Kill Again Page 22

“The hell you can,” he growled, taking Claire by the arm and leading her to a corner stashed with IV poles. “You know what Victor Palmer did the second after he was booked? He made his phone call,” Wilkes said, stepping up to her and speaking right into her face. “He called his personal friend, the police commissioner, who immediately called me. On my goddamned cell phone. I told him I was just about to get an update on Lawler’s condition and I’d call him right back. But I really got rid of the bastard because I didn’t have shit to tell him.”

  Claire had never seen the inspector so angry. His face was reddish purple and sweat was pouring down his temples.

  “So you’d better start talking, Doctor Waters, because when I call the PC back I gotta have something to say that’s not gonna make him wanna bust me back into uniform running the motor pool.”

  “Tell him it’s all my fault,” said Claire.

  Wilkes laughed in disbelief. “Don’t play games with me, Doc, because this ain’t the time.”

  “Blame me,” Claire said. “It’s the truth.”

  “You expect me to believe that this wasn’t Nick’s idea?”

  “It wasn’t. I brought him right home from your office. He told me to take his car. I made him promise he wouldn’t go near Palmer and he agreed.”

  Wilkes paused. Then he pulled two metal chairs over and motioned for Claire to sit down.

  “Okay, Doc, we’ll do it your way,” Wilkes said.

  Claire sat down and Wilkes sat facing her, their knees touching.

  “And then?” he asked. “After his alleged promise to you?”

  “I went home. But we all know how Nick is about keeping his promises,” Claire said, trying to inject some lightness.

  “Yeah, and you too,” Wilkes replied without any humor.

  “I decided to drive by Palmer’s myself,” Claire said.

  “Is that right?” he said, mocking her.

  “Yes, sir. Just to see whether Nick was there.” There was a tone of defiance in her voice that Wilkes detested.

  “After I told both of you that wasn’t an option,” Wilkes said.

  “Actually, you told Nick it wasn’t an option. I just happened to be in the room. And with all due respect, Inspector, I don’t work for you, so I’m not bound by your orders.”

  Claire’s words enraged him. He leaned in close to her. “Listen carefully, Doctor,” he said, with contempt in his voice. “As long as you’re part of this investigation—which you wanted—and like I said from the outset when we brought you into this, you damn well better do what I say.”

  Claire knew she had to tread carefully, for Nick’s sake.

  “Now tell me the rest of it,” Wilkes said, sitting back, giving Claire space.

  “It got dark and I was sitting in Nick’s car when Palmer comes out of his house and heads my way. So I got out and went around to open the trunk—”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To get the gun,” Claire said.

  “The gun,” Wilkes repeated, afraid where this was going.

  “From the spare tire compartment,” Claire answered evenly.

  Wilkes lowered his voice, but his tone betrayed his anger. “You’re telling me that you knew Nick Lawler, the blind cop, who’s forbidden to own firearms of any kind, kept a gun in the spare tire compartment?”

  “No, Inspector,” said Claire, knowing the lie she was about to tell had to be convincing. “The gun is mine.”

  “Really?” Wilkes said, suppressing a laugh. “Now you own a gun?”

  “You can believe whatever you want,” Claire said.

  “And this gun you allegedly own ... where did you allegedly get it? Wait, let me rephrase that. When, exactly, did Nick Lawler give it to you?”

  “He didn’t,” said Claire.

  “If Nicky didn’t give it to you, who did?”

  “My uncle Scott.”

  “Your uncle gave you a gun,” Wilkes said, not believing a word of it. “For what, your birthday? Christmas?”

  “Protection,” said Claire. “After everything that happened last year.”

  Wilkes paused. It was the first thing she’d said that seemed plausible.

  “Okay, Doc. Okay,” he said in a tone suggesting she might have convinced him. “And you’ve been schlepping this cannon—which I’m assuming is unregistered—around New York City since then without—which I’m also assuming—a carry permit?”

  “I don’t have a permit, Inspector. My uncle gave it to me to keep in my apartment. I really don’t know how to use it so I never take it outside.”

  “Then why’d you have it on you tonight?” Wilkes asked.

  “It wasn’t on me. It was in the wheel well of the car.”

  “Don’t you split hairs with me, young lady,” he warned. “I could lock your ass up right now if I had to. Why’d you bring the gun with you?”

  “I can’t explain it. I just thought I should have it with me.”

  “I see,” said Wilkes, knowing everything coming from Claire’s mouth was total bullshit. But he also realized that as long as she stuck to this story they might get away with it. He sighed and stood up.

  “And if I need to corroborate your story about this mystery uncle?” he asked, assuming she had that base covered as well. “Because technically I could collar him too.”

  “I’ll even give you his address,” Claire said, “but arresting may be difficult. He currently resides at Mount Hood Cemetery upstate in Rochester. He died of cancer last January.”

  Wilkes smiled. “And this is what you’d have me tell the chief of detectives and police commissioner, am I correct?”

  “Unless you’d like me to tell them myself, Inspector,” Claire said, “which I’m more than happy to do.”

  Wilkes said nothing as he walked toward the exit. Claire followed him.

  “Because here’s what I’d tell them,” she continued. “Nick went to Palmer’s because he called several times and I didn’t pick up. Knowing me, he assumed I’d gone to Palmer’s on my own, and he wanted to make sure your orders were obeyed so someone as stupid and inept as me wouldn’t screw up the case.”

  Wilkes considered her. “You’re a whole lot of things, Doc,” he said, “and piece of work is at the top of that list. But stupid and inept isn’t even at the bottom of it.”

  Claire smiled back at him.

  “Okay,” Wilkes said, stepping with Claire through the electric doors to the outside ambulance bay. “Now that you’ve buried me in that huge heap of horseshit, I got some more for you to shovel on top of the pile.”

  “Hit me,” said Claire, ready for whatever Wilkes was about to dish out.

  “Here’s the story: Palmer’s a lying sack of shit. Not only didn’t you hold a gun on him, that gun you never had—and I don’t give a crap if it’s something sentimental from your uncle—is gonna disappear.”

  “Inspector, bystanders saw me holding the gun on Palmer.”

  “I know you’re new at this whole lying thing, Doctor,” said Wilkes. “But when the crime lab folks find Lawler’s fingerprints all over the cartridge and bullets, it’s all over for him.”

  “That won’t be a problem, Inspector,” she said, keeping a straight face, “because the only prints you’ll find anywhere on the gun or the ammo will be mine.”

  Wilkes shuffled his feet, amazed. Not only had Claire all but admitted to tampering with evidence—which of course he couldn’t prove, not that he wanted to—but she had thought of everything. Right now, he was glad she was one of the good guys.

  “Whatever you say, Doc,” he said. “But we’re still gonna disappear the gun. We don’t want questions about why you were carrying an illegal firearm. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Fantastic. Now, Palmer’s claiming he tried to stab Lawler in self-defense because he didn’t believe Nicky’s a cop anymore, which, in street terms anyway, he isn’t. We’ve got twenty-four hours to arraign the sonuvabitch, and when it happens I don’t want it to be for simple
assault. I want to nail him for murder.”

  “Is that an order?” Claire asked.

  “Damn right,” he said, “not that you’re good at taking them. We’ve got our work cut out for us. How are you at pulling all-nighters?”

  “I made it through medical school and residency, Inspector. I can do them in my sleep.”

  “No pun intended,” said Wilkes, suppressing the impulse to grin.

  “Doctor Waters,” came a voice from the entrance. It belonged to Trina Cates, the pretty, young, African-American, on-call neurologist with whom Claire was friendly.

  “Trina. Is Nick okay?” Claire asked, walking over to her.

  “A word, please,” Trina said.

  “Go ahead,” said Wilkes.

  Claire and Trina stepped aside. “What’s up?” Claire asked.

  “Your friend is conscious,” she told Claire softly. “But there’s a problem.”

  “Something show up on his CT?”

  “There’s nothing life threatening going on. But if this guy’s a cop . . .” She hesitated. “He’s a friend of yours, so I thought you’d want first crack at him.”

  “What’s the deal?” asked Wilkes.

  “Just a consult on another case,” Claire said, the lie spilling effortlessly from her lips. “I’ll be right back.”

  Nick was trying to sit up when Claire and Trina entered the treatment room.

  “Welcome back,” Claire said to him, relieved that he looked all right.

  “How long was I out?” he asked, lying back down.

  “About forty-five minutes, according to Doctor Waters,” Trina said, checking his vitals on a monitor over the gurney. “You’re lucky, Detective. Your CT shows no intracranial hemorrhaging.”

  “Then why was I out for so long?” Nick asked, thinking something must be wrong for him to be wired to monitors in the ER. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You have a concussion,” Trina said, putting some authority into her voice. “Trauma to your brain caused you to lose consciousness—”

  “I know what a concussion is, for chrissakes,” Nick said.

  “I’m admitting you so we can keep an eye on you overnight,” replied Trina. “Just to make sure you’re okay.”

  “She means you have to take it easy,” said Claire, who stood across from Trina on the other side of the bed. Until her inquisition at the hands of Wilkes, she’d been with Nick from the moment the ambulance arrived at Seventy-Eighth Street and West End Avenue to scoop him up. Because Claire was a doctor, the paramedics allowed her to ride with him in the back. Though Roosevelt was the closest hospital, she requested they take Nick to MSU, where she had privileges and knew almost everyone who worked in the ER. And where she’d have some control over keeping Nick’s secret.

  “She knows, right?” he asked Claire, gesturing to Trina Cates.

  “Yes, Mr. Lawler,” Trina said. “I performed a thorough neuro exam, including looking at your retinas.” Trina glanced over to Claire, then continued. “Since your preexisting condition has no bearing on your head trauma, I see no reason to include it in your chart.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” said Nick.

  Trina smiled. “No thanks needed.”

  Nick did his best to nod despite the throbbing pain in his head. “Can you give us a second alone?”

  “I can give you more than that,” Trina said. “Let me know right away if your vision changes, you feel dizzy, or you vomit,” she said to Nick, and left the room.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Claire.

  Nick rubbed the spot on his head where he’d landed. “Like I got slammed with a baseball bat,” he said.

  “Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Claire responded.

  “Remember that the next time we do something as stupid as we did tonight.”

  “We got Palmer, didn’t we?” Claire said.

  “Was there anything interesting in the duffel bag?” Nick asked, hoping that the case would be easily solved.

  “Just the butcher knife and some clothes,” Claire said. “Maybe he was heading out to find his next victim, brought along something to change into after the bloodbath.”

  “Where’s the sonuvabitch now?” Nick asked.

  “Inspector Wilkes told me he’s down at headquarters.”

  The mention of Wilkes’s name made Nick’s headache go from bad to worse.

  “Is Wilkes here?” asked Nick.

  “In the ambulance bay, getting some air,” Claire said.

  Nick knew he had to bring up what he’d been thinking about since he regained consciousness.

  “Guess it’s a good thing you found my gun in the toilet,” he said.

  “You swore to me—and to them—that you turned in all your firearms.”

  “Only the registered ones. They didn’t know about this one.”

  “They do now,” Claire said, worrying how Nick would react. “Because they have it.”

  Nick thought he knew what this meant. “Then I’m toast.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Claire.

  “My prints are all over the damn thing.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Nick paused, using his arms to hoist himself into a sitting position. “What did you do?” he asked.

  “Wiped the entire thing down, including the clip and the bullets. Then reloaded and made sure I touched everything.”

  Nick shook his head. “I know you’re trying to protect me. But it isn’t gonna work. Wilkes is gonna throw a shit fit. And I’m gonna lose what’s left of my job.”

  “I took care of the inspector,” Claire said. “He’s more concerned about protecting his own ass and this case than having his bosses think he’s letting a blind cop keep a gun.”

  “What the hell kind of story did you tell him?”

  Claire described the tale she wove for Wilkes, including the lie about her dead uncle giving her the gun. “As long as you stick to my facts,” she said, “you’re gonna be okay.”

  Nick was incredulous, which he showed by staring up at the ceiling. “You gave Wilkes a way outta this mess,” he said.

  “Not all of it,” Claire replied, her hand brushing a wisp of his hair. “His way out is to get a confession from Victor Palmer. And it’s our only way out too.”

  Nick swung his legs over the side of the gurney. “Then we’ve gotta get to it. Get these wires and tubes outta me so I can interrogate this scumbag,” he said, trying to figure out how to make himself stand up.

  But Claire stood in his way so he couldn’t. “We will,” she said, lifting his legs back into the bed. “But I’m not letting you sign yourself out of here against medical advice.”

  Nick grabbed her hand. “Wilkes, Savarese—they don’t know this case like I do. Like we do.”

  “Maybe so. But we don’t know Palmer. So we need to spend the night learning everything we can about him.”

  “That’s why I need to be there,” Nick exclaimed.

  “In the morning,” Claire replied. “Right now you need to let Doctor Cates make sure you’re not going to keel over the moment your feet hit the floor.”

  Nick knew this was a battle he wasn’t about to win. “Okay, Doctor,” he conceded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stay here and be a good boy,” Claire said. “I’ll go back to headquarters with the inspector and spend the night on the computer. In the morning I’ll get you released. By then, we’ll have as much dirt on Palmer as we need, or at least that we’re going to get.”

  Nick wanted to be a part of this, fearing that if he didn’t go now he’d be cut out of the action later. But he knew better than to argue with Claire—and he was still feeling like crap. Moreover, she had lied to save his ass and what remained of his job, so he owed her a solid.

  “Okay,” was all he said.

  CHAPTER 18

  Palmer was sitting at the table the following morning when Nick entered the interrogation room, carrying a folder and sporting a purple bruise the size of a
n egg over his right temple. Nick struggled to keep his balance as he pulled a chair opposite him and sat down.

  “Looks like you took a nasty fall,” Palmer said.

  “Yes, sir, I did,” Nick replied, his politeness part of his strategy.

  “What you’re doing to me is inhumane and probably illegal, Detective.”

  “You may believe that, Mr. Palmer, but it’s not illegal. As for inhumane, I hardly think you have the right to make that kind of judgment.”

  “Detective, and whoever else is listening,” he said, pointing at the one-way mirror, “I swear I thought you were impersonating a police officer. Why would I believe that you’re a cop when you can barely see?”

  Nick pulled the shield clipped to his belt and his ID card clipped to his shirt, tossing them on the table. “Because of these,” he said, “which I showed you when I identified myself to you last night. You refused to accept the proof, which is why you’re sitting in police headquarters.”

  “Yes, and speaking of that, is Commissioner Farrell in his office? I’m wondering if I can have a word with him. He’s a personal friend, you know.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that last night,” Nick said. In fact, he had prepared for this possibility. An hour earlier, right after he was discharged from the ER, he and Wilkes had met with the PC in his expansive office on the fifteenth floor of One Police Plaza. As his assistant served them coffee in NYPD mugs, they laid out everything they knew about Victor Palmer, which not only made Commissioner Farrell cringe, but also face reality.

  “If it turns out you’re right, I’ll have to retire,” Farrell had said, trying to joke. “Palmer’s been to every major event I’ve hosted and there are dozens of pictures of us together.”

  How ironic, thought Nick. Hours ago I thought my career was over, but now it’s the commissioner’s ass on the line.

  Nick leaned forward toward Palmer. Despite spending the night at headquarters, Palmer looked refreshed; his shirt was unwrinkled and his morning beard barely showed on his tanned face.

  “The commissioner already knows you’re here,” Nick now informed him. “But he declined to join us. Friend or not, he’s not real fond of anyone beating up on his cops.”

  Palmer tried to shrug it off. “I understand, of course. He’s a busy man. He’ll change his mind when he finds out this is all a tragic mistake.”