by Joel Goldman
Step three was a come-to-Jesus with Dwayne. He’d poke and prod him until Reed’s manly pride got the better of him. One swing at Rossi and Reed would be back behind bars. Problem solved until some shit-for-brains judge let him out again. At least that would give him time to build a strong enough case against Reed to convince a jury to throw away the key.
Rossi had been to Truman Medical many times to interview witnesses, victims, and suspects, but this was the first time he’d done a threat assessment of the premises. There were multiple entrances to the hospital guarded by nothing besides security cameras, which would only be useful after the fact. If Reed was smart enough to turn his face away from the cameras, assuming someone was actually watching the monitors, he’d have no trouble getting inside undetected.
Once inside, he had the added advantage of knowing where to find Dr. Long. Still, Rossi didn’t think Reed would make his play where there were likely to be witnesses, some of whom might try to stop or capture him.
The parking lot was a different story. Reed could easily hide among the cars, wait for his chance, and put a bullet in Dr. Long without ever being seen. If he wanted to make good on his promise to rape her, he could force his way into her car and make her drive them away. A security guard escort might be enough to get her safely out of the lot unless Reed had lost all control over his killing appetite.
Rossi knew the greater risk was the drive home. Reed could follow her, jacking her car if circumstances were right. But the greatest risk was inside her house, where they would be alone. All Reed had to do was find out where she lived and bide his time. If he had waited this long to kill the Hendersons, he had proved one thing. He was a patient man.
Rossi finished his tour of the parking lot. Satisfied that Reed wasn’t there, he went to the emergency room, stopping at Patient Check-In, where a nurse whose name tag identified him as Eddie Tate was glued to his computer.
“Hey, Eddie.”
Eddie looked up from the computer screen. “Do I know you?
Rossi flashed his badge. “Now you do. Where can I find Dr. Long?”
“This about the guy who threatened her?”
“You know about that?”
“That’s one thing HIPAA doesn’t cover, dude.”
“Just tell me where I can find her.”
“Through the double doors. She’s back there somewhere.”
Rossi stepped through the doors. The emergency room was a large square, with a nurses’ station in the center and patient rooms lining the walls. It was quiet, a nurse coming out of one room and going into another.
A security guard sat on a stool next to a counter at the back of the nurses’ station, his belly flooding his lap, a cup of coffee and a half-eaten Danish on the counter. He was thumbing his smartphone, grinning at the screen. Angry Birds, Rossi guessed.
Bonnie Long stood at a counter at the front of the nurses’ station studying a patient’s chart. Rossi hadn’t paid much attention to her when he arrested Reed. This time was different. He took a moment to assess her, just as he had the premises.
Her long blond hair fell across her face. She pulled it back behind her ear, revealing a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, alabaster skin, and eyes that even from a distance he could tell were intense. Her posture was erect, poised but not stiff. There was nothing about her that suggested her life was in danger. She was focused on the job at hand, taking care of her patient, not cowering and falling apart like most people would have if it were their turn in the barrel. She struck him as someone who’d have the sense to get out of the line of fire.
“Dr. Long,” Rossi said as he walked toward her.
She turned toward him, her face morphing in an instant from brow-furrowed puzzlement to a nodding flash of recognition to a pressed-lip smile.
“Detective Rossi, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I think you know why I’m here.”
“I’ve already been warned about Dwayne Reed, if that’s what you mean.”
“A warning tells you what to be afraid of. It doesn’t tell you what to do about it.”
“I’m not afraid, Detective. The hospital is taking all necessary precautions.”
“Unless I miss my guess, you’re smart enough to be afraid, smart enough not to show it, and smart enough to know the hospital can’t protect you,” Rossi said, tilting his head at the security guard.
Bonnie glanced at the guard, then looked back at Rossi, shaking her head, her face grim, concessions that Rossi was right. She took a quick, deep breath.
“And you can?”
“If you do exactly as I tell you without complaining, asking questions, or telling me that you’ve got a better idea.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m listening.”
“I’m going to have a talk with Reed. He’s not long on self-control. With any luck, he’ll give me a reason to arrest him. Second time around, the judge will have to set bail high enough to keep him locked up. Until then, you stay put.”
“And what if Dwayne behaves and you can’t arrest him? Am I supposed to check in and get a room at the hospital?”
“You’re supposed to stay put until I come back for you. Don’t go to your car. Don’t go for a walk. Don’t step out the door unless we’re holding hands. I’ll follow you home and make sure your house is secure.”
“And leave me there? Or will you stand guard outside my door and take me to and from work for the rest of Dwayne’s life?”
She was right—annoying, but on the money. He couldn’t protect her forever or even overnight. They both knew that. All he wanted was to keep her alive until he had a better plan.
“Let’s take it one step at a time. Isn’t that what you tell your patients?”
“Sure, but I’m wearing a white coat. They have to listen to me.”
“I’ve got a badge. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“It would if Dwayne was still in jail. If you arrest him, how are you going to stop him from sending one of his buddies after me?”
Rossi raised his palm, trying to slow her down. “So now you’re a doctor and an expert on gangs?”
“Doctor, yes. Expert on gangs, no, but my girlfriend is. She’s told me all about Dwayne and you, for that matter.”
Rossi raised an eyebrow. “Your girlfriend? Who’s that?”
“Alex Stone. She’s Dwayne’s lawyer. We’ve been together for seven years. Are you going to protect her too?”
Rossi shook his head. Some cases needed a shove to go south, like a sloppy cop who bungles a search or an overeager reporter who gets the story wrong. But this case was barreling downhill all on its own.
“Alex Stone is your girlfriend?”
“You don’t approve? Alex did say you were a homophobic asshole, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Rossi had misjudged Bonnie. She wasn’t going to fall in line, at least not without busting his chops.
“I’ll give you the asshole part, but I don’t care about the rest.”
“They why give Alex such a hard time?”
“Because I don’t like shitbags like Reed or the lawyers that help them beat murder raps.”
“So gay bashing is how you get over that?”
Rossi felt the color rise in his face. She had him on his heels. “Like I said, I’ll give you the asshole part.”
“Does that mean you’ll protect me and not my lover?”
“No. It just means it’s going to be a lot harder. When’s the last time you talked to Alex?”
“She called a little bit ago.”
“What did she tell you?”
Bonnie sighed. “I didn’t give her a chance to tell me anything. The hospital’s director of security was briefing me about Dwayne when she called. I was pretty angry.”
“Did she tell you where she was or where she was going?”
Bonnie shook her head. “No.”
; “Does Reed know about your relationship?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because if he does know and he can’t get to you, he might settle for Alex.” Bonnie’s eyes went wide, her mouth slack. Rossi handed her his pocket notepad and a pen. “I need her cell number.”
She scribbled the number on the pad and handed it to Rossi, gripping his wrist. “You can’t let anything happen to her.”
“No, I can’t,” Rossi said.
Chapter Twenty-Five
ALEX PARKED IN ODYESSY SHELBURNE’S DRIVEWAY, studying the house as she silently rehearsed the encounter she expected to have with Dwayne. It was the way she prepared for trial, as if she was watching a video of her opening statement, closing argument, and each witness examination.
She crafted mental pictures of every detail, where each of the participants would be sitting or standing, what she and they would be wearing, the expressions on their faces, even the smell of the room. Questions, answers, arguments, rulings, and verdicts were the soundtrack. She would play it, play it, and play it again, and when it became her brain’s version of muscle memory, she would be in control, ready for anything that might happen.
All that took time, often weeks of preparation, as she built a defense to the state’s case relying on the rules that governed the courtroom. She’d prepared for Dwayne knowing there would be no rules on his turf, remembering Judge West’s dictum to break the rules. She was ready. She was willing. She was about to find out if she was able.
You don’t have to do this, she said to herself. You can break up with him over the phone, send him a registered letter, do anything but walk into his mother’s house and threaten him. But Dwayne wouldn’t listen and wouldn’t care. She could wait for the cops and the courts to do their job, but they had failed twice, once when Dwayne was acquitted and a second time when Judge Upton released him. And he had already been to the hospital looking for Bonnie. The time for talking and waiting and hoping was over.
She took a series of measured breaths, focusing on the soft expansion and contraction of her abdomen and the flow of air in and out of her nostrils, hoping the meditation exercise would calm her, muttering when it didn’t.
“What the fuck,” she said aloud and headed for the house.
Dwayne met her at the door, the butt of a gun tucked into his jeans and outlined against his T-shirt.
“My lawyer makin’ house calls and I ain’t even called you. Glad I ain’t the one payin’ you.”
He loomed over her. She was fit and strong but was no physical match for him if it came to that. Her performance images gave way to one in which he lifted her off the floor, his hand clamped around her throat, squeezing until her eyes bugged out and she wet her pants. She shook off the image, clearing her throat.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
He glanced up and down the street and stepped to the side. “Come on.”
The house was filthier than it had been when she was there on Saturday. There were more fast-food wrappers, empty jumbo soda cups, and half-crushed beer cans littering the floor. Parades of cockroaches and ants roamed through the trash. The air was stagnant with the scent of marijuana.
A cat lay on the sofa, head up, tail twitching, staring at her. Dwayne picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck and tossed it across the room, laughing as it screamed, hissed, and bolted toward the kitchen.
“Fuckin’ cat always gettin’ in my way,” he said as he flopped on the sofa and grinned at Alex. “But she’s a good pussy, and when I say there’s nuthin’ like a good pussy, I know you know what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”
Alex had seen Dwayne’s act dozens of time from dozens of clients. They all wanted her to know the same thing—they were bad motherfuckers. The act was all about violence, sex, and violent sex. Promise it. Threaten it. Make you fear it. Make you want it. Make you believe it.
It was easy to ignore the posturing when they were at the jail, where the presence of armed deputies blunted any attempts at intimidation. Not so easy now that she was inside Dwayne’s house. She ignored the voice in her head shouting, Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea!
“Lucky you, having a cat.”
“You right about that. Whyn’t you sit,” he said, motioning to a ramshackle recliner with torn upholstery and a patchwork of stains.
She preferred to stand both because she’d have to burn her clothes after sitting on the recliner and because she wanted to be able to move quickly. But standing felt too awkward and she didn’t want him to think she was afraid to be there. She compromised by sitting on the edge of the recliner, the sofa on her left, hands on her thighs, her suit jacket unbuttoned.
“Okay, then,” Dwayne said. “Why you here? And I know it ain’t ’cause you dyin’ to see my crib.”
Everything depended on how she came at him. Too soft and he’d pay no attention. Too hard and he might lose control.
“I’m trying to figure out just how stupid you are.”
He sat upright, eyeing her. “You tryin’ to piss me off?”
“If that’s what it takes to get through to you.”
“’Bout what? That bullshit ’bout me holding my mama’s dope? You get that shit knocked down to a misdemeanor. I know that.”
“Maybe, but that’s not your real problem.”
“Meanin’ what?”
“Let’s start with the gun in your pants. You have a permit for it?”
“You know I don’t, so why you bustin’ my ass?”
“Because if you get caught with that gun, the judge will revoke your bail.”
“Ain’t gonna get caught.”
“Of course you aren’t. Just like you didn’t get caught for killing Wilfred Donaire and just like you didn’t get caught on the fence in your backyard.”
Dwayne stood, hands on hips, nostrils flaring. “You come in my house jus’ to disrespect me?”
Alex stood but didn’t back away, hoping her body language would mask the fear that was twisting her gut. She pushed past her fear and stayed with him.
“No. I came here to warn you.”
“Warn me ’bout what?”
“Since you turned down the prosecutor’s plea bargain, they’re going to nail you for the Chapman and Henderson murders.”
“Shit. They got nuthin’ on me. That’s why I tell ‘em no deal.”
Alex pointed to his gun. “What about that? What kind of gun is it?”
“It’s a nine. Why you care?”
“Because if you used it to kill Kyrie Chapman or Jameer Henderson and the police get ahold of it, you are a dead man walking.”
Dwayne laughed. “It ain’t even my gun. Friend of mine stopped by jus’ ’fore you show up. Ax’d me would I hold on to it for him.”
“Lucky you.”
“Why you keep sayin’ that?”
“Because you are lucky. You killed Wilfred Donaire and got away with it.”
“You the one got me off. Luck didn’t have a damn thing to do wit’ it.”
Alex grimaced, hating the compliment, her gut twisting. “You were lucky we had those pictures of Kyrie Chapman putting the arm on Jameer Henderson. The jury bought my argument that Kyrie killed Wilfred and forced Jameer to testify against you to make certain you were convicted.”
“Like I say, you was the bomb in that courtroom.”
“Here’s what I don’t get. Why did you admit to me after the trial that you killed Wilfred?”
Dwayne didn’t answer, just stared at her.
“You know what I think?” she asked.
“What?” he said, breaking his silence, his voice hard and flat.
“I think Kyrie killed Wilfred and tried to frame you, and I think you told me you did it so I’d think you were a bad motherfucker.”
Dwayne spat on the floor. “Kyrie couldn’t kill his own self if he tried. I done Wilfred jus’ like they say I done it. I gutted him and I cut his dick off and I made him eat it ’fore he died. And there ain’t nuthin’ you or nobody can do a
bout it.”
“So why did Kyrie go to so much trouble to get you convicted? What was going on between the two of you?”
He gave her a smug half smile. “You have to ask Kyrie ’bout that.”
“Except Kyrie is dead. What? Did you think if you waited awhile before killing him and the Hendersons that no one would suspect you? Did you think you were that lucky?”
Dwayne glared at her. “I ain’t sayin’ I kilt them.”
“Convince me I’m wrong.”
He shook his head. “Why you bustin’ my balls ’bout that? You startin’ to sound like five-0.”
“Because you’ll only make things worse for yourself if you go after that ER doctor.”
“I don’t know nuthin’ about no fuckin’ ER doc.”
“Sure you do. Her name’s Bonnie Long. She sewed your leg up the other day. She told Detective Rossi that you threatened to rape her and that you said you’d be waiting for her when she got home.”
Dwayne’s mouth hardened. “That bitch stuck her hand in my leg like she was diggin’ for fuckin’ quarters! She lucky I didn’t do her right then, but she sure as shit gonna pay!”
Try as she might, Alex couldn’t keep her mouth from quivering or her eyes from watering. She took a quick breath to gather herself.
“And Rossi doesn’t give a shit. He couldn’t nail you for killing Wilfred Donaire, and so far he can’t stick you with the Chapman and Henderson murders, so he’s praying you’ll show up at her house just so he can put a bullet in you. You want to end up dead, go after her. You want to live long enough to get lucky on the Chapman and Henderson murders, stay away from Bonnie Long.”
Dwayne studied her for a moment. “I know you don’t like me. I know you afraid of me. Somethin’ happen to me, you ain’t gonna cry. So all this be careful what you do bullshit ain’t about me. Is it?”
“Sure it is,” she said, her quivers turning into tremors that rippled through her. “I’m your lawyer. I’m just doing my job.”
Her involuntary reactions had lit up Dwayne’s predatory instincts. He didn’t say anything, letting her squirm, keeping his poker face until a small, cruel smile split the corners of his mouth.