supplying Mr. Kale with grass on a random basis. Not Mrs. Kale. She never bought.”
“Who says?” Robine demanded, “This motorcycle creep? This social reject? This drug pusher? He's not a reliable witness!”
“According to our source, Mr. Kale didn't just buy grass last Tuesday. Mr. Kale bought angel dust, too. The man who sold the drugs will testify in return for immunity.”
With animal cunning and suddenness, Kale bolted up, seized the empty chair beside him, threw it across the table at Bryce Hammond, and ran for the door of the interrogation room.
By the time the chair had left Kale's hands and was in the air, Bryce was already up and moving, and it sailed harmlessly past his head. He was around the table when the chair crashed to the floor behind him.
Kale pulled open the door and plunged into the corridor.
Bryce was four steps behind him.
Tal Whitman had come off the window ledge as if he'd been blown off by an explosive charge, and he was one step behind Bryce, shouting.
Reaching the corridor, Bryce saw Fletcher Kale heading for a yellow exit door about twenty feet away. He went after the son of a bitch.
Kale hit the crashbar and flung the metal door open.
Bryce reached him a fraction of a second later, as Kale was setting foot onto the macadamed parking lot.
Sensing Bryce close behind him, Kale turned with catlike fluidity and swung one huge fist.
Bryce ducked the blow, threw a punch of his own, connecting with Kale's hard, flat belly. Then he swung again, hitting him in the neck.
Kale stumbled back, putting his hands to his throat, gagging and choking.
Bryce moved in.
But Kale wasn't as badly stunned as he pretended to be. He leaped forward as Bryce approached and grabbed him in a bear hug.
“Bastard,” Kale said, spraying spittle.
His gray eyes were wide. His lips were skinned back from his teeth in a fierce snarl. He looked lupine.
Bryce's arms were pinned, and although he was a strong man himself, he couldn't break Kale's iron hold on him. They staggered a few steps backwards, stumbled, and went down, with Kale on top. Bryce's head thumped hard against the pavement, and he thought he was going to black out.
Kale punched him once, ineffectively, then rolled off him and crawled away fast.
Warding off the darkness that rose behind his eyes, surprised that Kale had surrendered the advantage, Bryce pushed up onto his hands and knees. He shook his head — and then saw what the other man had gone after.
A revolver.
It lay on the macadam, a few yards away, gleaming darkly in the glow of the yellowish sodium-vapor lights.
Bryce felt his holster. Empty. The revolver on the ground was his own. Apparently, it had slipped out of his holster and had spun across the pavement when he'd fallen.
The killer's hand closed on the weapon.
Tal Whitman stepped in and swung a nightstick, striking Kale across the back of the neck. The big man collapsed on top of the gun, unconscious.
Crouching, Tal rolled Kale over and checked his pulse.
Holding the back of his own throbbing skull, Bryce hobbled over to them, “Is he all right, Tal?”
“Yeah. He'll be coming around in a few minutes.” He picked up Bryce's gun and got to his feet.
Accepting the revolver, Bryce said, “I owe you one.”
“Not at all. How's your head?”
“I should be so lucky to own an aspirin company.”
“I didn't expect him to run.”
“Neither did I,” Bryce said, “When things get worse and worse for a man like that, he usually just gets calmer, cooler, more careful.”
“Well, I guess this one saw the walls closing in.”
Bob Robine was standing in the open doorway, staring out at them, shaking his head in consternation.
A few minutes later, as Bryce Hammond sat at his desk, filling out the forms charging Fletcher Kale with two homicides, Bob Robine rapped on the open door.
Bryce looked up. “Well, counselor, how's your client?”
“He's okay. But he's not my client any more.”
“Oh? His decision or yours?”
“Mine. I can't handle a client who lies to me about
“So does he want to call another-attorney tonight?”
“No. When he's arraigned, he's going to ask the judge for a public defender.”
“That'll be the Just thing in the morning.”
“Not wasting any time, huh?”
“Not with-this one,” Bryce said.
Robine nodded. “Good. He's a
“Jesus,” Bryce said.
They were both silent. Then Robine sighed. “What about High Country Investments? How's it provide a motive?”
Before Bryce could explain, Tal Whitman rushed in from the hall. “Bryce, could I have a word with you?” He glanced at Robine, “Uh, this better be in private.”
“Sure,” Robine said.
