“List?” The cop smiled uncertainly, his teeth perfectly white and even, as if his braces had just come off. “I don’t have a list.”
“You’re supposed to.” Cate scowled. “Russo has a right to counsel, Officer. You can’t deprive the man of his constitutional rights just because you lost the list Nesbitt gave you.”
“He didn’t give me a list.”
“He told me he did. You calling Nesbitt a liar?”
“No, never, Nesbitt is-”
“Here.” Cate fished in her purse for her cell, flipped it open, and pressed DIALED CALLS. “That’s his cell number, right there. Don’t make me call him. He’s on a double homicide and very busy. You don’t want to interfere with him, do you?”
“No.”
“Quick. Pat me down. Russo pays by the hour.” Cate dropped her purse and raised her arms, and after a minute, the cop rose, folded the sports page, and set it down on his hard-plastic bucket chair.
“Well, okay, seeing as how he said it’s okay.” The cop ran his hands lightly over Cate’s coat and in her pockets, then slipped his hands underneath and patted down her body.
“Wanna check my purse?”
“Sure, thanks.” The cop turned around and dug inside the bag, then handed it back.
“Thank you,” Cate said, slipping inside the wide wooden door.
And letting it close behind her.
CHAPTER 43
Cate eyed Russo as he slept, taking evil satisfaction in the extent of his injuries. An ugly Frankenstein gash ran down his left cheek, which was covered with skin-toned butterfly things, and a large pink-red egg swelled in the middle of his Cro-Magnon forehead, like a third eye. His greasy black hair had been shaved in a reverse Mohawk; a scalp-deep strip improvised to accommodate a white gauze bandage that wound sideways around his head, completely covering his left ear. His left arm lay in a light blue cotton sling, his right hand in a gauze bandage like a ping-pong paddle, and his knee, lying outside the blanket, was held rigid by a steel brace with navy blue padding. All told, Russo formed a bandaged, if brawny, mound in the white cotton sheet, and an overgrown thicket of dark chest hair sprang from the collar of his gown, like the Black Forest come to Philly.
Cate approached the sleeping man and put her face close to his good ear. “FIRE! FIRE! WAKE UP! EMERGENCY!”
“Ah!” Russo’s puffy eyes flew open in alarm. He tried to get up, grimacing. “Oww!”
“Just kidding!”
“Wha?” Russo blinked in pain, propped lopsided on his good arm.
“Recognize me, Detective? Or should I run away and scream?”
“Ahh. Owww.” Russo blinked a few more times, then sank back into the thin pillow. His voice sounded hoarse, hopefully from a tube they’d stuck down his throat. Dry.
“It’s me, Judge Fante.”
“The killer judge.”
“Once again, you’re half right. I must say, you got what you deserved, and I do excellent work.” Cate clucked over his ugly wounds. “You’re single, right? Better get used to it.”
“What’re you doin’ here?”
“Came to say hi.” Cate plunked herself down next to his swaddled form, bumping him roughly aside. “Make room, would you?”
Russo moaned. “Ow, stop it.”
“Oops. Sorry. Did I hurt you?” Cate give him another bump. “Yikes! I got crazy hips tonight!”
“Keep it up and I’ll call the uniform.”
“Do that. Tell on me.” Cate flashed on the swing of his car headlights, aimed right at her. “Doesn’t it itch like crazy under those casts, or are you in too much pain to feel it? They say, first comes the pain, then comes the itching. Maybe bedsores. Boils, too. Barnacles. Carbuncles. Pestilence. Maybe your nose will fall off.”
“Bitch.”
“Feeling’s mutual.” Cate bounced on the bed until he grimaced again. “Get well soon, would you? So we can lock your ass in jail.”
“You killed Rich.”
“No, I didn’t, you idiot, but I don’t think it was suicide, either. Look how much we have in common. I’m so glad you asked me out.”
“If I could move, I’d kill you with my bare hands.”
“If you could move, I wouldn’t have done my job.”
Suddenly there was a rattling in the hall, and they both looked over. The door was being opened by the uniformed cop, holding it ajar for a short attractive woman in a white uniform with a nameplate that read, JULIE WILLIAMSON. She was pushing a tall metal cart with shelves for dinner trays. She grabbed a tray from the cart and scooted into the room with it. “Hello, you two!” the woman sang out, carrying a green plastic tray on which sat a plate of roasted chicken beside a spreading pool of mashed potatoes and olive green peas, puckering as they cooled.
“It’s about time,” Russo grumbled, and Cate stood up.
“Here, let me help.”
“Thanks a lot,” the woman said gratefully, handing off the tray and hurrying back out to her cart. The uniformed cop nodded, then let the door close.
Cate turned to Russo with the tray. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too. Another thing we have in common. We’re made for each other. You complete me.”
“Gimme my dinner.”
“In a minute.”
“What the hell is your problem?”
“I need information. Tell me why you think Marz didn’t kill himself, and don’t give me all the soft stuff, like that he wasn’t that kind of guy. Give me hard evidence. Make your best argument. Sell me.”
“Who’re
“Like I said, I don’t think Marz killed himself. I met his wife and she convinced me, but that’s not evidence. You oughta help me out, since only one of us is mobile enough to catch the bad guy. Now answer my question and I’ll give you your dinner.”
“Not enough blowback for a suicide,” Russo answered gruffly. “I don’t get you, lady.”
“What’s blowback? I’ve heard the term, but I don’t really know what it means.”
“Blowback’s the blood and tissue that gets on your hand when you shoot yourself. The explosion blows it back on your hand.” Russo shifted in bed, wincing. “Rich shoulda had a lot of blowback. He had some, but not as much as I woulda thought. Or other suicides have.”
“So?”
“So that means somebody else got the blowback. It’s proof that your man put his hand over Rich’s and pulled the trigger. The hand on top blocks the blowback.”
Cate visualized the gruesome scene. “Like a stencil. How do you know how much blowback to expect?”
“Judgment call. Rich had stippling, so I would expect more blowback.”
“What’s stippling?”
Russo sighed theatrically. “Why you playing this game? You’re a freak, you know that?”
“What’s stippling? Your chicken’s getting cold.”
