Carl laughed. It was a creepy, disjointed laughter that made me feel as if someone had dropped an ice cube down my back. J.D. laughed with him until, after a moment, he realized his son wasn’t laughing with him, but at him. J.D.’s face became as still as a buck hearing a leaf crunch.
Carl picked up the phone.
“What are you doing?” J.D. said.
“Calling the police.”
“Have you gone loco?” he said. “Put that phone down now.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me? You should have done that the night Jack died; then none of this would have happened.”
He dialed 911 and spoke evenly to the dispatcher. He was smiling when he hung up. “Someone’s already called.”
“That stupid Julio,” J.D. said. “I told him not to call the police.”
“Guess he thought he was protecting you,” Carl said, laughing that crazy laugh again.
Out of the corner of my eye, through the glass windows of Carl’s office, I could see the police moving cautiously through the outer room, guns drawn. Miguel’s face stood out from the rest. It held a slightly sick look as he watched me hold the gun on Carl. I concentrated on the throbbing in my hand, trying to decide what to do. I held my breath and waited.
“Put the gun down, Benni,” Miguel called out. From where he was standing, he could only see J.D.’s back. He didn’t realize he had a gun.
“I can’t,” I called back, my voice high and wavering. More activity in the outer office. I glanced over and saw Ortiz’s black hair among the uniforms—messy, uncombed, as if he’d just crawled out of bed.
“Give it up, Dad,” Carl said in a voice as gentle as a mother’s with a sick child. “There’s nothing else you can do. It’s over.”
J.D. stared at his son for a moment. A look passed between them, and for a moment, it was hard to tell who was the parent, who was the child. Years appeared on J.D.’s face, like one of those high-speed camera tricks that show a flower blooming and dying in the course of seconds. He slowly placed the gun on the desk in front of his son as if giving him a precious gift.
I lowered my gun and in seconds the room was full of police. Miguel gently pried the gun out of my hand.
“Are you okay?” he asked, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“I think so.” It was too much to comprehend right then. Someone I’d known since I was a little girl had killed two people, was willing to kill me. For what? To protect his son? His reputation? Sheer ego? I stood over in a corner of the office while the police tried to sort out what had happened.
Ortiz walked over to where I was standing. I hugged my jacket close around me. All I could think was home—I want to go home.
“What happened?” he asked, his stern, cop voice like a splash of cold water. In a voice that broke every so often, I told him everything.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he said, gripping my shoulder so tight I could almost feel the bruise starting. I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go. “Do you realize what could have happened? Someone could have been hurt. You could have been killed.”
At least I got separate billing.
“I ought to arrest you,” he said.
“Arrest me? After I solved your case? Why would you arrest me?”
“I could fill five reports with the laws you’ve broken. And bringing a gun into a situation like this. That’s about the stupidest ...”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupted. “I never intended on hurting him. I just wanted to ...” I stopped, not sure about what I had wanted to do. “I just wanted the truth,” I finally said.
He exploded into a barrage of Spanish. Something he said caused Miguel’s eyes to widen in surprise. It was probably better I didn’t know what it was. The other cops in the room inspected the shine on their shoes as his voice grew louder and more angry.
Oh, c‘mon, I thought, when he didn’t stop after a few minutes. I’m tired of this.
“Look, Ortiz,” I said, attempting a calm, even tone. “Now, whatever it is you’re saying, none of it happened, did it? I found your murderer for you. Case solved. All’s well and all that.” I gave my perkiest smile, fighting the urge to burst into tears.
He stopped dead and gave me a look that said he and I were back to square one.
“Book her,” he said from behind clenched teeth to a shocked Miguel. “Assault with a deadly weapon.”
19
“I DON’T CARE if he fires me, I’m not cuffing you,” Miguel said in the same stubborn voice he’d had at six years old. He walked me to the patrol car and opened the front passenger door. “He’s nuts.”
I just laughed and patted his arm. Though, as Dove would say, I’d tied myself up tighter than Hogan’s goat, I never felt less worried in my life. I knew somewhere down the road it was all going to cave in on me, but right at that moment, all I felt was an odd sort of giddy relief. Something had changed in me in the last two weeks. At that moment I felt like I could face anything.
“C‘mon, Miguel,” I said. “The worst that could happen is I spend a couple of years in the slammer. I’ll write a book about it. Get rich and famous. Go on Oprah.”
“That’s not funny,” he said, giving me a baleful look. He led me to the one cell at the end of the block reserved for women and juveniles. I was the sole resident. He left the door to the cell unlocked and brought me coffee and cups of water until I thought I was going
