“What we advise in situations like this is to just give them what they want. Don’t play tough-guy hero. The gun and knife were only to threaten you. They probably meant you no harm, but you pushed the situation, so now we got two dead guys.”
“I feel so damned ashamed,” I said.
In a very tired voice, he said, “Don’t give me no lip, Major. I could just as easily run your ass to the station and book you for manslaughter. Then you gotta go through the bitch of hiring a lawyer and defending yourself.”
“Actually, I am a lawyer,” I told him. “I’d raise hell, you’d look stupid, and we’d both waste our time. I overreacted, okay? I saw that knife… I saw that gun, and I responded before I could think. I wish now I’d just handed over my wallet and took my chances. Believe me, I wish I hadn’t killed those two guys.”
He studied my face to see if I was sincere, and I awarded him with my most appropriately pained grimace. Either he believed it, or he decided it wasn’t worth his time to catfight with a lawyer.
He said, “Okay, here’s the way we’ll work this. We’ll find out who these two are. We’ll canvass the area and see if there were any other witnesses and if they’ll confirm it went down the way you said. We’ll then run this through the DA’s office and they’ll decide what to do with you.”
“Fair enough,” I replied.
He stared at me another moment, then walked back to his car. I couldn’t blame him for being grumpy, especially since I’d left a few things out of my answers during his interrogation. The biggest thing being why I was so damned sure they weren’t there to rob me; why I was damned certain they came to murder me.
What I’d seen in the black guy’s eyes was the same look I’d seen young soldiers get their first time in combat, trying to work up enough nerve or rage to kill someone. Nor did I inform him this was the second attempt on my life in two weeks, that the Latino corpse had five thousand bucks in his pocket, that somebody obviously hired them to kill me, that they’d approached me thinking I’d do exactly what the police recommend and just reach into my pocket and hand over my wallet. I didn’t tell him what a great setup it was, how my body would’ve been discovered by the next poor slob who walked out to the parking lot, a long, fatal gash from my pelvis to my chest, how the police would’ve filed it under those 5 percent of cases where the normal odds just didn’t work out.
Why didn’t I tell him these things? Because I would’ve been removed immediately as Morrison’s attorney. Because it would’ve opened a line of inquiry I didn’t want opened-about my meetings with Arbatov; about how I’d managed to turn a simple legal defense into some kind of murderous vendetta against me. And mostly, because I was wildly confused and needed time to think.
And because I realized something else-my client was probably innocent, and somebody was trying to keep me from proving it. There was simply no other explanation for two attempts on my life. And if you go one step past that logic, you realize that I’d somehow stumbled onto something that scared the hell out of whoever was behind this.
Which falls under the heading of good and bad news. The good news being that if I retraced my steps, I might discover something I’d done, somebody I’d talked to, some question I’d raised that marked me for death. The bad news being that I might be attending my own funeral before I found out what it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It took four knocks on Katrina’s door before she answered, and you can’t believe how relieved I was to see her standing in her bathrobe, her hair wet and bedraggled, a disbelieving and vividly unwelcoming look on her face.
As soon as the cops had released me, I was struck by the thought that if I was a target, well maybe she was, too. Ergo, I was standing on her doorstep, trying to look like we were still the best of chums.
“What do you want?” she asked, in a most unflattering way.
I gave her my most winsome grin. “Can I come in? Please?”
She sighed and stepped aside. As apartments go, there was nothing to brag about here, a Lilliputian efficiency filled with third-hand furniture and a few plants to give it some life. It was neat as a pin, though, the bed made, the plates put away, everything spick-and-span. And who would’ve guessed she was a neat freak?
I said, “We’ve got problems. There was another attempt on my life this morning.”
Her face raced from disappointed to see me to instantly concerned. “What happened?”
“Two thugs bushwhacked me in the parking lot when I left my apartment. One had five grand in his pocket. They were hired guns.”
“And…?”
“And I, uh, I killed them.”
She took a second to absorb this. “And why did you come here?”
“Because you could be next.”
“I’m fine. Nobody’s bothered me.”
“That doesn’t mean nobody intends to bother you.”
Her expression went flat. She looked at her watch. “I’ve got an appointment in thirty minutes. I really have to hurry.”
Were we having a problem here or what? I could see she was still very peeved and was trying to give me the heave-ho, only her timing was awful.
I flapped my arms up and down in frustration. “Are you listening to me, Katrina? Somebody tried to kill me. They might try to kill you, too.”
“Why would they? I’m off the case… I’m no threat.”
I shook my head. “Maybe they don’t know that. Or maybe they’re worried you know what I know.”
She was shaking her head. “This is a very important appointment. It’s for a job. Odd as this may sound, you need money to eat in this country. I… I have to get dressed.”
“You might not live to eat. Please listen to-”
Like lightning, she whipped something out of her pocket, and before you could say “ouch” a switchblade was pointed at my stomach.
She said, “I can take care of myself.”
Wow. She held open her door and gave me the distinct impression I was supposed to use it. It’s amazing how grumpy some people can get. But then women are different than men. They have memories connected to emotions-a poisonous mix.
I stepped out and the door closed behind me. I took the elevator downstairs and left, but didn’t go far. I moved to a position across the street where I could hide behind an illegally parked truck and watch the front entrance of her apartment building.
I took a moment to study the environment. Katrina didn’t live in the best of neighborhoods. Winos were stumbling around, and a few homeless people were camped out on street benches, or huddled inside doorways, hoping to scrounge a little heat. There were some teenagers hanging out by a local bodega, swilling beer even though it was only nine in the morning. They were trashtalking, and just generally trying to impress one another the way young aspiring hoodlums do. If you were looking for likely suspects, you saw plenty of them.
About twenty minutes later, I watched Katrina rush out of her apartment building with her purse tucked under her arm, the way street-smart women carry their valuables in neighborhoods like this, tightly, so nobody can tug it away and run off with it.
I gave her a head start, then dashed across the street and followed. I guessed her apartment building didn’t have underground parking, or even a parking lot, so, like most Washingtonians, she had to scrounge around adjoining neighborhoods for a space. It’s that kind of city, and at the end of her street she hooked a left. My eyes searched to see if anybody was following her, or taking an undue interest. I didn’t see anybody, so I ran forward to keep her in sight.
As I rounded the corner, a street bum on a park bench got up and followed her. He was about twenty steps behind her and he truly did look like a bum, dirty and grungy, with clothes that were tattered and weathered. What was odd was that he didn’t move like a guy who was down on his luck, surviving on handouts, pickled on dope or booze or whatever he could afford. He moved like a sprightly killer stalking his prey, right down to the butcher knife he yanked out of his pocket and lugged in his right hand.