Pierce nodded and tried to think how to phrase his next question. He wanted to know if Redington thought that someone who was functioning in what seemed to be a normal fashion could be possessed by a myth. Then he was going to ask him directly about Elise. "Is it possible for a person who—"
"You worried that the crystal skull myth is getting the better of you?" Redington asked.
Pierce laughed. "Me? Why do you say that?"
"Look, Nick. I understand that the situation you're in isn't very comfortable. Playing both sides never is."
Pierce's spine stiffened. "I don't know if that's true."
Redington put on his glasses and rested his chin on the palm of his hand, studying him. Pierce found the scrutiny annoying and returned his steady gaze.
"You tend to cover up your emotions, because you fear what might happen if you let loose. It's a good personality trait for a detective, but it puts you under a lot of stress."
Pierce's irritation rose another notch. Why was it that shrinks always seemed to feel obligated or entitled to dispense unsolicited psychiatric observations? Was your childhood happy, Nick? What kind of relationship did you have with your mother? Your father? Yeah, he could hear it now.
"Mind if I offer you a personal perspective on your situation?" Redington didn't wait for Pierce to answer. "Raymond Andrews is your problem."
When he didn't respond, Redington continued. "You've met Elise. Do you actually think she would set up Paul Loften's murder? Or anyone's murder? Think about it."
"I have been thinking about it." He was about to ask Redington about his professional relationship with Elise when the shrink spoke up again.
"Only from the point of view of one who's working for Andrews. The last thing you want to believe is that he's the master murderer, and that's your problem. And it's clearly affecting your perception of the case."
"Why are you protecting Elise? What's at stake for you, Bill? Why are you sticking your nose into this matter?"
"The only way I stuck my nose in was by giving the detective the tape of the conversation."
Pierce glanced over Redington's desk. "What made you decide to tape it?"
Redington lifted a newspaper from the corner of his desk. Under it was what looked like a typical answering machine. He wiped a mote of dust off the top. "I can record all my conversations with this model, and I do. I got in the habit when I was department chairman. It was a safety measure. I keep the tapes a month or so, then erase what I don't want to keep."
"Is Elise your patient?"
"No, she is not," Redington said in a huff. "But yes, I am protecting her. I've seen what Raymond Andrews can do to people. Unfortunately, I've inadvertently helped him ruin the career of a very good friend, and I won't allow him to do it again; I hope you don't, either."
The evening news was droning on the TV in the next room as Pierce prepared pasta and clam sauce, and a salad for dinner. Since leaving Redington's office he'd been trying to come up with other reasons Elise Simms might have for withdrawing twenty-five grand from the bank. A new car, an extended trip overseas, the down payment on a piece of real estate . . . None of it felt right. He still hoped that the theft of the skull and Loften's death was the work of the cop and his front man, Scarjaw. But how could he prove it, and who was it—Carver, Bellinger, neither, both?
He drained the pasta shells, and was running cold water over them when the phone rang. He quickly lowered the temperature on his sauce, then answered it. It was Janet, his credit source, with information on Elise's financial status.
She told him that Elise had $2,800 in a money market account, but it hadn't been removed. There had been no withdrawals in more than a year.
"You're sure?"
"Positive. But she did withdraw $25,000 from a C.D. account."
"When?"
"Let's see. Ten days ago. She's got a great credit rating.
Pays her bills on time, doesn't charge much on her credit cards."
"Thanks Janet. You've told me plenty."
"That's all you want?"
"That's it."
"Do I still get the Carlyle?"
"What size you want?"
"Eight by ten. The one with the old Ford parked in front."
"No problem. You'll have it in a couple of weeks."
Pierce rang off and made a note to himself on the pad next to the phone. He'd met Janet several years ago when he was exhibiting some of his South Beach Art Deco photos at a local gallery. He was just getting started as an investigator, and she became one of his first sources. His ongoing arrangement was to trade one of his photos for each credit check she handled for him.
He stirred the sauce, but he'd lost his appetite. He didn't find any joy in verifying that Elise had lied again. His problem was not Andrews, as Redington insisted; it was Elise. He didn't want to find out that she was the schemer behind the theft and the murder. He walked out into the living room and stared at the television. A story about sightings of a fifty-foot-long octopus on Biscayne ended in a humorous vein with the announcer saying that the creature was made of plastic and was a PR gimmick.
"That's news?" Pierce muttered. He was about to turn off the set when the announcer turned serious.
"A late-breaking story just in. A former Miami police officer, who was wounded twice in the line of duty, was shot to death this afternoon. Here's our Eyewitness News report."
The picture switched to a reporter talking into a microphone several feet in front of a car where a body lay, draped with a sheet, against the steering wheel. "The victim has been identified as Felix 'Fuego' Ferraro, a former Miami police officer who—"
"Oh, Christ, no," Pierce whispered.
"Several people in the Little Havana neighborhood say they heard shots fired about two o'clock this afternoon," the reporter continued, "but the body was not discovered until less than an hour ago when a teenage boy spotted Ferraro slumped in the seat of his car. Detectives say the assailant may have been seated in the passenger seat of Ferraro's car when he was gunned down at close range."
"Aw, Christ, Fuego."
The newscaster was back on the screen again, sharing "happy talk" with his co-anchor. But Pierce didn't hear a word of it. He reached up and snapped off the television. He closed his eyes, blocking out the reality of what he'd heard. He covered his face with a hand. Not Fuego.
He wasn't sure how long he stood there without moving, without thinking, trying to blank everything out. But gradually a thought curled through his head: he had to call Tina. She was Fuego's cousin, and she must know by now. And he wanted to say something to her, to make sense of it, for Christ's sake.
He punched her number and listened to the ringing. On the fourth ring, he heard a voice. "Tina? Is Tina there?" It was Consuelo, Tina's younger sister. She recognized his voice, greeted him, and he could tell from her voice that she knew. But he asked anyhow. "Have you heard about Fuego?"
"Yes, we have. Let me get Tina."
Nearly a full minute passed before he heard a voice. It was Consuelo again. "Listen, Nick. She doesn't want to talk to you now. But thanks for calling."
"Okay. I understand. I'm really sorry about this."
He hung up and smelled his clam sauce burning. He turned off the burner, scraped it from the bottom of the pan, and threw it out.
Why? Who would do it? Did it have anything to do with Loften's murder and the skull? He had to know. He'd taken Fuego off the case, and Scarjaw was dead. But then he remembered that Elise had mentioned Fuego, speculating that he was the one who had given him the information on her withdrawal.
But would she have killed him over that? He doubted it. Unless Fuego knew something else, something that would expose her. What had Fuego told him? He was looking for a woman who had been Loften's girlfriend. But she was Latin. Or was she? Her name was Marisol, but he'd never said she was Latin. Could Elise, who had been Monica, have used still another name? But why? And again a plausible answer came to mind. Maybe she'd befriended and killed G
inger to get back at Andrews, and Fuego had figured it out.
He had to see her. He wanted to watch how she'd respond when he told her that Fuego was dead. If she was guilty, he would know it. He was sure she couldn't hide it from him.
He called her number, but got her machine.
He'd known about Fuego's death for less than an hour when Carver and Bellinger showed up. This time both of them seemed to be in surly moods. "Mind if we come in?" Carver asked.
Pierce stepped aside, watched the two detectives move into the room. Carver looked like his usual disheveled self; Bellinger showed a surprising capacity to look somber.
"Trouble seems to dog you, Mr. Pierce," Carver said.
"The man who tailed you the other night saw you talking with Fuego Ferraro at the jai alai fronton."
"I know he's dead. I just saw it on the news." Pierce lowered himself into a chair, but neither of the detectives sat down.
Carver picked at his thumbnail. Rings circled his deep-set eyes. "He is a friend of yours?"
"My ex-wife's cousin. He worked occasionally with me on cases."
"Recently?"
Pierce told them about Fuego's involvement in the skull case. "But I told him to drop it a couple of days ago."
"Why?" Bellinger asked.
"Seemed like a dead end."
Bellinger nodded, but he wasn't through. "Where were you between one and two this afternoon?"
"At Bill Redington's office."
Carver also had a question. "Where's that .38 of yours, Mr. Pierce?"
Pierce looked up at him as he realized he was a suspect in his friend's death. "My car. You don't think I—"
"Ferraro was shot with a .38. We'll want to check your weapon in the ballistics lab."
They walked out to the car and found the gun right where he'd left it.
"Just a routine check," Bellinger told him.
Carver picked up the gun with his handkerchief and looked it over. "You been practicing with your new gun?"
"I haven't shot it yet."
"I'm no ballistics expert, but I'd say this gun's been fired."
"Can't be."
"Do me a favor," Carver said. "Stay home tonight. I don't want you getting into any more trouble."
Chapter 22
The giant crystal skull looked like a transparent Halloween pumpkin. Pierce was trapped inside it; he could see through its eyes, through its hard, clear cheeks. It was devouring him. He clawed at its mouth, struggling to force its jaws open. An invisible fist pounded against its crown and reverberated in his own skull. He slapped his hands over his ears, but the terrible pounding went on and on, driving him out of the dream.
He sat up, looked around, wiped his damp brow. It was morning. The pounding again. It was the door. He glanced at the bedside clock, saw it was seven-thirty.
"Who the hell is it?" he muttered as he quickly pulled on a pair of pants. "I'm coming. Hang on," he yelled as the pounding resumed.
It was Carver again. "Where were you at one-thirty yesterday afternoon?"
"Christ, Carver," Pierce said, running a hand through his mussed hair. "I already told you. I was at Redington's office."
Pierce stepped back from the door. "Come on inside. You'll wake up the whole building talking out there."
"Did anyone else see you?"
"I came up the back stairs and left the same way. Classes were over; there wasn't anyone—No, wait. There was a guy with a briefcase that I bumped into on the stairs. He had a mustache and was in his late twenties, I'd say."
"We'll see if we can find him."
"Just ask Redington."
"He's not around. Neighbor saw him come home yesterday at three and leave a few minutes later with his wife. They were carrying suitcases."
Pierce rubbed the sleep from his face, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Why was Carver trying to pin Fuego's murder on him? "What's the problem?"
"Lab says the bullet that killed Ferraro was fired from your gun."
"What? That gun never left my car."
"Tell it to the jury. You're under arrest for the murder of Fuego Ferraro."
"That's bullshit," he protested. "He was my friend. I didn't kill him."
"You'll have to do better than that," Carver admonished. "Most murder victims are killed by family or friends."
"Jesus Christ, Carver. You've got to talk to Redington," he pleaded. "I was with him."
"Bellinger is working on that now."
Bellinger, he thought. Great.
Carver didn't waste any more time. He read him his rights from a card he carried next to his badge and told Pierce to put on a shirt and shoes. He followed him into the bedroom.
"Don't you think it's a little premature to throw me in jail?" he asked, pulling on his shoes. "I mean, there're other options."
"You're it, Mr. Pierce. I don't know what your motive was, but your prints are all over the gun."
There were a thousand reasons he shouldn't be arrested. The main one was that he didn't do it. But since when did that stop an arrest if the evidence said otherwise? Besides, Carver wasn't listening. "Can I make a call?"
"You can do that downtown."
As Carver snapped cuffs on his wrists and led him out of the apartment, Pierce felt light-headed, and about as nauseated as if a ten-pound rock rested in the pit of his stomach. During the drive across town, bits of the dream he'd been having before Carver woke him returned. Hadn't he dreamed about the crystal skull before? All he knew for sure was that he'd been yanked from one nightmare into another.
When they arrived at the courthouse, they parked near the police entrance of the county jail. Pierce was familiar with the courthouse, but he'd never entered this door or walked down this corridor. He was going to jail. But he'd get out; he'd call Gibby, who would get him a lawyer. Carver stopped in front of an elevator and pressed the button.
"How many floors?"
"What?"
"How many floors are we going up?"
"To the top. The penthouse."
A paroxysm of fear clutched his spine. Oddly, the idea of taking an elevator suddenly overshadowed his anxiety about being arrested and jailed. Hell, he'd climb the stairs in leg irons if he could avoid the elevator. "I want to take the stairs."
"I don't. And you won't."
"Carver, I'm serious. I can't do it." The door opened, and Carver pushed him forward. "Get your ass in there."
Pierce stumbled into the cramped box and sucked in his breath. The door shut and dread tightened around him. He knew instantly he wasn't going to make it. His shoulders trembled, his legs wobbled, the elevator walls pulsed inward. He squeezed his eyes tight; darkness closed around him like a vise. As the elevator rose, an invisible hand cranked the vise harder, pressing down upon him.
He gasped for air, sputtered, coughed. He was suffocating in a black hole, being crushed like an insect. Time was stuck; seconds felt like hours. A shriek poised at the tip of his tongue. He gripped his throat. Lost his balance. Hands grabbed him, pulling him upright.
The motion stopped. Light and air exploded around him. He gulped for air, filling his lungs with the scent of floor wax. "You motherfucking asshole. You're not going to fall apart on me," Carver said, dragging him from the elevator.
He never thought going to jail would be a relief. But after the elevator ride, it was. Carver turned him over to a guard, and he became official fodder for the legal system, processed like a product passing along an assembly line. No one told him what was going on, and when he asked if he could make a phone call, he was ignored. He was led into a booth and a light flashed in his face. His fingertips were pressed into an ink pad, then printed on paper. He emptied his pockets, and his belongings were inventoried.
Carver and a man in a dark suit stepped out of an office; they studied him like an insect. Carver had probably told him he was prone to seizures, that he was a danger to himself and other inmates, that he might need a psychiatric evaluation.
Carver left with no
parting word to the new prisoner, and after the processing was finally finished, Pierce was led along a row of cells. Eyes watched him from behind the bars. The guard unlocked the door of a roomy cell. Inside on the right were several smaller cells. He directed Pierce into one of them. "When can I make a phone call?"
"Later." He slid the gate shut.
His cell, about the size of an elevator, was furnished with a wooden bench and a toilet. He'd sat there less than a minute when he heard the gate of one of the other small cells sliding open and realized he wasn't alone. He looked over and saw a black kid in his early twenties watching him. He was shirtless and wore jeans; one of his wrists was bandaged.
"You don't have to hang your ass in there, you know. Just open your gate."
He saw that the kid was right. The cell wasn't locked. He slid open the door and stepped out into the larger cell. "Thanks."
"You bust out?"
Pierce frowned, uncertain what he meant. "What?"
"You bust out of another jail?"
"No. Why do you say that?"
"Because this is where they put guys they want to keep an eye on. Guys they think might bust out."
Pierce glanced up and saw a video camera panning the cell. He hadn't thought about escaping, and had no idea how he would do it. Even if he somehow got out of the cell, he would still need to get out of the cell block, and the locked gate was right next to the guard station.
"You're on TV day and night, and they never cut the lights. Never."
"How long've you been here?"
"Since last night. I took a walk from Z-Hills."
"From what?"
"Zephyrhills, man. Minimum security playpen. It's been my crib for six months. Had enough."
Pierce nodded. "Think they'll send you back?"
"Not if they wanna keep me around!" He laughed. "I'm going to court this morning, and then I get a new crib at the county detention center until my trial. Least that's what happened last time. They got real beds there, and food that you can eat, you know. Not the crap they shove at you here. You'll like it there."
"Yeah." Like hell, Pierce thought. "I'm Nick. What's your name?"
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