“But the informant lived, and your father got caught.”
In the last few days Grant had not thought once about his father, holed away in prison for the rest of his life. How would Enzo react to all that had happened? How would his father treat him when they reunited at Gurnee?
“The good guys won that time,” Marilyn continued. “I suppose we should thank Carlo here for that one.”
Grant glanced furtively at the pallid body surrounded by busy techs. He would never feel thankful toward Carlo.
Bruce stood with his arms crossed in front of him, supervising both the collection of evidence and the interrogation.
“So.” Marilyn resumed her questioning. “What happened when you refused to join Sophie and Kirsten on the sofa?”
“Carlo was counting down before he put a bullet in my head, and that’s when Sophie …” Grant’s voice faded. He had not allowed himself to consider Carlo’s confession since it occurred—it was too overwhelming to acknowledge that his own cousin had killed his brother. It was unfathomable.
“What did Sophie do?”
“Sophie …” He trailed off again, feeling hot tears in his eyes. He didn’t want the detective to see him crying again. “Sophie—I don’t know how she figured it out, but she knew.” His voice thick with tears, he leaned forward. “And once she said it, I knew too.”
“You knew what?”
As much as his restrained arms would allow, Grant’s head sunk lower and lower. His tears were flowing freely now, just as they had that afternoon at Logan’s funeral. “Carlo killed Logan,” he said. “He killed my brother.”
Marilyn sat completely still, running through various scenarios in her mind.
Grant rocked as he sobbed, refusing to look up, and Marilyn eyed him sympathetically.
“Carlo murdered Lo,” he bawled. “I know y-y-you don’t believe me, but he was the k-k-killer. He did it.” He sniffed and took a shuddering breath. “And he said … he said that Lo died t-t-trying to protect me. Lo wouldn’t give me up.”
Marilyn took a deep breath, watching the parolee writhe in pain before her. She stood up and conferred with Bruce for a moment before approaching the two police officers.
“Madsen’s in the mob?” Dirkson quietly asked.
She looked at him with disdain. She was glad this idiot worked for the Chicago PD, not for Great Lakes.
“How long has Mr. Madsen been handcuffed, gentlemen?”
Dirkson glanced at his watch and shrugged. “Hour and a half?”
“Remove the cuffs.”
“You’re not letting him go, are you?” Dirkson hissed.
“I didn’t say I was letting him go. But I want to question him without having him wince in pain every five seconds.” She quickly grabbed Dirkson’s beefy arms and drew them behind his back, clasping his wrists together with her small hands.
“Can you imagine holding this position for five minutes, Officer?” she spat, leaning in toward his ear. “What about ninety minutes?” She shoved his arms forward. “Uncuff him now.”
Feeling the glares of both detectives, Dirkson reluctantly walked over to the sofa. “On your feet, Madsen.”
Embarrassed to feel his nose running despite copious sniffing, Grant kept his head down as he rose.
The officer released his wrists, and Grant exhaled gratefully. Through shooting prickles of pain, he covered his face with his tingling hands and tried to wipe away the evidence of his crying.
“Sit,” Dirkson barked, then left Grant alone in his misery.
“Thank you, Officer.” Marilyn nodded, then returned to the futon, scooping up a box of tissues along the way and placing them next to Grant.
“So, after Sophie accused Carlo of killing Logan, then what happened?”
Still looking down, Grant smiled sadly. “I hated him so much for what he did to Lo, and I stupidly moved toward him. I—”
“Mr. Madsen, I want you to look at me as you answer my questions.”
He snapped his head up, showing her his startled glassy eyes, and he nodded, “Yes, ma’am.” With difficulty, he kept his eyes trained on her. “I—I moved toward Carlo, and that’s when he …” She watched his hands twist nervously in his lap. “He shot Sophie. It was all my fault—I provoked him.”
“Go on.”
“Then he, uh, he had the gun to my head, and he forced me to my knees. And Kirsten begged him to let us call an ambulance, but he wouldn’t listen. He just let Sophie keep bleeding.” Grant’s jaw clenched and his hands tightened into fists.
“And then Sophie’s cell phone started ringing. It annoyed the hell out of Carlo, and Kirsten kept saying she would go turn off the phone, but Carlo told her not to move. At one point, Kirsten and I looked at each other, and we just knew we had to do something or Sophie would die—we would all die. So, when Kirsten went for the phone, I went for Carlo. We—we wrestled for the gun, and we were on the floor, rolling around, when I forced the gun between us, between our chests, and I, um …” His eyes remained glued on her but he seemed far away, in the recesses of his mind. “I pulled the trigger.” He swallowed hard. “I killed him.”
Marilyn stared at Grant for several moments, watching the kaleidoscope of guilt, fear, remorse, and relief spin and swirl in his eyes. Jerry Stone had relayed Sophie’s message to Marilyn, and it certainly did sound like a self-defense situation. But the fact that Grant was on parole for aggravated robbery and was a recent suspect for murder meant she could not let him go. She also hadn’t interviewed Sophie or Kirsten yet, to corroborate Grant’s story. If Sophie was still alive.
“Do you have anything else to tell me about what happened tonight?” she asked Grant, her face perfectly neutral.
Grant thought for a moment. “No, ma’am.”
“Stay put, Mr. Madsen.”
He nodded and continued kneading the tingling out of his hands. He knew he’d be back in the cuffs soon enough.
Grant watched Marilyn join Bruce, who was listening to the officers recreate the scene as they found it. They pointed to the spot where they’d found the gun on the floor.
The sound of a body bag being zipped up diverted Grant’s attention to the techs, and he stared at the crimson stain left on the carpet once they hauled the body away. He wondered if Kirsten would ever be able to remove that evidence of the trauma that had occurred in her apartment tonight. Even if she could, she was probably emotionally scarred for life, and it was totally his fault.
Suddenly Detective Fox stood before him, flanked by Detective Hammond and both police officers. “Mr. Madsen, I’m afraid we have to arrest you now.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He’d expected this outcome.
“Please stand up and place your hands on this wall.”
“We already frisked him, Detective,” Dirkson said.
“Just being thorough, Officer,” she said. Detective Hammond frisked Grant quickly.
Grant’s stomach dropped with the sick realization that he was returning to prison.
“Let’s go,” Hammond commanded, taking hold of his arm as Detective Fox’s cell phone rang. “Can you hold for a second?” she asked. She spoke into the phone. “Hi, Jerry.”
Grant felt dead tired. But he perked up instantly when he heard Marilyn ask, “How is Ms. Taylor?”
* * *
In the hospital waiting area, Jerry glanced at Kirsten Holland before resuming his phone conversation with Detective Fox.
“Taylor just got out of surgery to repair the Basilic vein,” Jerry told her, glancing across the small waiting area at Kirsten Holland. “They removed the bullet and gave her a blood transfusion. She’s reportedly stable.”
He exchanged a few more words with the detective before Kirsten heard him say, “Yeah, I’m here with the roommate.” He listened for a moment, and then nodded. “Will do. Keep in touch, Detective.”
After hanging up, Jerry turned his attention to Kirsten. “Detective Fox wants to question you after she books Madsen. You’re not to leave
the hospital before she arrives to talk to you.”
Kirsten’s eyes widened and she nodded. The whole situation was so unreal, like being stuck in the middle of some crime movie. But Sophie’s blood had been real, as well as the horrified shouts from Sophie’s father when Kirsten called him to say his daughter had been shot. She was not looking forward to Mr. Taylor’s arrival to the hospital.
“So, Grant was arrested?” Kirsten asked.
“Yep.”
“But he’ll get off, right? I mean, it was total self-defense!”
Jerry sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t have the facts, Ms. Holland.”
“It’s Kirsten, Jerry,” she said warmly.
“And it’s Officer Stone to you,” he corrected gruffly. He watched her blush at his admonishment. “I only let Taylor call me by my first name.”
After a few moments of tense silence, Jerry asked, “How’s the dissertation coming along?”
“Pretty good?” Kirsten said, puzzled. “Did Sophie tell you about that?”
“Yes, she did.”
“She talks about me in her meetings with you?”
“Well, I have to find out who my parolees are living with, if they have roommates—it’s protocol.” He smiled. “She laughed pretty hard when I asked her if you had a criminal record.”
Kirsten blushed again. “I can imagine. Nobody is more law-abiding than me, except for …” She looked embarrassed.
Curious, Jerry prompted, “Except for?”
Kirsten ran her hand through her long, brown hair. “I was going to say, ‘except for Sophie.’ She’s as goody two-shoes as they come—before she got arrested, of course.” Her determined eyes bored into Jerry. “Officer Stone, you’ve got to believe me. Sophie is a really good person. She just got lost there for a while, led astray by Logan. She was only trying to help him.”
Jerry rubbed his jaw. “And is she being led astray again, this time by Madsen?”
Hesitating, Kirsten eventually said, “I don’t know Grant very well, I have to admit. But I do know Sophie. And she’s been so happy with Grant. Here she was just getting out of prison—she should have been totally devastated, depressed, aimless—and instead, she couldn’t wait to get out of bed to go to work every morning, to a job he got for her. And when she found out he was Logan’s brother, she was devastated, but she loved him so much she was willing to give him another chance.”
Kirsten looked down and picked at her fingernail. “I know Grant comes from an awful family, and I don’t want to see Sophie get hurt again. But he seems like such a sweet guy. He’s not like them. I kind of wish I had a boyfriend like him, to tell you the truth.”
Jerry gave a wistful sigh. He kind of wished he had a friend who would stand up for him like Kirsten. “I’m gonna get some coffee,” he announced, rising to his feet. “Do you want any?”
“No, thanks. Um, Officer Stone, do you make a visit every time one of your parolees goes to the hospital?”
He paused. “Not usually.”
“So, why are you here for Sophie, then?”
Now it was Jerry’s turn to blush. “Maybe I agree with you,” he said. “Maybe I think Taylor is a good person too.” His face flushed deeper and he set his mouth in a frown. “But don’t tell her that I said that.”
Like a shot he was gone, leaving Kirsten looking after him with a grin.
* * *
A half-hour later, Sophie’s father had still not arrived, but her parole officer and roommate were led to the hospital room where Sophie was waking up from the anesthetic.
Kirsten rushed to her bedside, dismayed to see Sophie’s left arm heavily bandaged and immobile at her side. “Kirsten,” she mumbled groggily, smiling.
Leaning in to pull the sheet up higher over Sophie’s skimpy gown, Kirsten whispered, “Your PO is here.”
Despite her fatigue, Sophie’s eyes widened, and she allowed her roommate to draw the sheet up to protect her modesty. When Kirsten stepped back, Sophie could see Jerry in the doorway. “Please come in, Jerry,” she called weakly.
He tentatively entered the room, taking in the machines surrounding her, making her appear small and defenseless on the big bed. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay, Taylor,” he said awkwardly.
“I’m fine,” she said. “More importantly, how is Grant?”
“He wasn’t the one who got shot,” Jerry growled.
“But he’s the one who had to shoot,” Sophie countered. “And I know it must be killing him. What’s happening with Grant?”
“Detective Fox is taking him in for booking.”
“Oh!” Sophie drew her right hand to her mouth, and the movement jarred her body, making her wince. She gritted her teeth and begged, “Please, Jerry, you have to go there. You have to convince them it was self-defense.”
“I don’t have to convince them of anything, Taylor. If he’s innocent, he’ll be released.”
“But that’s not how it works!” Sophie insisted. “Once they find out he’s Enzo Barberi’s son, they’ll crucify him. He won’t be given a fair chance. You have to fight for him. You know the way they think. Please.”
“Sophie!” Will Taylor cried, rushing into the room. “Oh, God! Are you okay?” He dashed to her side, his wild eyes sweeping over her.
“I’m okay, Dad,” she replied calmly. “You remember Officer Jerry Stone and Kirsten Holland, right?”
Will barely acknowledged them before returning his attention to his daughter. “What happened? Kirsten said you got shot? Oh, no—your arm is all bandaged!”
“I’ll tell you everything, Dad. Just a second.” She returned her eyes to her parole officer. “Thank you so much for being here, Jerry. But please go to the station. See? My dad is here now. Grant needs you much more than I do. Please?”
Will’s face reddened and he shouted, “Is Grant involved in this?”
Ignoring the angry man to his left, Jerry met her imploring gaze and nodded. “Get well soon, Taylor. I’ll give you a break on Wednesday, but I expect to see you in my office Thursday morning. You have a couple of days to get better.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a half-smile as he left. I hope Grant makes his next parole appointment too.
“Sophie? Answer me, young lady. Did Grant Madsen have anything to do with you getting shot?”
Sophie exchanged a nervous glance with Kirsten. “Well, yes,” she said.
“I knew it, Soph—”
“But not in the way you think,” she butted in. “Grant saved my life.”
Will’s eyes narrowed. “How? Start talking now, young lady.”
“Will you stop this ‘young lady’ stuff? I’m freaking twenty-nine years old, Dad!”
“Is it okay if I explain, Mr. Taylor?” Kirsten jumped in. “Sophie’s pretty wiped out from surgery.”
He folded his arms across his chest and looked warily at Kirsten. “Okay. Just somebody tell me what happened tonight after my daughter decided to leave my house. Which was obviously not such a bright move,” he added snidely.
Sophie rolled her eyes as Kirsten launched into a blow-by-blow description of the evening’s events.
“And then Grant used his belt to make a tourniquet, which the paramedics said was really smart,” she concluded.
Will frowned. “So, Grant’s in jail right now?”
“Yes,” Sophie confirmed.
“That’s where he belongs.”
“It is not, Dad!”
“The way I see it, you would never have been in danger if not for your association with Grant Madsen. You need to stay away from him, Sophie. Or you’ll get yourself killed.”
Even through her anesthesia haze, she knew something wasn’t right with her father’s conclusion. She tried to concentrate despite the throbbing in her arm. She felt a vicious headache coming on. Finally she argued, “No, Dad. The reason Carlo came after me had nothing to do with Grant. He wanted the money the police confiscated—the money Logan left in my office. And he was going to make me go to you t
o get it. So, if Grant hadn’t shown up, we’d both be in a lot of trouble.”
Will absorbed this information. “I still don’t like him, Sophie. I don’t trust him! Out of all the men in this city, can’t you find yourself one boyfriend who is not in the Mafia?”
She smiled. “Sorry, Dad. You might not like Grant, but I do. I really do. And if you give him a chance, you’ll like him too.”
“Fat chance in hell,” he scoffed.
“Grant’s already won over Kirsten, right, Kir?”
Kirsten returned Sophie’s grin. “I do like McSailor. He’s yummy.”
Already loopy, Sophie found herself giggling, and her laughter only increased when her father asked, “What the hell’s a McSailor?”
37. Back Inside
Detective Marilyn Fox was concerned. She kept her eyes glued on the closed-circuit-camera monitor, which provided her a sharp view of the jail cell. She could see the emptiness of its inhabitant’s eyes as he stared into space, seeming far away. The prisoner sat on the thin, striped mattress, his long legs pulled up to his chest with his elbows resting on his knees.
Marilyn sighed heavily and looked back at her paperwork.
Inside the cell, Grant was beholden to a series of flashes in his mind, punctuated by sharp intakes of air when his body reminded him he was unconsciously holding his breath.
A dark space—utter quiet—a rough wool coat scratching against his cheek—blackness—his own whimpering. “I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll be good.” …
“It was you,” said Carlo’s raspy voice. “Logan died trying to protect you.” …
Eyes the color of midnight searing into him, emanating anger—blinding sunlight in the prison yard—aching shoulders—numb, prickly hands …
A proud youthful voice, “Prison makes you a badass.” …
Deep cerulean eyes. “Don’t say it, Grant.” …
Joe’s devastated face, staring at him across the visitation glass …
A thunderous explosion—her body slumping on the sofa …
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 41