service revolvers as they stepped inside.
Drawers had been pulled out and thrown on the floor; book cartons were spilled open, papers strewn about; a lamp was smashed. They made their way through the place, checking Eric's closets, which had been treated as rudely as the rest of the apartment.
Then, in the kitchen sink, they found Verdi. The parrot was dead, itt neck apparently snapped. At the sight of the bird, Eric moaned and sank onto a chair, his face buried in his hands. He was now beyond tears.
'Any idea who might have done this?' Medeiros asked. 'Or why?
Or, for that matter, how they got in?
There's no sign of a break-in anyplace.'
'They took my keys. I told you that,' Eric said without lifting his face.
'Hey, IBM,' the other officer called out just then, 'I'm down here in the bathroom. You ought to come down here. I think I may have just found an explanation for everything.'
With Eric close behind, the policeman hurried down the hall.
Brian stood to one side of the bathroom, his arms folded.
Covering the sink was Eric's oval bedroom wall mirror. On toP of it were a razor blade, straw, and tiny spoon. Several thin lines of white powder were laid out in a row, and there was the suggestion that several more in the row had been already ured- On the toilet seat was a plastic bag containing what Eric suspected was at least a thousand dollars' worth of cocaine.
If he felt any shock at that moment, it was at the realization that he was not the least surprised. Whoever had pulled Anna Delacroix's strings did not want him dead-they wanted him publicly and personally destroyed.
'Drugs can make people do some pretty bad, pretty weird things,' Tony Medeiros mused, as if he were speaking to a nine-year-old. 'Even if those people happen to be doctors. Believe me, you shoulda just said no.'
He reached back and pulled his handcuffs from his belt.
Without a word, Eric turned and put his hands behind his back.
'Do you really think I trashed my apartment, killed my own pet, and left this stuff here? Then came back.with two cops?' he asked when the manacles were m place. There was a numb calm in his voice.
'Doc,' 'IBM Medeiros said, 'the minute we see something like this, all we get to do is act. Someone else gets to do the thinkin'.
Brian, call this in, will you? The doc and I will wait in what's left of the living room.'
As he sat on his couch, surveying the wreckage of what had once been the simplest, most focused of lives, Eric felt a strange, surreal peacefullness settle in. Whoever had done this to him was frightened and threatened- either by something Eric was about to discover or something he already knew. Well, they had beaten him and broken him down; they had terrorized and discredited him. But they hadn't killed him. And that, they vmre going to find, was their mistake.
From far in the back of his mind, a melody began to sound. At first Eric could tell only that it was there, but soon he was nodding the tempo to himself and softly humming along. He was still immersed in the tune when they led him down the stairs and into the squad car.
It was the chorus from Kris Kristofferson's 'Me and Bobby McGee.'
Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose…
You know, Mr. Najarian, the two of you are needing to be getting your acts together. First you call and leave a message that you called and that you are all right; then she calls and leaves a message that she called, and that she's all right. Then you both do the same thing all over again.
But neither of you leaves a number. Get it what I am saying?'
'Yeah,' Eric said, picturing the Iranian desk clerk slithering along behind the Hotel Carlisle desk. 'I get it.'
'So, you would like to leave a number, yes?'
Eric looked across the corridor of the Station Four jail at the officer who was waiting to take him to court for his arraignment on charges of possession of a Class B controlled substance, and possession with intent to sell.
'No,' he said. 'Just tell her I called, and that I'm all right.
I'll call later.'
He hung up and then allowed his hands, which had been cuffed in front of him, once again to be secured behind his back. He winced at the now familiar electric pain that shot up from his wrists, and wondered how Jennifer Farrell's suture lines were holding up. He also wondered for perhaps the hundredth time where Laura was, and why she hadn't stayed in her room that might.
According to the Carlisle desk clerk, the last call from her had come in about 6:00 A.m. Now, it was nearly eleven. Eric gave silent thanks that at least she had not chosen to sleep at his place, and hoped that wherever she was, she had spent the intervening hours more pleasantly than he had. still, the more he thought about things, the more certain he became that something had happened to frighten her, or at.least alert her to potential danger.
She had made a point of leaving the message at the Carlisle that she was all right, but still, she would not leave a phone number.
Possibly she recognized the desk clerk as one who would, at any given moment, be the devoted servant of the highest bidder. As it was, the man had sounded pretty damn eager to put together some information.
Perhaps, Eric speculated, somebody had gotten to him already.
Perhaps Laura had seen one of the men from the docks watching the Carlisle, or been accosted by someone and escaped. Now, she was probably registered in another hotel, wondering where he was. Eric cursed himself for not being available to her.
'You got a jacket?' Eric's guard asked as they approached the front doors of the station.
'No. But it looks pretty nice out. I don't think I'll need one.'
'Suit yourself. I just asked because some of 'em like to have jackets to pull over their heads.'
'Pull over their-?'
Eric never had the chance or the necessity to finish his question.
Two more officers joined them as they pushed through the doors into a mass of bodies, microphones, and clicking cameras-a group at least five times larger than the one at the hospital, and many times more jude.
Eric shielded his eyes from the flashbulb assault and tried to ignore the barrage of questions, the kindest of which were in thoughtless bad taste. Suddenly, over the din, a hoarse, highpitched voice called out rapidly to the crowd.
'Move aside. Move aside. We have no statement whatsoever to make at this time other than to affirm that this man is innocent of any wrongdoing and win be found so when all of the facts become clear.
Now, please give us room and let us pass.'
Eric stared over at the source of the voice, a rumpled man in an ill-fitting suit, carrying a scuffed briefcase.
'Who are you?' one of the reporters called out.
'Who the hell do I look like, Gandhi?' the man said. 'I'm Dr.
Yossarian's lawyer.'
'Najarian,' Eric whispered.
'Connolly,' the man said. 'Felix Connolly. You okay?'
'I'm okay. Why are you doing this?'
'I owe a certain private detective a favor,' Connollly whis ered.
I 'I understand,' Eric said, remembering Laura's account of her meeting with Bernard Nelson, and knowing now where she was.
Considering her description of the detective and his office, the appearance of the lawyer who owed him a favor was not that surprising.
He could only hope the man knew what he was doing. 'Laura's all right?' he asked.
The attorney nodded. 'Let's keep names to a minimum just in case,' he said. 'She had some problems yesterday, but she's okay now.
Our mutual friend has her keeping a low profile. I'll tell you what I know when we're alone. You'll have to go over to the courthouse in the cruiser. I'll take my car and meet you there.
He nodded at the battered Volkswagen Beetle parked directly behind the police car.
'A Mercedes might inspire a bit more confidence,' Eric said.
'Don't worry,' Felix Connolly said. 'Looks can be deceiving.
