us. We asked if we could print you. We asked if you wouldn't mind answering a few questions.'
'So,' I said, 'I'm free to go?'
'Not quite. We're allowed to hold you for--'
'A reasonable time to question me. Right. I've been in custody now for about sixteen hours. You detain me much longer without charges, that might piss off a jury if we get there.'
'When we get there.'
'You're out of reasons to prolong my detention. I've answered all your questions. You've had time to search my house and my office, so it's not like you need to hold me to prevent me from destroying evidence. You know where to find me if you decide to take me back into custody. I'm not a flight risk. My face is on every news channel, so even if I wasn't in dire financial straits, I couldn't exactly throw on a pair of Groucho glasses and hop a flight to Rio.'
Gable had stopped pacing, his surprise giving way to irritation.
I continued, 'So please tell the DA I'm done cooperating. She needs to pull the trigger and arrest me now--or let me try to get back to my life.'
Gable crouched so his head was lower than mine. He worked his lip. 'You've known. You've been planning this. The whole time.' He glared at me with equal parts hatred and amusement. 'That was your lawyer on the phone, was it?'
I didn't answer.
'Good lawyer,' he said.
'The best.'
'I need to make a phone call of my own. I'll be back to you shortly with an answer. One way or another.'
The door closed, leaving me with the throbbing in my back and my doleful reflection in the two-way mirror. To say I looked like hell would be an understatement. My face was pale and puffy, dark crescents holding up my eyes. My hair was thoroughly mussed; I'd been tugging at it anxiously. My joints ached. Leaning over, I ground the heels of my hands into my eye sockets.
I might never go home again.
Did California have lethal injection or the electric chair?
How the hell did I wind up here?
A creak to my right and Gable loomed in the doorway. Desperate, I tried to read his face. It was tight and filled with disdain.
He turned, walking off, flinging the door open in a burst of temper. It smashed against the outside wall and wobbled back, giving off a tuning-fork vibration.
I sat in my chair, watching that door wobble. I rose. I walked out. Gable was nowhere to be seen. The plastic tub holding my possessions had been placed on the floor outside the jamb, the throwaway cell phone right there on top, for anyone to see. I looked for my Sanyo before remembering that Sally had taken it to review the bits of recorded footage. My knees cracked as I crouched to pick up the tub. The elevators were in view at the end of the hall. My breath echoing in my skull, I walked toward them, braced for someone to seize me, condemn me--the inverse of a last-minute pardon.
But I got there. Once the doors slid closed behind me, I leaned weakly against the elevator wall, plastic tub under my arm. The ride down to the main floor took an eternity. When the doors opened, no one was there waiting to grab me. I trudged across the lobby, through the solid front doors, and out into the dusk. A polluted breeze blew up from the street, but the air felt as fresh as spring in my lungs. I dumped the disposable cell in the trash.
I had some trouble keeping my balance down the wide steps. I walked over to the street and sat heavily on the curb, my feet in the gutter, buses and cars blowing by. A brittle leaf fluttered against the asphalt like a dying bird. I watched it, then watched it some more.
'Get up.' There she was above me, backlit. I was surprised and also somehow not. 'We've got work to do.' Sally offered a hand, and after a moment I took it. I got halfway to my feet when my knees went out, and I lowered myself back onto the curb.
'I think I need a minute,' I said.
Chapter 36
'Two things did it,' Sally told me as we barreled along the 101. 'The gas station had digital security footage of you at the counter, which the clerk e-mailed right over. That alibied you for the break-in at Conner's and got a second suspect into the mix. Enough to give the DA pause.'
Valentine was still off trying to run down Elisabeta, so I rode in the front of the sedan, which made me feel vaguely human again. I dialed Ariana for the fifth time, but all her numbers remained busy. Sally had given me my Sanyo cell phone back, after declaring the recorded clips on it useless. When I'd turned it on, it had been jammed with excited condolences from virtually everyone who had the number, too many to listen to right now, given my state of mind.
'And,' Sally continued, 'the computer you rented at Kinko's--a Compaq. It had a bunch of time-stamped documents implanted in various places, showing the planning of the crime, your obsession with Conner, stuff going back a year. Beyond the question of why you would leave that stuff on a rented computer, it's impossible that you created those documents.'
'Because the time stamps didn't match the dates I rented the computer?'
'Even better.' She let slip a pleased smile. 'The serial number on the Compaq shows it to have shipped as part of a bulk buy on December fifteenth. Which means the computer didn't yet exist when you were supposedly generating incriminating documents on it. Looks like you outthought them on one front--they were counting on you to check your e-mail at home or at the office.'
'Me: one. Bad guys: ninety-seven.'
'Hey,' she said, 'it's a start.'
I resumed calling our house, Ariana's cell phone, her work. Busy or off the hook. Full mailbox. No answer.
A blinking icon on my cell phone caught my eye. A text message. Another threatening communication? Nervously, I thumbed it onto the screen, relaxing when I saw that it was from Marcello: I FIGURE U MIGHT NEED THIS RITE ABOUT NOW. The accompanying photograph was a freeze-frame from the footage I'd recorded onto my phone. It showed the windshield reflection of the Vehicle Identification Number, blown up and clarified. Closing my eyes, I gave private thanks for Marcello's postproduction skills.
Sally said, 'What?'
I held out the phone so she could see the image. 'This is the VIN of the car from the second e-mail. Where the guy filmed through the windshield to show me the route to that Honda in the alley.'
She unclipped the radio and called in the VIN, asking the desk officer to look into it. She gave a few uh-huhs, then an 'Oh, really?' When she signed off, she said, 'That club girl? She had a miscarriage. So the paternity suit's a dead end. At least that paternity suit. As for the VIN, that should be easy. We'll get word back on the car soon.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'For taking me seriously. All of it. I know you're out on a limb.'
The tires thrummed over the freeway exit. 'Let's be clear about something. I like you, Patrick. But we're not friends. Someone got murdered. He may have been an asshole, but he was killed in my jurisdiction, and that angers me. Deeply. I want to know who killed him and why--even if it's you--and there is no condition more motivating to me than curiosity. Plus, call me old-fashioned, but the thought of an innocent person behind bars makes me chafe. Justice, truth, and all that crap. So I appreciate your thanks, but you should know I didn't do any of it for you.'
We drove in silence. I looked out my window for a time before trying Ariana again. And again. The home phone was still busy--had she taken it off the hook? Between attempts my cell rang. I checked caller ID eagerly, but it was the Northridge film department. Probably not calling to offer me a raise. Frustrated, I threw my phone onto the dash. It rattled against the windshield. I took a few deep breaths, staring at my lap. At first I hadn't noticed we'd stopped moving.
We were parked outside a familiar run-down Van Nuys apartment complex. Sally climbed out, but I just sat there, taking in the bent security gate and the courtyard beyond. VACANCY, written on rusted metal, swaying from the gutter. A PARTMENTS FOR R ENT.
All the signs had been there, and yet I'd read none of them.
