A Mighty Fortress (26 page)

He waited a moment to see how I reacted. I said nothing.

“So what about Wilcox?” Shields continued.

“What about him?”

“You heard from him?”

“I just got out of the hospital.”

Shields smirked. “So he didn’t show up and visit you, nothing like that?”

I shook my head. “Where is he?”

“Good question. No one’s seen him since last night.”

That didn’t sit well with me. Of course, nothing about this case did.

“So, you get a look at this guy last night?”

I shook my head. “Just his general outline. There was a flash of lightning. I saw his reflection in the window behind me. Just as he was about to …” My words trailed off.

Shields still looked entertained. “As he was about to shoot? Holy shit, Porter. You’re a lucky son of a gun.”

I thought about what Pastor Evans had said about providence. “I guess you could say that. But I saw him taking aim, turned just in time. I was trying to take a swing when he fired.”

“Did you hit him?”

“I don’t think so. I think he thought he hit me better than he did. It knocked me to the ground. Then he was gone.”

“So you never really got a look at him?”

“I tried chasing him. In the hallway, he fired again. All I could see was he was about six feet, medium build. And a pro.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Covers on his shoes. Gloves. Mask. He knew what he was doing.”

“Got it. Now listen, Porter.” He paused and jotted down a few things. Then he locked his eye on mine, as if to make sure he had my attention. “I’d like to ask you something. We’d like to show you a lineup of men of different builds and see if you could identify the build of this guy.”

“I don’t know about that. It was dark, and his build, it was really nondescript.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, he was just a normal guy, at least in terms of build.”

He nodded for a moment and smiled weakly. But he wasn’t about to give up. “Well, I’d still like you to give it a try. What do you say?”

I sighed again. “I can give it a try.”

“Great. Would you like another coffee?”

I looked at the lukewarm cup in front of me, the cup that was still more than half full. A coffee sounded great—a real coffee. My stomach growled with that thought. “Any chance I could walk down the street first?”

Shields was kind enough to give me a break while they finished getting the lineup ready. He was also kind enough to spot me twenty bucks since I’d left my wallet in my car. So I walked a few blocks over to a Cuban restaurant on Tampa Street. I tried walking on the side of each street with the most shade to alleviate the heat, but that did nothing for the stickiness. My bandage was barely attached by the time I reached the restaurant. Despite the heat, I ordered two cafés
con leche
. I slammed the first one as fast as I could without burning my throat.
 

My stomach growled as I saw the food on the buffet, and I realized I hadn’t eaten much, if anything, since dinner. So what if I was late? I ordered roasted pork with a mound of black beans and yellow rice, extra onion, and I asked them to fry me a few eggs in the kitchen. I doused it all with hot sauce and demolished the plate in five minutes.

When I arrived back at the office, I could tell my stomach was going to have a hard time digesting the food I’d just devoured. I was about to look for the restroom in the lobby when Shields appeared. He eyed me and asked, “Feel better?”

“Much,” I said and chugged the rest of the second coffee.

“This way.”

He led me down another hallway. C-Rod met us at its end and smirked at my appearance. “Seriously, Porter, you look better with a beard.”

If I responded, it was just with a scowl.

They led me into a small room with two doors and one large window. Two men were already there. One I knew: Fred Mitchell. The other man I hadn’t seen before, but I soon realized he was the attorney for whoever their suspect was.

He glanced at me and then turned livid on Mitchell. “This is your witness?”

Mitchell nodded.

The attorney turned to me. “Son, are you under any medications right now?”

“Good question,” I mumbled.

“What?” the stranger lawyer asked.

“Shut up, Porter,” C-Rod hissed.

Mitchell spoke up: “Mr. Johnson here will have his opportunity to question the witness later, if warranted. But for now, he’ll be the one shutting up.”

“Are you threatening me?” the lawyer asked.

“No,” Mitchell said. “I’m asking you if you want to be present.”

The defense attorney’s face twisted with anger, but he restrained it and nodded.

“Very good. Bring them in.”

A light flicked on behind the window, and a line of men marched in. They were all of similar builds and wore ski masks.

Johnson nearly coughed at the sight. “You’re making my client wear a mask? What is this, North Korea?”

“It’s to protect his rights,” Mitchell said. “Mr. Porter here didn’t get a look at his face. His assailant was masked. We just want him to look at their builds.”

“This is ridiculous,” Johnson said. “Of what probative value is someone’s build?”

Mitchell’s eyes turned dark. “Save your arguments for the judge. We do this all the time.” Mitchell nodded at me; it was time to get busy.

I looked them over and started to appreciate the nuanced differences in their builds and proportions. I eliminated the first guy because his arms looked too long, and the next guy was too stubby.

I spent a lot of time with the third guy. Something about him was familiar, all right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Then I went to the fourth. He looked like he was about to piss himself, but there was nothing that allowed me to eliminate him.

Five and six, by my estimate, were a hair too tall.

“Maybe number three,” I said. “Maybe four.”

Mitchell called for three to step forward and raise his arms. The message was relayed inside the room, and the guy obeyed. Damn, there was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t really tell if he resembled the guy the night before.

 
“Number three looks familiar.”

“How familiar?” Johnson asked.

“I’ll ask the questions here,” Mitchell said. “How sure are you, Porter?”

“Not very. I’m just saying he looks familiar. I don’t know that he was the guy last night.”

Mitchell, C-Rod, and Shields exchanged some disappointed glares.
 

“Good enough,” Mitchell said a bit wearily.

“No way in hell this will ever hold up,” Johnson said before he stormed out. Then Mitchell whispered something to C-Rod and left, too.

“Ready?” Shields asked me.

I glanced at C-Rod. “Can I have a minute with Detective Rodriguez first?”

“Are you out of your
mind
, Porter?” C-Rod asked.

“Yesterday you’re asking me questions about these videos. Last night, a guy with your build tries to kill me while stealing evidence from Mattie’s office.”

C-Rod shook his head. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Police Department; across the street, someone was crooning a folk song in a portable P.A. system in the park. “Porter, you need to be very careful making accusations like this,” he said fiercely.

I couldn’t tell if he was smirking. Something about C-Rod always looked sheepish, if not guilty. “So we’ll keep it between us for now, but you don’t look right to me.”

The guilt flashed away, at least temporarily. “All right, man. I know you’ve been through some shit this week, and I can see why you might have some suspicions. But I want you to trust me, so I’m going to tell you something.”

I glared at him. All ears.

“We’re close, Porter. Very close to making an arrest.”

“For last night?”

He shook his head. “Scalzo’s killer.”

“They’re not the same?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet. But we do have a match for Sunday night, and we know who it is.”

“Who?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that, yet. But let me ask you this.” He waited to make sure he had my attention. “Are you sure you didn’t recognize number three in there?”

Shields had said he’d drive me home, but that was delayed by a few meetings he had to attend, one of which corresponded with his late lunch.

“I thought you’d have taken a cab,” he said when he saw I was still waiting.

“My wallet, remember?”

He nodded and frowned.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot behind Mattie’s office. There was police tape around the crime scene, and a few news vans were parked alongside Platt. Next door, a crane was setting the trusses on another town house complex some developer had decided to squeeze into an isolated block.

“Your car’s here?” Shields asked. He killed the engine.
 

“I parked around the corner.”

He followed me out of the car and walked with me around the corner. When we reached my car, he said, “Nice ride.”

“Thanks.” I got the feeling he was waiting to make sure I was leaving. As I was opening my car door, he told me to call him if I found anything out. I started to say the same, but what was the point? Shields disappeared into the office building like he’d just remember he had more work to do.

I got in the car, made sure my wallet was safe, and plugged in my phone for a charge.

I was home in no time. Hector’s driveway was empty. I could have used a shower, but I needed sleep worse.

I turned the A/C to 65 and stripped down to my briefs, then flipped the mini-blinds in my bedroom all the way up to keep out the sunlight. I plugged the phone in to keep charging, but switched off the ringer.
 

I wanted to call Val and tell her I was home safe, and that I’d finally made up my mind that I was done with this case. But that would have to wait. I needed to sleep, and sleep I did.

And I slept well.

I don’t think I had any dreams during my nap, though when I woke up, I thought I was dreaming. That was because I heard a man speaking. At first, I didn’t know what he was saying. I thought it was thundering again—a thunder I didn’t like. As I clung to sleep, I heard him repeating my name over and over again.
 

I told myself it wasn’t a dream—it was a man’s voice. I opened my eyes, and then I realized there was a man in my bedroom.

“You are a deep sleeper, Mr. Porter,” he said.

I gained focus, realized my head was splitting with pain.

“You are a deep sleeper, indeed.”

I quickly sat up. Opened my nightstand and reached for the Sig. It wasn’t there.

He raised the box, like he was offering me chocolate. “Don’t worry, Mr. Porter. If we wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

He squinted through his glasses, and I realized why he looked familiar.

He was the guy I’d seen scoping out Scalzo’s funeral.

The man C-Rod had warned me was a cold-blooded killer.

“Can I offer you tea?” he asked, like a perfect gentleman.

“How’d you get in?” I said.

“Then how about coffee?”

I sat up. “Naproxen? There should be some in my bathroom.”

He closed the box to the Sig and handed it back to me, but not before showing that me he had his own piece. The chrome barrel almost glowed in the dim light of my bedroom; a .38 was my best guess. He used it to gesture for me to stand. “Lead the way,” he said.
 

I lumbered out of bed. I actually felt better than I’d expected; the vertigo had improved, probably from eating and catching up on sleep. But standing worked like a drum for the pain.

“Cover yourself, please.”
 
He pointed the gun to my midriff.

My briefs were not getting the job done. “I need to pee, too.”

“I said, lead the way.”

I took easy steps through the hallway. He was close behind, keeping the gun a polite distance behind me.
 

I reached the john and made a ruckus in the bowl.

“Where’s the medicine you wanted?” he asked.

I had to put a hand against the facing wall to balance myself. This was going to be a long one. “In there.” I nodded toward the medicine cabinet.

He opened the door, scanned the shelves for weaponry, and found my generic pain reliever. He set it on the sink counter.
 

I finally finished at the toilet and moved over to the sink, where I started washing my hands. I could see him in the mirror, watching my every move. I’d forgotten about my face, my shave. After a few more hours of whisker growth, the patchiness looked even worse. I considered whether I should shave it all clean and start afresh, or let it grow and then even it out.
 

The razor I used to trim my cheeks sat in a puddle of soap scum. It wouldn’t do much against a .38, and I didn’t feel up for testing my body at the moment. Besides, he did have a point: if he wanted me dead, he could have killed me while I slept. That wasn’t to say he didn’t plan on killing me after I answered a few questions for him. Nonetheless, nothing about the situation suggested that my demise was imminent. I’d see where the current took me.

I popped open the pill bottle, water still running, and poured a few into my hands. I meant to take two, but a third fell out. No harm in an extra one, given how I felt. I threw them down the hatch and chased them with a tug of tap water. Then I turned off the faucet and patted my hands and face dry.
 

I turned to my guest, shaking my shoulder. “You mind helping me check my wounds?”

He looked queasy. “I do not like the sight of blood.”

“That must be a bit of a handicap in your line of work.”

“It requires some adjustments. Now, how about that tea?”

He sat at my kitchen table while I brewed the tea. I asked him to forgive me, but I had no teapot, and the only tea I kept on hand was a box of green tea that Val made me drink because she’d read it was good for men’s health.
 

He said green tea would be fine, so I nuked two cups of water to a soft boil, and then dropped two teabags in each mug. “Care for honey?” I asked.