get them right where he wanted them. In the car, together.”
“Who did?” asked Jens.
“A guy who had access to commando equipment. The guy who gave them the message and helped Daphne out to the car. Rolf Kayser.”
Jens opened his mouth, as if to deny it, but the logic of was undeniable.
“But why commit murder?” Harding asked. “Why kill Birkeland?”
“I don’t know, sir. But I’ll bet Daphne did. And now she’s dead. Kaz is our only hope.”
I turned and walked inside. I had to wash and change my clothes. The smell of death was everywhere. I scrubbed my face, hands, and hair. I threw everything I was wearing into a pile on the floor and changed into fresh khakis. I still smelled the smoke on my skin.
Twenty minutes later Harding and I were in a jeep heading to the British military hospital in Ipswich. We had left Jens on the phone with the Southwold base, issuing orders in the king’s name for Lieutenant Rolf Kayser to be held for questioning as soon as he showed up. For the moment, all I had to do was drive and worry about Kaz. There wasn’t time to mourn Daphne yet. I wanted Kaz to be all right, and part of me felt guilty that I might care more about finding out what he’d discovered than about him. I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and hoped I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell him. Things just seemed to get worse and worse. How would Kaz take it? He and Daphne were so different, yet so alike. They had been perfect for each other. How could you live, knowing the perfect thing you once had was gone?
“You know what, Boyle?” Harding said. I was grateful to him for breaking into my thoughts. “This means that going after Anders Arnesen would have been a wild goose chase. Now that this has happened, it’s obvious he isn’t involved.”
I hadn’t even thought about Anders. I was so pissed at Harding for not stopping him that it hadn’t even occurred to me that he couldn’t be the killer.
“That’s right, sir. But we still need to talk to him. I want to know why he lied about being up and around early that morning.”
Harding shrugged, as if what I wanted didn’t count for much.
“That reminds me of another thing, Boyle,” he said. “I thought you had ruled out Rolf as a suspect because he was with the king when Birkeland was killed?” He finished his question as he pulled up to the gate at the hospital. The sentry asked for our IDs and we went through the drill with him.
“It’s a long story, sir. Can it wait until later when I can lay it all out for you?”
“OK.” Harding pulled into a parking place. “Let’s see how Kaz is doing.”
He wasn’t doing well. A doctor took us into his room and read from his chart. Broken leg, a large gash on the left side of his face, multiple lacerations, probable concussion, a collapsed lung, and second-degree burns where his clothing had caught fire. Plus they were concerned about the effect on his heart, which wasn’t very strong to start with.
I stopped listening and pulled up a chair next to the head of his bed. His face was wrapped in bandages. All I could see was one eye between the layers of gauze. I gently put my hand on his arm, afraid the slightest touch would hurt him.
“Kaz? Kaz, can you hear me?”
“He can’t hear you, Lieutenant. The pain medication has put him out,” the doctor said.
“When will he wake up?”
“We hope tomorrow. But in his condition, it may be hard to predict.”
I didn’t ask any more questions. I wasn’t crazy about the answers I was getting. Harding went out in the corridor with the doc. I didn’t know what to do. Hospitals always made me nervous. But Kaz was my partner, or at least as close as a Boston cop could get to one over here. So I stayed. I looked around to make sure the door was shut, and then I started talking to Kaz. I filled him in on everything that had happened since we left him at Daphne’s father’s place. Until this morning, anyway. I told him about Southwold, Anders, Victoria Brey, everything I had seen and done.
“That’s it, Kaz,” I finished up. “Now I just need to hear from you. What did you find out in London? It must’ve been good.”
The slightest of little sounds escaped his lips, just a puff of air. One finger moved.
“Kaz, it’s me, Billy.”
I could see him try to move his head, but it was too much. He winced. He lifted his hand, holding it as if he wanted to shake hands.
“What do you want, Kaz?” I heard another little sound. I leaned closer to his mouth.
“Bbb…”
“Yeah, it’s Billy. I’m here.”
“Bb… Bbbb…”
It was like he was trying to say my name but couldn’t get it all out. I tried to take his hand, thinking that’s what he wanted. He shook me off with an effort that must have been painful. He gasped, then didn’t say anything for a long time.
“I’ll stay right here, Kaz. When you feel strong enough, try again.”
His eyelid fluttered and I could see he was trying to open it. A thin slit appeared and he tried to focus on me. He must have been really doped up, because he faded pretty quick. I waited. Minutes passed. Long minutes.
“Bb… bbb.” Again, the hand. He tried to open his eye again. This time, he got the lid halfway up. I was sure he saw me.
“Bbb… re…”
“What?”
He worked his hand again, holding it like he was gripping something. His eye was fully open now, and he held me in his gaze, willing me to understand. I got it.
“Briefcase!” I shouted. “Your briefcase! I understand, Kaz. I’ll find it. That’s where the evidence is, right?” This time when I took his hand he squeezed it. Yes.
“I’ll get it, Kaz, I promise. Then I’ll come back to see you.”
I wondered if he knew about Daphne, and if I should tell him. But I wanted to get out of there, away from the antiseptic hospital smell and Kaz’s suffering. Then I saw the tears leaking from his one good eye. He knew. He had delivered his message and now he was done. All that was left was grief. I squeezed his hand.
“I know, buddy, I know. I know.”
I stood up and let his hand slip from mine. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, just above his eye, about the only patch of skin that wasn’t wrapped in bandages. I sniffed and guiltily wiped my own tears away, glancing around to make sure no one had seen. Boston cops don’t cry, much less kiss Polacks.
I stood back from the bed and let out a sigh that came from way down in my gut. Kaz was out, his strength used up by uttering half a word and squeezing my hand. I felt the hardness of the linoleum floor through my feet. The close, warm air of the room brought beads of sweat out on my forehead that dripped down my temples.
It had been a long time since I’d been in a hospital room. I wasn’t counting Doc O’Brien’s office, where I had taken Danny to get his leg stitched up last summer, or even the emergency room, where I’d escorted my fair share of bums, drunks, and Brunos who thought they could take on a guy who knew how to use a billy club with their fists. No, a hospital room was different; it was a place where they stashed you until they killed you or you happened to get well enough to walk out. At least, that’s what most everyone in my family said, ever since somebody’s great- aunt got taken down to Cork and put in a hospital she never came home from. I wasn’t sure about it myself, but the tightening in my stomach now was the same as it was the last time I’d stood at the foot of a bed like this, hat in hand, trying not to cry and feeling the room close in on me. The uniforms had been blue then, and it had been Dad on the bed.
Uncle Dan had picked me up on my beat, siren blasting away, and brought me straight to the hospital. We didn’t know what had happened, just that Dad had been shot and was alive last anyone heard. The place was crawling with cops-out front, in the main lobby, all of them parting like the Red Sea as Uncle Dan looked at everyone and no one, demanding to know where his brother was. Somebody led us up a flight of stairs and down a hall to a room. A room like this: too warm; hard floor; smells of chalky gauze, antiseptic cleaners, and open wounds mingling.
The difference was, Dad could talk. “Bastard couldn’t shoot straight” was the first thing he’d said, wincing
