Her eyes fluttered closed as a dark figure stood above her. The last sound Mary heard was the sickening crak of a gunshot.
60
Brinkley stood on the concrete landing of the fire stair, behind a smoking gun. He'd taken a single shot at the man about to shoot Mary, and Brinkley's bullet had found its target.
'Oh!' the man screamed, as his hand exploded. He doubled over, howling, and his gun clattered to the concrete stair.
'Freeze!' Brinkley shouted. He ran the few steps between them, collared the man by the scruff of his neck, and kicked his gun over the stairwell. 'Get your face on the floor!' he ordered, and the man obeyed, moaning like a little girl.
Brinkley didn't know who the asshole was but he kept his aim on him as he rushed to Mary's side and felt her neck for a pulse. Blood soaked her suit and blanketed her leg. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was too pale.
'Mary, wake up!' he called to her, desperate to keep her conscious. He couldn't let her die. He couldn't do that to her parents. He couldn't explain why, but the DiNunzio family mattered to him. He counted his blessings that he'd guessed she'd go to Tribe, following the connection from Trevor to Whittier, and that her friend Judy had bailed him out in time.
'Mary! Wake up, Mary!' he called again, his fingertips on her neck, trembling too much to feel a pulse. He was about to lift her when a security guard burst through the fire door, followed by a group of uniformed paramedics. He couldn't explain that either and he didn't try. 'She needs help!' Brinkley shouted.
But the paramedics took one look at Mary and didn't need to be told.
61
It was the wee hours and the hospital cafeteria was practically empty. Brinkley slid his too-small turquoise tray along the stainless steel runners and went through the line, numb with fatigue and tension. He picked up four triangles of prepackaged tuna sandwiches for himself and the DiNunzio family, who were upstairs in the intensive care waiting room. He grabbed four Styrofoam cups and filled them with hot coffee from a black-handled spout. By the fourth cup he was yanking hard on the handle to drain the last of the coffee, which trickled through dotted with grinds.
'You got more coffee?' he shouted, even though there was nobody behind the counter except posters of dancing apples, happy peas ringing a carrot maypole, and a fluffy head of lettuce with a manic grin. None of the healthy food bore any resemblance to the processed crap for sale, and if Brinkley had been in any kind of mood, he would have laughed at the irony. But he couldn't, not with Mary still in surgery and the DiNunzios so upset. Brinkley couldn't figure out if they had adopted him or it was the other way around, but as unlikely as it was being a tall black detective in a short Italian family, Brinkley found himself liking it. Even tonight, with Mary.
He grabbed a handful of Half-and-Half cups from a bowl of melted ice and sugar packets from a basket, then played mix-and-match with the coffee lids, wondering how smart you had to be to distinguish a large lid from a medium. Shit. He eventually lucked out and pressed the plastic lids onto the coffee cups, then got to the end of the line and handed a twenty to the girl who finally showed up to take his
money, then left with only her attitude. Brinkley packed the stuff into bags himself and wedged the cups carefully into a cardboard carrier, and when he was leaving, stopped, because he recognized a man in a suit, hunched over his own cup of coffee.
Dwight Davis. Boy Wonder. The D.A.'s rep tie was undone and his oxford shirt wrinkled under his suit jacket. There was no fresh legal pad in sight, and Davis's head was bent, his eyes bloodshot and his gaunt runner's cheeks even more sunken than usual. The man struck Brinkley instantly as a burnout case, though the detective couldn't scrape together any sympathy for the prosecutor.
'What are you doin' here?' Brinkley demanded, standing over the turquoise table, and Davis finally looked up.
'Reg. She the same?'
Brinkley was so surprised, he couldn't answer. Was Davis asking about Mary? Was that why he was here?
That's two hours she's been in surgery,' Davis said, and Brinkley felt a knot of anger tighten in his chest.
'Who told you that?'
'How do I know? I keep calling the desk, different nurses answer, and they tell me.'
They not supposed to do that.' Brinkley's tone stayed calm but he was shouting inside.
'Huh?'
They're not supposed to tell you.' Brinkley wanted to deck the man, but he tried to remember himself. He was a professional. They needed him upstairs. He had the tuna sandwiches, cream cups, and the cardboard carrier.
'You're right, Reg. They're not supposed to tell. I stipulate to that. Okay?'
'No. Why do they?'
'Jesus, Reg!' Davis voice sounded hoarse. 'I tell 'em Masterson wants to know and they tell me. What's the friggin' difference?'
'It makes a difference. You're not immediate family.'
'I'm the D.A.'
'So what? That don't matter. They shouldn't tell you.' Brinkley could barely control himself. Why did it bother him so much? Then he knew. 'Because you don't have a right to know.'
Davis leaned back in his plastic bucket chair. 'You're wrong, Reg. I have more of a right to know than anybody.'
'How the fuck is that?'
'I put her there.'
Since Brinkley could neither deny Davis's guilt nor take pleasure in it, he left the man with it and walked away.
62
A somber-faced Brinkley shifted uncomfortably on the wooden dais, his arms linked behind his back, standing next to Kovich. He blinked against the harsh flashes from the Hasselblads and avoided the black lenses of the video cameras pointed at him. He hadn't slept the rest of last night and had barely had enough time to change clothes for this morning press conference, which was a total waste of time. He'd much rather be with the DiNunzios, who needed him, but he was on orders.
Microphones sprouted from the podium at the center of the dais, their thick black stems craned toward Captain Walsh. The Cap was wearing his dress uniform, since this was official, and to his left stood Dwight Davis. Davis wouldn't even look at Brinkley, which was fine with him.
Captain Walsh raised his hands to settle the reporters packing the large press room. 'Okay, people,' he said, when they had quieted, 'we'd like to make a short statement about recent events in the Newlin case. Bottom line, we've dropped all charges against Jack Newlin. We have charged Mr Marc Videon for the murder of Honor Newlin and the murder of Mr William Whittier.' Walsh nodded once, as if to punctuate his speech. 'We'll take a few quick questions at this time.' The reporters shouted and waved at once, but the Cap pointed at a woman reporter in the front row. 'You,' he said.
'Captain Walsh, did the police department really charge the wrong man? And if so, how did that happen?'
'No two ways about it, we made a horrendous mistake. We accepted Newlin's confession and we shouldn't have.
The credit for correcting this mistake goes to our own Detective Reginald Brinkley, of Homicide,' Walsh gestured to Brinkley, who looked immediately down at his loafers. He had changed them at home. His sneakers had been stained with Mary's blood. Mary. He bit his lip.
Walsh continued, 'I would also like to give credit to someone who is not here with us tonight, Mary DiNunzio, Mr Newlin's attorney. Next question?' He pointed again. 'You, John.'
'This is for Dwight Davis,' the older reporter said. 'Mr Davis, you thought the Commonwealth's case was so strong that you announced earlier this week you would not offer Mr Newlin a plea bargain. How do you square that with his ultimate innocence?'