time, only to turn up wondering what the fuss was all about.'
'They should be able to ID the body fairly quickly,' he said robotically.
She nodded. 'Then we'll know.'
'I was with her night before last.' He glanced up to gauge Elise's reaction.
She must have appeared dismayed, because he repeated what he'd just said, this time with a twisted, self- defeated smile.
'I thought you were going to quit seeing her,' Elise said. 'I thought you had quit seeing her.'
'She was waiting for me when I got home. It was just something that happened.'
He looked in the direction of the crime scene. Toward a mangled corpse that may have been Flora. He closed his eyes and tipped back his head, as if trying to erase the image from his memory. 'My life is so fucked,' he whispered. 'I don't know… Sometimes it feels like I'm a magnet for bad things.' He straightened and looked at her, as if she might have an answer. 'Who's the 'Peanuts' kid? The one with the cloud of dirt around him?'
'Pig Pen?'
'Yeah. I'm that kid. But instead of dirt, it's bad stuff. Following me around.'
She should have been formulating possibilities, mentally gathering a list of people to interview. She could have at least been trying to make him feel better, but the only thing she could think about was the curse Strata Luna had put on him.
She'd always surmised that curses only worked if the recipient believed. Kind of like a placebo. Now she wasn't sure, because David was right. His life was fucked.
Chapter 39
Starsky, of the Starsky and Hutch team, rapped on the open office door. 'Got a positive ID on the Tybee Island body,' he said, clinging to the doorframe.
David swiveled around in the chair so his back was to the detective.
'Flora Martinez,' Starsky announced.
Something big and solid dropped in the pit of David's stomach. Even though he'd known it was going to be her, subconsciously he'd been holding out hope that it wasn't. 'Thanks for the information,' David said, staring at the fish screen saver in front of him.
Jesus. Flora.
Was her murder his fault? Was it somehow connected to the TTX case? Or was it the result of her dangerous lifestyle, completely unrelated to him or the investigation?
'That's not all,' Starsky added. 'The GBI's been looking into things, and it seems they want you brought downstairs for questioning.'
David wasn't surprised. What was a surprise was how quickly they'd connected a few random dots.
He got to his feet, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped into his jacket. When he stepped into the hall, he saw that Hutch had been lurking a few feet away, practically rubbing his palms together.
The Yankee was going down.
It was a long way from his third-floor office to the interrogation room.
A regular gauntlet.
Curious workers filled doorways. People stood in clusters around drinking fountains and rest rooms. Familiar and unfamiliar faces jumped in and out of focus. In front of him, the hall was silent. But then, behind his back as he passed, whispers began.
David's personal history seemed to have taken on a life of its own, becoming an entity that filled the brick building. Everyone was talking about David Gould, discussing and debating the issue.
'I don't understand why they sent him here in the first place after being under psychiatric care.'
'That doesn 't mean anything,' another voice argued. 'Half the force should be seeing a therapist.'
Ha-ha-ha.
'Did you hear about his kid? '
'He has a kid?'
A story like David's couldn't remain a secret forever. The truth had finally followed him to Savannah.
'Had. Dead. Killed by his wife. That's why he left the FBI. Had a breakdown. Snapped. They sent him back home to Cleveland. Cleveland didn 't want him, so what do they do? Send him to us.'
Don't listen, David told himself.
But he couldn't help it. They were all enjoying this too fucking much.
Don't think.
He couldn't help that either.
He was an outsider. The white horse in a black herd. The one the other horses killed for being different. It wasn't just that he was from the North. Some of his coworkers also took a twisted pleasure in seeing an FBI agent crash and burn.
In the interrogation room, Agent Spaulding, from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, was waiting for him. Starsky and Hutch were also in on the event.
Great. His three favorite people were going to be involved in questioning him. A regular David Gould Fan Club.
The assholes should have felt uncomfortable, interviewing one of their own, but even though they weren't smiling, David got the idea they were struggling like hell to keep a lid on their excitement.
He took a seat. A camera and two tape recorders were turned on. After getting down the date and time, plus David's full legal name and date of birth, Spaulding moved to the real questions.
'Are you currently under psychiatric care?'
'I was until fairly recently.' David leaned back. 'I personally believe every police department should have a full- time shrink on staff.'
'Are you taking medication?'
'No.'
'No?' Spaulding pulled out a manila folder. 'We were given access to your files, and it seems it was recommended you remain on a high dosage of Paxil, plus a tranquilizer, for an undetermined amount of time.'
'I didn't feel I needed it anymore.'
Spaulding nodded. 'Interesting. And you have a degree in psychiatry?'
'Cut the crap.'
Spaulding was using a standard interrogation technique of getting information. Bait and switch. You changed the subject, hit with something from left field, then went back to the real issue. David had used the method many times himself. Of course, he'd done a better job.
'Did you know Flora Martinez?' Spaulding asked.
'Yes.'
'How well?' Spaulding sat across the table from David, Starsky at the opposite end, while Hutch held up the wall near the door.
'Fairly well.'
'Weren't you a client of Ms. Martinez?'
'I wouldn't call myself a client. We were acquaintances.'
'But you-a Savannah Police Department homicide detective-made use of her services. Isn't that correct?'
David was pleased to note that Spaulding was getting one of those pear-shaped bodies that often caught up with detectives who spent too much time behind the wheel eating fast food.
'Once.'
'Only once?'
Spaulding placed a small open day planner on the table. 'This date book belonged to the victim, Flora Martinez. Isn't that your name and address on page twenty-three?'
David leaned forward. 'Yes.'
