"There was some evidence of a struggle. The table and lamp broken. That bit with the chair under the tree was too pat. And why does a loner like Ashley even bother to bring the kid all the way to his place? It wasn't for rape. It wasn't for torture."
They listened. Diaz moved uneasily behind me. Richards studied the carpet. Hammonds twisted the towel and the lines at the corners of his eyes were tightening again.
"What the hell's your theory?" he finally asked.
"Someone else was there."
"Brown?"
"Yeah. But someone else too."
"You have proof of that?"
I thought of the knife, still stuck inside my boot.
"It just didn't feel right," I said.
All three of them let it set. Maybe they were thinking about how it felt. Hammonds broke the silence.
"Look, Freeman. I'm not sure you aren't in deeper shit than even you think. Sure, we'll try to find this Brown and talk to him. Hell, we don't even have a damn autopsy on Ashley yet. But in fifteen minutes I have to go in front of the sheriff, the FBI's regional director, the county mayor and who the hell knows who else and spin a logical string of events."
He had rolled up to his desk. The towel was stretched between his hands like a thick rope.
"We've reached a point of urgency here. And I cannot entertain any goddam conspiracy theories at this point in time.
"We've got a damn good suspect who's damn good and dead. We saved a kid from becoming victim number five. Now if you want me to make you out to be the hero in that, fine. But I don't think you're up to the scrutiny that that would bring. Am I right?"
I was thinking of Donna the reporter. Maybe he was too. I nodded my head in agreement.
"So we go with what we have for now."
The others nodded. Hammonds stood up and started for his bathroom as we began to file out and stopped.
"And Freeman," he said, again in control of his voice. "Don't leave the state."
The FBI agents watched us as we headed for the hallway. Each time I saw them it looked as though they expected to see me in handcuffs. I couldn't tell if they were disappointed or not.
"Jesus," Diaz said, again leading us with his voice. "I never heard the old man cuss before." We reached the elevator and he punched the down button.
"If he expects us to be at the press conference, I gotta change down in the locker room," Richards said, looking at her mud-flecked boots and jeans. She couldn't see the fine red welts still glowing on her forehead and cheek from the branch whippings. "I'm a mess," she said, more to herself than us.
As we rode down Diaz asked if I had a way back north.
"My attorney's downstairs," I said.
"That was probably good planning," he said, smiling.
When the doors opened at the second floor, Diaz punched the lobby button for me and shook my hand before stepping out.
"We'll be talking, right?"
Richards started to follow him out, but put her hand on the door guard. I thought she was going to say something but instead she stepped in close, reached up on her toes and kissed me on the mouth.
"Thanks," she said. Her eyes were an unmistakable green.
CHAPTER 22
When the elevator doors opened on the lobby it took me a few seconds to recognize the action. My head was still softly swimming. The doors started to close again and I reached out and clanged back the metal guard, tripping them open. I started across the marble floor, admittedly a little glazed, and my hand seemed to involuntarily come up and touch my mouth.
Across the lobby I saw Billy in a dark tailored suit standing before a large piece of public art, studying the shape and color as if he were deeply interested. The young woman at the raised reception desk didn't turn at the sound of me bashing the elevator door guard. She was watching Billy with an authentic interest. Billy turned before I got to him. "M-Max," he said softly. "Shall we go?"
As we started to the front entrance the woman called out pleasantly, "Good night." Billy smiled and tipped his hand and we went out.
Through the door he took me on a hard left. The TV trucks, their mechanical necks stretched high, swarmed at the near sidewalk. The standup reporters were under portable lights, filming their introductions to the press conference. I did not see Donna. We got to Billy's car with only a few curious looks, eased out of the parking lot and headed for the interstate. Billy made a call from his cell phone, said, "We're on our way," and hung up. I was quiet for twenty minutes and my attorney indulged me. As he drove north in the far left lane I stared out the window, watching the inside line of sedans and minivans and tractor-trailers slip behind. Billy did not let a single vehicle pass us. He was doing eighty-five. It was his way. But neither his patience nor his impatience was limitless.
"And?" he finally said.
I started the retelling with Nate Brown on the deck of my shack and took him through the day. Billy interrupted only once, when I began to describe taking the knife from the stump and putting it in my boot. Before I got it out he raised his hand to stop me.
"M-More evidence?" he said, in a tone that wasn't pleased. "Max, you're out of it. What's left to p-prove? Why bring a link to yourself?"
I slipped the knife into the wet and muddied fanny pack on the floor in front of me and said nothing.
"So you d-don't think it's done?"
"It could be," I said. "Unless another kid comes up missing."
It was near midnight when we reached the tower. For the last few miles I could almost see Billy's analytical, lawyerly mind working. We were not so different. He just did his grinding in a different way. When we came through the door of the apartment, Dianne McIntyre was in the kitchen, again in her stocking feet, but this time she had Billy's chef's apron tied around her. The rich aroma of paella was coming from the stove behind her and she was just sprinkling a touch of chardonnay over the mixture of seafood and rice.
"Good evening, boys," she said as we walked in. "You are just in time for dinner and a movie."
She reached up and plucked a wineglass from a suspended rack and filled it for Billy and when I sat on a stool at the counter she put her palms on the surface and affected an Old West accent:
"What'll it be?"
I ordered Boodles, but before she turned she scrunched her perfect nose and said: "Hot bath upstairs for two bits."
I looked down at my crusty clothes and smiled. Billy slipped his suit-coated arm around McIntyre's waist, tasted his wine and raised an eyebrow. We had indeed been an interesting pair leaving police headquarters.
"Yes, ma'am," I said and headed for the guest suite.
I showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose Temple University T-shirt that had been snatched up by Billy's maid during my last visit and cleaned and pressed by his laundry service.
I then had my drink and we all sat in the living area with steaming bowls of the paella and watched McIntyre's "movie."
Billy had asked her to tape the television news and she had recorded Hammonds' press conference.
Billy pressed a button on the remote and a panel hung with one of his oil paintings slid silently up into the ceiling to expose a flat, wide-screened television. He punched on the set and hit the play button, and the head of an anchorwoman filled the wall.
"And our top story tonight, the dramatic rescue of abducted six-year-old Amy Alvarez and the discovery of a body in the Everglades of the man police are now saying may be the Moonlight Murderer.
"Tonight we have team coverage including this exclusive footage of the medical examiner's office removing the body of the man police say could be responsible for the abduction and murder of four children from South Florida neighborhoods over this long, hot summer."
It was the video shot at the boat ramp by Donna's cameraman and it opened as the M.E.'s team was hefting the body bag out of the Whaler. The camera caught the men struggle and slip with the load as it hooked on the boat cleat and showed one man go down on a knee. Then in the glare it caught my back as I stepped in and used the knife to slice the strap free. The angle only showed part of my face but the light glinted sharply off the knife blade before the cameraman panned up the slope of the ramp following the body bag up to the black Chevy Suburban.