toward the curtain behind him, frantically pawing the fabric, looking for an opening.
There was nothing back there but a wall. I knew because I’d just checked it three minutes earlier.
Two uniformed officers moved out onto the stage from the other wing as two more teams came up the aisles toward the stage.
“Excuse me,” Nash said, and threw down his microphone. Because six cops were closing in from the left, he turned and rushed offstage in my direction.
I grabbed him as he tried to push past.
“Hang on a minute, Nix. We’ve got a broken window to repair here.”
“Let go!” he shrieked.
“I got this,” I said to the two uniformed cops behind me who were moving in to assist. Then I spun Nix around and pushed him against a wall. I pulled out my cuffs and hooked his right wrist, but I was a little sloppy doing it, and before I could secure his left Nash pulled his hand free and threw a punch at me. It was a right cross and it was slow and ugly. He threw it from chest high and I easily knocked it aside; then I turned him away from the two startled cops.
“You don’t want to do that, Nix,” I said. “Just calm the fuck down.”
But he was in a full panic and swung on me again.
I’d like to say that I didn’t want to hit him and that this awkward hookup was simply the result of Lee Bob’s drug overload, but that would have been a lie. I actually gave Nash the opening. I wanted the arrogant dirtbag to take his shot.
His second swing was a roundhouse left. Not much of a problem and I ducked under it easily as well.
My uppercut, on the other hand, was devastating. I heard his teeth chip as his jaws slammed together. His head went back. Blood spurted. I put everything I had into that shot. Every ounce of strength. I was hitting him for a lot of people, so it had to count. My punch was for every department that had lost credibility because of his dumb TV program. It was for Russ and Gloria Trumbull and their daughter, Hannah. I hit him for Hitch, who had a new hole in his leg courtesy of all this bullshit, and for Detectives Caleb Cole and Ronald Baron, who lost their jobs in Atlanta, as well as for Joffa Hill, aka Fuzzy, who was doing life in a Georgia prison on multiple murders he didn’t commit. I hit Nash for Frank Palgrave, J. J. Blunt, and Marcia Breen, once good servants of the people who got confused and had sold out for Nash’s version of success. But I especially hit him for Lita Mendez. She hated cops, but I was her final advocate. My job was to speak for the dead. It sickened me that she gave up her life for six or eight points on the Nielsen ratings.
It was a helluva shot. Nash went out with a mouthful of ivory chips.
I didn’t even feel it when the middle knuckle on my right hand broke. I was lost in the moment. That full of revenge.
CHAPTER 51
At the end of a case, you like things to be clean. Everything neat, every box on the arrest form checked. Unfortunately, on this one it didn’t seem like that was going to happen.
Lee Bob was dead and couldn’t turn State’s evidence. Marcia didn’t have anything but supposition on what Nix was doing, and I already knew most of what she had but couldn’t prove it. Nix Nash was locked up in Metro Detention Center jail awaiting an indictment on the charges of kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder. Marcia and I had been his victims, were eyewitnesses, and could swear to everything in court. Because we couldn’t put him behind a direct murder charge, if Nix got the right lawyer he would probably end up getting twenty-five to life. With good time, he could be out in seventeen years. Not enough.
And I still didn’t know who the hell had killed nurse Hannah Trumbull.
The next day, Hitch and I were back in our cubicle at Homicide Special, working that case into the evening. Hitch had a huge dressing on his thigh, and for the first time since I’ve known him he didn’t look like a runway model. He was in baggy, oversized sweatpants and a sweater. I had a cast on my right hand to secure my broken knuckle. The plastic went all the way up my forearm. As far as Hannah Trumbull was concerned, we didn’t have too much to go on, but Hitch and I had told her parents we would get some justice for their daughter and we were both determined to keep that promise. Problem was, the case was going nowhere.
At eight o’clock, as we were getting ready to leave, our phone rang.
“If that’s my pizza order, tell the guy it’s too late,” Hitch said irritably as I nodded and picked up the joint line.
“Scully and Hitchens,” I said.
“You guys are putting in long hours,” a familiar voice said. It was Nix Nash, but he sounded different, like he was talking through a wired jaw, which he was. Nix was calling from the phone in the MDC.
“Whatta you want?”
“I want to make a deal.”
“If you want to plead your case, take it up with the District Attorney.”
“I don’t want to plead it; I want to trade it.”
“Just a minute.” I put him on hold and looked over at Hitch. “This dirtbag is trying to give us somebody.”
“Fuck him,” Hitch said.
“’Kay.” I punched the phone up again. “Sorry, Nix. Take it up with the DA.”
“I don’t like the DA. Besides, you and I have simpatico and it’s the Trumbull case I want to trade for. I understand you’re working that now.”
I sat there trying to deal with this.
“I know who killed Hannah Trumbull,” he went on. “I had that case solved before I even picked it. It was going to be part of the show’s finale. Got an eyewitness to the crime. It’s direct testimony and will bring the killer to justice. I give that to you and in return you broker my deal with the DA for me.”
“On my way,” I said, and hung up.
“You’re not actually thinking about dealing with that shit stick?” Hitch said, appalled.
“He says he can give us Hannah’s murderer.”
Hitch stood and followed me to the elevator.
After sitting vacant for over two years due to a city budget crisis, the gleeming new MDC where Nix Nash now resided had finally opened. This state-of-the-art facility was a much needed replacement to the decaying, over-crowded jail at Parker Center. Hitch and I left our weapons in the gun locker and were buzzed back. We passed through automatic security doors and walked down a corridor wired with video cameras to an I-room where Nash was waiting. I told the jailor to activate the video equipment; then Hitch and I walked inside.
Gone were Nash’s troublesome choices over wardrobe. He now only had one shade on his color wheel- jailhouse orange. His mouth was wired shut and he was chained to the wall, sitting at a low table on an attached metal stool.
Despite this huge change in his life circumstances, he seemed strangely happy and at ease. As if none of this really affected him. A total lack of emotion. Like Scott Peterson, he didn’t seem to care. It was classic psychopathic behavior. I guess if you don’t experience human emotion, everything is just in the moment.
“Make this good, Nix, ’cause if it starts coming off like bullshit, we’re outta here.”
“I know who killed Hannah Trumbull,” he said again. “I have a witness. He never talked because he knew the killer and the man scared him. He didn’t want to get involved.”
“Keep going.”
“If I give you this, what I’m going to need is a big reduction in charges.”
“I can’t make any deals.”
“No, but you can take it to the DA and argue to support it.”
“Who was the shooter, Nix?”
“Bring the DA over. Help me cut my deal. What I’ve got is provable. It’s a slam-dunk murder one with a wit and a motive. When you hear what I have, you’ll know it’s too good to walk away from.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
We left the jail. Hitch and I walked across the quad toward the PAB.
