“And I’ll have to personally evaluate the evidence. That might take a coupla hours.”
“Fine, but the sooner the better.”
“Francine, I want the other boyfriend brought in for questioning. Hinton. Arrest him if you have to . . .”
Kate didn’t mention that Hinton was an unlikely suspect. Let the DA go after other fish. It might make releasing Peter a less bitter pill to swallow.
On her way out, the receptionist said to Kate, “Your father’s been holding on line one, for ten or fifteen minutes...”
Kate picked up. “Father?”
“I think something’s about to happen to Peter. I phoned the jailhouse, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“He’s being released on bond in the next few hours.”
“I don’t think he’s going to last that long.” He quickly explained his fears.
“I’ll get the DA to phone . . .”
Kate ran.
“Your bitch attorney requested we put you in a separate cell. Away from the riff-raff.”
The uniformed guard had a barrel chest and thick legs that carried him low to the ground. He led Peter down a hallway, along cold linoleum floors attached to walls of unending white. The two men’s footsteps clapped in unison. Peter’s hands, cuffed behind his back, hurt, and he wore chained leggings that forced him to cut his usual strides in half. The escort’s fat palm continuously pushed against Peter’s back, making sure he couldn’t slow down. They passed through a double door where bookend guards, wearing frowns and sporting holstered guns, stood motionless. When the fireplug shoving Peter along nodded, the other two ambled off.
“I don’t want to be moved,” Peter said. “I’d rather stay in a place where I can be seen by other prisoners and guards.”
“You afraid of something?” The guard smirked.
Through a second, unguarded door, they came to a solid wall-cell, half again as large as Peter’s previous cell. The stark room had only a sink, toilet, bed, wooden chair, chipped table, and overhead light bulb encased in a metal wire-frame. The light cast Peter’s shadow across the cement floor.
“This should do you,” the guard said. He grabbed the back of the chair and placed it under the light fixture.
Peter wore a baggy orange jumper with
The guard took the loop and tested it. The length of the drawstring slid through the knot, making it an efficient noose. Peter half-stumbled.
“Where you going, Mr. Neil?” The guard swaggered towards him.
“Someone will find out,” Peter said.
“I might get suspended or fired for leaving you with the means to hang yourself, but I’m gonna retire anyway.”
The length of the guard’s thumb and thick forefinger encircled the soft part of Peter’s neck and drove his temple into the wall. Half his senses spilled loose as Peter tried to move, but a bulldog shoulder and hip pressed against his body, pasting him along the rough cinderblock. His throat felt as if it was about to tear apart, even as the guard removed his hand. Another tug and Peter couldn’t breathe. He collapsed to his knees while his jaw jerked up and back. The loop tightened against his vocal chords, as the guard dragged Peter across the floor.
Swirling fireworks burst behind his eyeballs in a spectacular show. Too weak to do anything but gasp for air, and only marginally conscious, Peter felt his wrists uncuffed. Under the armpits, strong hands pulled him to the chair, then up, into a dangling position. In his ear, stale breath flowed from a grunting mouth. Stupidly, he tried to guess what the guard had eaten for lunch. Something with garlic. Lasagna? Carbonara? Veal? Peter became dimly aware of his clanging shackles as he visualized the headlines in tomorrow’s paper: MURDERER HANGS SELF IN JAIL CELL.
Darkness followed that fleeting image.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“THANK GOD YOU’RE AWAKE.” Kate nestled her head against Peter’s chest and hugged his sides. “The guards were arrested, but they don’t know who hired them—or maybe they’re too frightened to say.”
“What hap . . .” It hurt for Peter to speak.
“You came close to becoming a jailhouse suicide.”
“Is there . . .” Peter swallowed “ . . . anyone they can’t . . . buy? Where am . . .”
“You’re at County Med. Strained vocals, rope burn, but you’re in better shape than the guy who tried to string you up. He claimed he was trying to save you.”
“Funny . . .” Peter pushed himself against the headboard.
“Shh,” Kate urged.
“How?”
“Father somehow figured out you were in trouble. Nobody else knows he tipped me off—he said not to use his name.”
“Good.” Peter’s voice sounded gravelly.
“The DA called over to the jail and they sent someone to find you. Just in time. Doctors say you’ll be fine in a day or two.”
“Need to get out . . .”
“No.” Kate shook her head.
“Got to.” Peter dragged his legs and dropped them over the edge of the bed. “Now or never.”
“Peter, you were thirty seconds from being dead.”
“Let’s go, please.” He coughed.
Kate put a hand behind his neck and massaged. He pushed himself to his feet. A nurse burst into the room. She barked several commands. Peter ignored her.
“I feel groggy.”
“Pain killers,” Kate said. “They’re designed to make you drowsy.”
“I’ll stick to . . . aspirin. Extra strength.” Peter’s voice still scratched, but he spoke more clearly. “Water?”
Kate went to a sink.
“Here,” Kate said, handing Peter a glass. Peter took a delicate sip. He squeezed his eyelids with the first swallow. “Under the circumstances, the DA has dropped the charges,” she continued. “All my brilliant persuasion proved unnecessary in the end. Getting hanged convinced the DA ofa few things.”
“Go. Let’s go.”
“I’ll be right back.” Kate left the room.
A half-minute later, she returned, pushing a wheelchair. “We’d better hit the road before they strap you down to the bed.”
Kate reached for his elbow and guided him.
“Thanks, Kate.”
“No problem. Don’t forget, I like my men beholden,” she whispered.
A moment later, she wheeled Peter from the hospital.
By Tuesday afternoon, despite a lingering neck rash and a voice an octave deeper than normal, Peter had recovered enough to move forward with his plan.
