Stranger in the Room: A Novel (32 page)

His breathing rushed through the disguiser like a static-filled storm. “You’re just like her! You arrogant, lying cunt. I’m saving you a seat at the table.”

I dislike that word. It really sets me off. I resisted the bait. “We can get you help. I give you my word. Let us help you. Let me help.”

He laughed, and the device made him sound like the monster he was. “You’ll help? You’re a drunk. You think everybody loves you now just because your cop boyfriend gave you some big case last year? You
think that made people see you as respectable? You’re not moving out of the gutter. You’re not going
anywhere
. You’re
nothing
.”

I let it all sink in for a moment. He’d watched us walk into Miki’s house that night we’d found Donald Kelly hanging. He’d probably watched the cops arrive and the chaos that followed from whatever creepy perch he used in the neighborhood. He would have seen me draw my Glock, push my mother and Miki out of the house. He would have wondered who I was. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out everything. There were so many stories put out there during and after the Wishbone investigation. They’d started out as harsh, biting exposés about my alcoholism and dismissal from the FBI. But after I had identified the killer and nearly paid with my life and Rauser’s, a writer for
Rolling Stone
had come to my loft and interviewed Rauser and me. My story was written for all to see, from my grandparents’ murder to the stint in the FBI, the fall from grace, getting sober, tracking the Wishbone Killer when Rauser and APD took a chance on me. It was all there. The press began to use words like
recovery
and
strength
and
the power of love
when they talked about me. My business had boomed. All of it was more than enough to infuriate a guy who seemed to hate watching people rebound. “Tell me why you killed them.”

“You’re so fucking smart, Miss Ex-FBI. You tell me.”

“I can tell you that I know how it feels to be in love with something that hurts you,” I said, and meant it. I thought about that drink I wanted and talked myself out of every day. I thought about my ex-husband, Dan, in all his impossibly sexy, toxic glory. I thought, too, about how many times I’d been warned never to let the bad guy see your soft spots. But I needed him to keep talking. “What happened with Miki? How did she hurt you?”

No answer. Just creepy, mechanized breathing.

“I want you to know something,” I told him. “Miki’s not malicious. She’s just a little clueless. She wouldn’t have tried to hurt you. She’s not like Fatu.”

“No, she’s not.” His voice boomed like a lion’s roar through the device. “She’s a different kind of whore. You’re late for the party, Dr. Street. And you’re a whore too.”

The car window exploded. The sound came a millisecond later.
Pop, pop, pop, pop
. I dove down in the front seat as gunfire danced across my dashboard.

I scrambled to the passenger’s door, opened it, fell out, crouched behind it. Where was he? He had to be up on the street somewhere, looking down, a clear advantage. Was he on the street? Or in one of the buildings? North Highland Avenue was wall-to-wall restaurants and pedestrians. I couldn’t even attempt to return fire.

I edged toward the front of my car. The five-foot cement wall that had once served the loading docks was at my back.

Pop, pop, pop
. Bullets chewed up warm asphalt, pinged around my car.

I needed better cover. He could move. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be pinned here. I glanced right. The metal steps were fifteen feet away. They might as well be a mile away. I’d never make it.

Pop
.

My office door swung open. I jerked my head around.
“Neil. No!”

Two more pops. I saw Neil spin, saw his body hit the ground. Seventeen rounds in that S&W 9mm, I was thinking. How many had the shooter used?
Shit
.

Neil was half inside, half outside the building. His head and shoulders were exposed. I had to get to him.

I kicked my shoes off, put a bare foot on the front fender, and used it to hike myself up on the concrete ledge, then took off, zigzagging over the concrete landing, a strange, terrifying ballet to the staccato burst of a semiautomatic.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop
.

I launched myself at the half-open doorway like I was trying to beat an outfielder’s arm to home base, grabbed Neil’s arms and pulled him inside, slammed and locked the door. My heart was pumping so fast I sounded like I was the one in the Darth Vader mask. Eight months since Rauser had been hit, since a bullet exploded into him while he was in my arms. Thirty years since my grandparents were killed.
Give me the money, old man
. Time was the great narcotic, I’d been told. But it had never numbed the memories.

I dialed 911, misdialing twice. My hands were shaking. There was blood at my front door. Neil’s blood. And drag marks where I’d pulled him inside. I dropped to my knees and checked his head and neck,
calling his name. I found the wound on his upper thigh. He was bleeding like crazy. I grabbed his belt, tore it off, and strapped it above the wound.

A recorded message came into my ear, telling me to hold or call the emergency center back.
You have got to be kidding
. Atlanta’s lackadaisical response to 911 calls had been criticized so publicly that the call center’s director and several operators had been fired recently. I cursed.

“Neil.” I touched his face. “You’re going to be okay.” His eyelids lifted weakly, revealing pale, watery eyes. I hit redial. “You’re okay. Can you hear me?”

A steady male voice answered my call. “Nine-one-one, what is the nature and location of your emergency?”

I gave him the street address. “There’s been a shooting. One victim with a gunshot wound. I think the shooter was in the three-hundred block of North Highland. He shot at me in my car. We’re inside a building now.”

Blood was seeping into Neil’s pants. He was as white as an onion.

“Are you carrying a weapon?” the operator wanted to know.

“Yes. Ten-millimeter Glock model twenty, registered.”

“Have you discharged your weapon today?”

“If you mean did I discharge my weapon into my friend who’s lying here fucking bleeding, no. You dispatched the ambulance, right?”

“Help is on the way, ma’am. What type of vehicle are you driving?”

“Sixty-nine Impala, white.” I gave him my plate number.

“Do you know the person with the gun?”

“He’s a suspect in a homicide case. He just called me at this number. I had him on the phone for a couple of minutes. I’m working with Lieutenant Aaron Rauser at APD Homicide.”

“Can you see the shooter from your position?”

“No. We’re locked inside now.”

“Please stay on the line with me until the officers arrive.”

“Sorry, pal.” I disconnected. I had better things to do. I’d given him what he needed. I knew cruisers were on the way. And the ambulance. I wanted to call Rauser. I wanted them to locate the number that had dialed my phone and location-track it. I wanted them to find the freak who’d done this and put him away.

Neil’s eyes fluttered. “You’re okay,” I promised him. I hoped it was true.

“What?”

“You were shot. And you hit your head pretty hard.”

He tried to move his wounded leg. “It burns.”

“I know. Stay still. Help’s on the way. I told them to hurry. I left a very expensive pair of shoes in the parking lot.”

He gave me a crooked smile and said, “Fuck you. I quit.”

  
28

I
was sitting in the waiting room at Emory University Hospital in Midtown with a spiral notebook I’d found in the hospital gift shop when Rauser walked in carrying the shoes I’d left in the parking lot. I had ridden in the ambulance with Neil, shoeless. I slipped them on. Rauser glanced at the notebook.

“Making good use of your time, I see.”

“I need to organize it a little and get it in the computer, but it’s the most complete psychological sketch I can give you considering the evidence we have. And don’t have.”

He took the notebook and looked it over. “Dog owner, huh?”

“He’d want that kind of adoration. He’s unable to maintain human relationships.”

“No dog hair in the Honda. No dog hair on the victims or in Miki’s house where the techs vacuumed up,” Rauser said. “Usually, if we have an offender with a dog—”

“Then he has a dog that doesn’t shed,” I interrupted. Stress bled into my tone. “Trust me on this. There’s a big pet store right next to the building supply, where he probably bought supplies to hang Kelly. It’s also the same shopping center where Miki’s phone was lifted. He’s sticking to the area he’s most familiar with.”

“They make dogs like that?” Rauser asked, lightly. “Nice.”

“He’s probably totally obsessed with the dog. Buys lots of toys and
treats, clothes, photographs the dog, makes videos. He may post them on social-media sites or on YouTube. And he’s a reader. He needs to escape into something during long stretches of alone time. Everything he needs is in that center—the pet store, the bookstore, the building supply, the grocery store.”

“Can I run with this?”

I nodded. “I feel good about it.”

“I put a detail on your parents until we figure out where this is going. I don’t want to take any chances. And I talked to the doc. They wanna keep Neil a couple of days to make sure there’s no infection. He’ll be sore as shit. But he’ll be okay.”

“Thank God.”

He held up a plastic bag. “Here’s what came out of him. Nine-millimeter. It’s mangled. Entry point was an up angle, and there’s wound damage reduction, which means it ricocheted off the concrete. Bad timing he opened the door, but he’s lucky it wasn’t a direct hit.”

“I have a feeling Neil’s not feeling lucky right now.”

“How are you doing?”

I was rattled. I was angry. And I didn’t want to talk about it. “How’s my car?”

“Three broken windows. Messed up the dashboard pretty good. And the inside of the passenger’s door.”

“Shit.”

“We’ve been following up on the ballpark connections all day too, narrowing down the list. Several hundred people when you factor in fund-raising booths, umps, coaches, vendors, and parents. What time can you be ready?”

“Are you serious? I want to stay here and see Neil.”

“Doc says he’ll be sleeping awhile. They’ll let us in later.”

I was silent. Walking around in the open at a ballpark wasn’t really my fantasy at the moment.

“You gotta get right back in the saddle, Street. You know that. You get scared and this guy wins. And we might turn up something that will nail the sonofabitch tonight. That’ll cheer you up.”

“Good point,” I said.

“And there’s junk food,” Rauser added.

An hour later we snaked through a Midtown neighborhood two blocks from Piedmont Park. It dead-ended at a dirt parking lot. Beyond it, a ballpark with two fields, bleachers, covered dugouts, a sprawling wooden canopy. The lot was packed with vehicles. Whoever was in charge of fund-raising for the league was clearly on it.

Rauser was driving my Neon, knees spread so they didn’t hit the steering wheel. We’d gone to my place to change. We left Rauser’s cop car in the garage. My Impala was a mess. Again. I dreaded telling my father. He’d had my car completely restored a couple of times already.

We had slipped into shorts, our usual uniform for baseball in or out, and Rauser had jammed a Braves cap on his head. He had good legs and he knew it. He’d worked out his entire life as a way to fight the stress of cop life. It had paid off.

“I had no idea this ballpark was here,” I said.

“Saw it on the map.” I had half his attention. He was cruising the crowded lot for a parking spot. “Never had a reason to drive back here.”

“And why would you? Unless you’re a parent or a coach or a vendor.”

“Yep. Bet our perp fits into one of those categories.” He gunned it toward an empty space, but an SUV coming from the other end of the parking lot got there first. Rauser cursed. He wasn’t accustomed to searching for parking in his own jurisdiction. It’s one of the perks he fully exploited. He could park on the sidewalk if he felt like it. But tonight he didn’t want to look like a cop. “By the way, there’s no criminal background checks in Georgia on coaches and umps. And the people working out here pretty much run the gamut as far as day jobs. Musicians, a broker, insurance salesman, couple of teachers, techies, route drivers, business owners.” He finally found a spot he liked, whipped the Neon in, jerked the emergency brake up, and we got out.

“That means vendors don’t have any special requirements either?”

“Licenses and permit is all they need. Stupid. You don’t know who you’re turning loose with your kids.”

Rauser and I crossed the dirt lot to the ballpark. We stood there for a moment, taking it in. Rauser squinted at the fields to see where Kelly’s grandson’s team was playing. He needed glasses but so far had resisted the idea. I don’t argue. He thinks I’m gorgeous, so I’m okay with his blurred vision.

Vendors with T-shirts and mugs, and bottled water and soft drinks in metal ice tubs, sat behind card tables with metal cash boxes under a wooden canopy with a raised concrete floor. Outside, a mobile food vendor in a silver trailer had a long line of customers dressed for summer baseball, a busy grill, and a sign up top that said
Burger Dog Bob’s Flaming Grill
.