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Authors: Janey Mack

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BOOK: Time's Up
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Chapter 43
Seven o'clock on Monday morning, the police station was a frenetic termite mound of activity.
Hank was taking Atlas duty dead-serious. Before we left, I asked him for a copy of the EFIT composite photo IDs of the Union bus drivers to take to my interview.
He looked at me like I was a puppy trying to climb the stairs. “You're adorable.”
“Yeah?”
“The way you think all cops are as honorable as your clan.”
My smile went as brittle as spun sugar.
“They don't need the EFIT.” Hank ruffled my hair. “I've got your six.”
I sure hope so.
I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Lanky Beau Stadum waved and strode over. “The drums are gathering along the Mohawk,” he said with a handshake and a smile.
A plainclothed female cop with a chic auburn bob waited until our greeting was finished and then approached.
“Ms. McGrane? I'm Detective Barbara Pearse, traffic division. I'll be interviewing you this morning.” She started toward the steel gray doors set in brick at the opposite end of the lobby. “This way please.”
The three of us trailed along behind. Detective Pearse stopped at the gate and pointed at the upholstered benches in the lobby. “You gentlemen can wait right there. She'll be out in a half hour or so.”
“I think Miss McGrane would rather we come along, ma'am,” Beau said.
Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her thick fringe of bangs. “And you are?”
“Beau Stadum. Maisie's attorney.” Beau stretched a hand forward, forcing her to shake.
She did, briefly, with a polite smile. “While it's nice to put a face to the name, Mr. Stadum, a witness has no need for an attorney. Your presence here is unnecessary.”
“Well, I'm not here to jerk a knot in your tail, Detective, but Ms. McGrane's a
victim
as well as a witness.” Beau raised his palms and turned to me. “Last time I checked, it's up to her.”
Hank gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“I'd like them to stay,” I said to Detective Pearse.
The detective's smile thinned to a knife's blade. “If Ms. McGrane would feel more comfortable with you present, so be it.” She gave Hank the once-over. “And you are?”
“My associate, Mr. Bannon,” Beau answered. “Shall we?”
Detective Pearse led us into the gray and tan halls to a bland and frigid windowless conference room labeled Interview Room D. She gestured us to one side of a conference table and excused herself.
“That was only slightly uncomfortable.” I slid into the seat. “You know her?”
“Of.” Beau sat next to me, Hank on his left. “Hell on wheels. And too big to be sittin' in on a lowly lil' non-fatal hit-and-run.”
“Looking forward to this?” I asked.
“Like a house afire.”
“I wouldn't mind a little heat right now.” I rubbed my arms. “It's freezing in here.”
Hank started to take off his coat.
“No,” Beau said, flipping through his notes. “Keep her shud-derin'. A heap more pathetic-looking.”
The door swung open and Detective Pearse and Peterson entered, followed by Tommy Narkinney moving so slowly, it was painful to watch. He pulled out a chair and eased into it, face white and drawn, dark purple circles under his eyes. He looked like shit. And not the hungover kind.
Detective Pearse gave him a sideways glance, then poured a glass of water and pushed it in front of him. “Are you sure you should be here, Officer Narkinney?”
“Yes, ma'am,” he croaked, hand shaking as he raised the glass to his lips.
“Golly.” Beau scratched the back of his head. “This does seem a lil' bit like a conflict of interest, don't it? Seeing as these are the very officers who held my wounded client for hours after her near-death escape.”
Peterson started to say something. Detective Pearse moved her hand slightly and he shut up. “I hardly think a pair of skinned knees qualify as wounded.”
“I beg to differ, Detective,” Beau said. “Why, the poor thing was so shook she didn't hardly know which end was up.”
Pearse nodded sympathetically toward me. “And what hospital were you treated at, Miss McGrane?”
Crap
. She knew I hadn't been seen. She'd clearly nosed around HR to see if I'd had any medical billing activity on the day of the accident. Not exactly legal, but a common enough technique.
“Mr. Bannon treated her,” Beau said. “She was concussed and suffering mild shock.”
Pearse's eyes narrowed. “And your qualifications?”
“Army 68 Whiskey,” Hank said.
Pearse sucked her upper lip. She hadn't seen that one coming. Neither had I, although Hank passing training as a combat medic wasn't exactly a shocker. “And you dropped everything to come to her aid, Mr. Bannon?”
Hank's lips twitched in a hint of a smile, but his eyes never wavered from Narkinney. “I don't mind a reasonable amount of trouble,” he said flatly.
Tommy's water glass exploded on the linoleum floor. He was on his feet, shoulders hunched, eyes panic-wide. “'Scuse me,” he mumbled and rushed out of the room.
Hank turned his Sphinx-like gaze on Peterson.
“These new recruits . . .” Pearse tried to play it off. “Can't stand to take a sick day.”
“I can understand that. So much to do, securing attempted murder as well as aggravated assault and battery charges against”—Beau paged through a legal pad gone almost black with cramped handwriting—“the unknown assailant driving the Suzuki Samurai.”
Pearse took a settling inhale and said pleasantly, “After we have collected all the evidence, the ASA will decide what charges should and will be filed.”
“Y'all have a ballpark on that timeline?”
“Not long.” She opened a manila folder and set out eight police artist sketches. “Ms. McGrane, do you recognize the driver from these drawings?”
I was surprised they weren't in crayon. Stick figures with beards would have been equally useful. I tapped one with the barest resemblance. “This one's closest.”
“I told you she didn't get a good look at him,” Peterson muttered.
She collected the rest of the sketches and put them back in the folder, not asking me to sit with a sketch artist. I didn't volunteer. “The Samurai was reported stolen that morning,” she said. “Evidence techs are examining it as we speak.”
“They won't find any fingerprints,” I said. “The guy wore gloves.”
“Are you certain?” The detective turned to Peterson. “None of the witnesses mentioned that fact.”
“Positive.”
For the next fifteen minutes Detective Pearse, Beau, and I navigated the tedious minefield of interview questions. Masterful really, how fast Beau set her back on her heels.
Peterson, under Hank's still and watchful eye, began to squirm like he had sand in his shorts.
“I'm chugged full of the basics.” Beau sat back from the table. “How 'bout we get down to brass tacks, Detective.”
“Oh?”
Beau spread out several photos of tire tracks. “Intent.”
Her chin popped up. “Where did you get these?”
“The sweetest lil' gal from one of them insurance companies. She was more than happy to pass on her findings.” He frowned. “But this here less-than-aggressive pursuit of said murderin' assailant sets me to wondering if maybe y'all aren't trying to sweep this whole thing under the rug.”
“And what possible reason would we have to do that?” Pearse said.
“Because the CPD's own designated liaisons failed in their responsibility to protect Ms. McGrane and Ms. Peat.” He laid down several sheets of paper in front of the detective. “Miss McGrane's cell phone records and texts for the day in question.”
Supplied by Hank, no doubt.
Detective Pearse didn't even glance at them. “As well-intentioned as you may be, Mr. Stadum, I don't need you to tell me how to do my job.”
“Why, I'll be damned if you ain't wound up tighter than an eight-day clock, Detective.” He tapped a slender finger on the cell records. “Now, I'm not much of a gambler, but I'm betting when your computer experts triangulate the coordinates of where Officer Narkinney and Officer Peterson were at the time of the call and subsequent text, you'll find they were only three blocks away at Fatburger.”
The blood seemed to drain from Detective Pearse's face into Peterson's.
“It's only fair to warn y'all,” Beau said. “I'm preparing to file a negligence lawsuit on behalf of Miss McGrane and Miz Peat against the Chicago Police Department.”
What the what?
This interview is spinning out of control faster than a toddler trapped in a washing machine.
Peterson looked at me with the kind of hatred I couldn't imagine carrying for anyone and folded his arms across his chest. “How's your father?”
“Very well, thank you.”
You prick.
“Conn McGrane's a Homicide captain.” His lip pulled back in a sneer. “She's got three brothers on the force, too.”
You deserve a high five, Peterson. In the face. With a chair.
Detective Pearse saw daylight and cut for it. “You looked surprised, Maisie, when Mr. Stadum mentioned a lawsuit. Maybe you'd like to talk that over with your family before things are said that can't be unsaid.”
“What makes you think she hasn't?” Beau chuckled in delight. “Half her kin are cops, sure enough, but the other half are lawyers.” A grin split his face. “Y'all can bet your bottom dollar there's due cause.”
Peterson huffed short, bullish breaths through his nose.
I shivered. The room was so cold I couldn't think straight. “I'm . . . er, not feeling well.” My voice went convincingly hoarse. “Could we continue this at a later date?”
Pearse slumped in relief. She didn't believe me, but she didn't much care, either. “Absolutely.”
“Sure this is how you want to play it, Slim?” Hank said.
“Yeah.”
Everyone got to their feet. I walked toward the door. Peterson got there first and yanked it open. “See you around,
meter maid.
”
Hank's cement-colored eyes met Peterson's and I saw in that look that Hank could kill him, would kill him with as little effort and afterthought as it took to slap a mosquito.
Peterson saw it, too, and stepped backwards into the door, bouncing it noisily against the rubber stop. The alarm in his eyes exactly like Narkinney's only minutes before.
Hank had done something to Tommy.
A true Southern gentleman, Beau gestured for Pearse to walk ahead of him. “Detective, would you care to partake of a little bourbon and branch with me this evening?”
She blinked in surprise. Beau was a good fifteen years younger than Pearse. She held up her left hand, wedding ring glinting in the light, and wiggled her finger.
“Must be those years of training that allowed you to see my impure intentions,” Beau said.
In spite of herself, Detective Pearse's lips twisted in a wry smile.
“Your husband's a lucky man.” Beau pressed his palm over his heart. “I sure do hope he's treating you right.”
Criminey.
 
The rest of the day passed in a whirligig of activity. We had lunch at Blackie's with Beau, hit Joe's, and swung by the shooting range before heading home.
I followed Hank into the great room, wanting to ask what happened to Tommy in a neck-and-neck with not really wanting to know.
“You're thinking hard,” he said. “What about?”
“It's not important.”
“I think it is, Angel Face.”
“You put Tommy Narkinney in the box, didn't you?”
“Yes.”
“When?” I asked.
“A couple days ago.”
“Show me.”
He cocked his head, and considered for a long while.
“Close your eyes.” Hank moved in tight behind me and laid the chilly steel barrel of a gun alongside the edge of my jaw, muzzle pointed away.
I hadn't even heard him pull it.
He lifted the gun, the sight digging into the soft tissue beneath my jaw, forcing my head back. I rocked back on my heels, straining to remain motionless and keep my balance, imagining what I thought it must have been like for Narkinney.
Blindfolded, off balance, physically stressed, enveloped in loud pulsing noise. Basic disorientation techniques. I felt a vague sense of pity for Tommy-the-gutless-wonder.
It didn't last.
Hank's Law Number Thirteen: Anyone can endure expected pain.
The trick—he'd told me once—the skill the very best ones cultivated, was to make each action meted out unexpected by type, frequency, and intensity.
He gripped my elbow above the pressure point and jerked it partway up my back, giving me the feel of it without the pain. Hank's voice turned guttural and cruel. “I don't mind a reasonable amount of trouble. I prefer not to kill children and policemen.” He paused and I could hear my own breathing, short and shallow. “But they pay me because I do.”
He let go and returned the gun to his shoulder holster.
Asked and answered.
I stood there, trembling. “Effective.”
“Narkinney thought so.”
“I'm sure,” I said, completely disconcerted by the primitive, mad-sexy awareness that Hank had done something bad—very bad—to Tommy Narkinney to please me.
BOOK: Time's Up
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