Don't panic.
Instead, she tried to concentrate on recalling the story she had told exactly the way she had told it. Consistency, that was the key. As an ADA, what she always looked for was somebody telling three different versions of the same event. Because sure as she found it, that somebody was telling a lie.
Deep breath. No, wait, that's too revealing. Just stay cool.
"So?" he asked.
Kate's fingers tightened on the back of the chair until her nails were digging into the leather.
"He pushed me down. I saw a gun on the floor. He dropped his gun. I grabbed the gun on the floor and jumped up and shot him. The bullet hit him right in the middle of the chest."
Kate gave a very real shudder at the very real memory of Rodriguez, being shot. She was almost positive she had the sequence of supposed events right. She even remembered claiming that the safety had been off. Was that what this was about? Had they somehow determined that the safety had really been on? If so, she could ...
"Which hand were you holding the gun in when you fired it?"
For Kate, for a split second, everything stopped. This was an "aha" moment if she had ever had one. It was almost as if in that instant of realization, her life passed before her eyes.
This
was what he was after.
This
was the discrepancy. Because as vividly as she had ever recalled anything in her life, she suddenly recalled that Mario had been holding the gun in his left hand when he shot Rodriguez. That Mario was left-handed. That was why she hadn't noticed the dragon curling around his right wrist in the security corridor. Because he had been using his left hand.
"My left." She only hoped her expression hadn't changed as the awful truth had unspooled through her mind. She didn't think it had; the whole process had been too quick. But even if she was wrong, a changing expression was a hard thing to base an indictment or anything else on.
"You're right-handed, aren't you?"
Something about the surety with which he said it made her frown. Then it hit her.
Of course.
The basketball—he had handed her the bag containing the basketball. And she had taken it from him. With her right hand. Easily and automatically, because she was indeed right-handed.
He had done it deliberately, as a test.
The knowledge burst on her like fireworks exploding in the night sky.
She glared at him, pointed at the door. "That's it. Get out."
He straightened, clearly surprised. "You haven't answered the question."
"And I'm not going to. This conversation is over. And I want you to leave. Right now."
Because she'd been touched at his gift, because she'd thought for a moment that maybe they were friends, because she had allowed herself to imagine that he cared in some small way for Ben and for her, because she'd been wrong and tricked, and it hurt worse than she had ever guessed it could. Stepping out from behind her desk, she stalked toward the door, meaning to open it for him and stand there beside it until he left. But he caught her arm as she went past, swinging her around to face him.
"You're right-handed, Kate."
She jerked her arm free. He was very close, so close she had to look up to meet his eyes. They were dark and angry. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line. His whole expression was grim—which was fine with her.
Grim was a puny thing compared to how savage she felt.
"Keep your hands off me. Get out of my office."
"If there's an explanation for why a right-handed woman would shoot a man with her left hand, I'd like to hear it."
Fuming, she resumed her march toward the door, flinging her response over her shoulder. "Then I guess I'd have to say you're shit out of luck, Detective, because I'm not answering any more of your questions."
"Kate ..."
Reaching the door, she flung it open and turned to face him. "Get out!"
His face was hard. "I'm not the only one who's going to be asking."
"I said,
get out!"
Mona popped out of her office, her eyes wide, her expression startled as she stared down the hall. Behind her, a couple of paralegals who'd been crossing the hall just then turned to look, too. It was only then that Kate heard she was yelling.
Don't cause a scene.
"Is something wrong?" Mona said. Braga was already moving toward the door.
"Detective Braga was just leaving." Ice dripped from Kate's voice. Mona arrived, panting at her elbow, her wide-eyed gaze shifting to the man now practically looming over Kate.
He was so close that Kate could see the fine-grained texture of his skin. His eyes swept her face. She returned his gaze stonily.
Leaning into her, his mouth almost brushing her ear, he whispered, "Just for the record, you're a lousy liar. Your face gives you away every time."
Then, as she sucked in an infuriated breath, he left.
"I have to say it: That man is
fine."
Mona was still wide-eyed as she and Kate both watched him walk away down the hall. "I wish he was whispering in
my
ear."
Kate quit watching Braga to glare at Mona, who flung up both hands.
"Sorry." Mona grimaced apologetically. She cast one more regretful glance after Braga before focusing once again on Kate. "So, what was that all about?"
"Nothing." Mona's expression told Kate that more was definitely required. Unfortunately for Mona, that was just about all she was going to get. "He just overstayed his welcome, is all."
"Uh
-huh."
"Listen, I have work to do." Kate retreated into her office, closing the door in Mona's curious face. Then she leaned against it and closed her eyes.
In the end, she was too shaken up to get anything done. She'd meant to call the detention center back and have someone check to see who had signed the release order on Mario. She'd meant to call a couple of key witnesses who'd been slated to appear in court at her behest tomorrow before the whole schedule got hopelessly mangled and make sure they knew the trials had been postponed. She'd meant to check over the details of a suppression hearing still on the docket for early tomorrow morning, before everything in the judicial system stopped for Judge Moran's, and, later the same day, two of the deputies' funerals. She'd meant to ...
To hell with it. She was going home. A glance at her watch confirmed it: She wouldn't even be leaving early. It was just a few minutes before six o'clock.
For once she picked up her briefcase without bothering to check the contents—something she always did, adding and deleting files so that she had what she needed to work at home after Ben was in bed. The bag containing the basketball was on the floor behind her desk, too. She glanced at it, hesitating. Hating the fact that the reason it had been given to her still bothered her so, she picked that up, too, because if she didn't it would just be sitting there with its bad juju in the morning. Then she headed out. Mona's door was closed, and the light in her office was off, Kate saw as she passed it, and from that she surmised that Mona had left for the day. Bryan's door was closed, but his light was still on, which meant he was still working.
As she neared the end of the hall, Kate got an unpleasant surprise.
Cindy was still seated at her desk, laughing and making big fluttering eyes at the man standing on the other side of it, who didn't see Kate approaching because he had his back to her. Lean-hipped, broad-shouldered, black-haired, tall—there was no mistaking him for anyone else.
Braga.
As she recognized him, Kate felt a swift infusion of mixed hostility and unease.
What's he still doing here?
She didn't like to think. In fact, she wasn't going to think. Whether he was flirting with Cindy or trying to pry information out of her, she just didn't care.
She was physically and emotionally exhausted. And once again scared to death.
Because Mario could be anywhere. And tonight it would be just herself and Ben, on their own.
She shouldn't have let Braga stay last night. Whatever his motives had been—and she was too tired to even try to sort out the possibilities—allowing herself to depend on somebody, even briefly just made it that much worse when that somebody was no longer available.
You knew that. How could you have forgotten?
It was just that she had gotten used to not being scared.
With a quick, silent wave for Cindy—she was too mature to glare at Braga's back—Kate hung a sharp left toward the elevator banks, where about a dozen assorted employees waited. She joined them, responding as needed to greetings and comments without ever really registering what was being said. With luck, she calculated, Braga would never even look around.
Unfortunately, luck didn't seem to be on her side.
"Feel like talking yet?" A moment later, Braga had sidled up behind her, asking the question in a quiet voice that she was pretty sure only she could hear. With her back firmly turned to Cindy and her desk, Kate had been tracking the elevators' positions by watching the numbers over the doors, and never even saw him coming.
Conscious of the potentially listening ears of her sporadically chattering coworkers, Kate didn't respond. Instead, she stared fixedly at the closed elevator doors in front of her. Which, unfortunately, were brass. And reflective. So that she could see him, a little to her left and behind her. Looking at her.
Their eyes met through the brass.
She glared at him.
"Nope," he concluded.
An elevator arrived just then. Kate and everybody else crowded on. Once again, Braga was behind her. And once again, she could see him in the brass.
Damned brass.
When the elevator reached the ground floor, Kate filed out with everyone else. Heading toward the door closest to the underground parking garage beneath the retail space next door where she had left her car, she was annoyed to find Braga right behind her.
"Go away," she said over her shoulder as she pushed through the door, took a dozen steps across the alley between the buildings, and shoved through another door, all with Braga still following.
His reply was mild. "My car's parked in here, too."
Without replying, Kate walked briskly down a short stairwell into the cavernous parking garage. It was six levels deep, a vast, echoing concrete vault that smelled of gas fumes and rubber and was lit by small white lights recessed in the ceiling. The walls were solid, the corners shadowy and dark. Only people with permits were allowed to park here.
She
had a permit. She was almost sure Braga did not, but then cops seemed to be able to park just about wherever they wanted. A few people were in sight, heading along the uppermost level toward their parked cars. It looked to be about half-f, although during business hours there was usually not a spot to be had. Of course, a number of people would already have retrieved their vehicles and headed home. The sound of cars being driven up and down the spiraling ramps echoed throughout the structure. An occasional horn blared. As darkness had fallen—and it was almost full night now—the temperature had dropped. It was even colder in the garage than it was outside, and Kate shivered a little as she headed toward the nearby elevator.
"You want to talk to me, Kate." Braga was right behind her. Of course, he would claim he was heading toward the elevator, too. "Believe it or not, I'm on your side."
"Oh, right." Furiously, she jabbed the elevator button. These doors, thank God, were painted a very unreflective yellow. He might be standing beside her, but she didn't have to look at him. "Does that work on many people? Because I have to tell you, it didn't convince me."
The elevator arrived. It was a small, dingy metal box that smelled of things Kate preferred not to think about. As the doors cranked slowly open, she stepped inside. Braga did, too.
"Maybe you're ambidextrous," Braga said. "You know, I never thought of that."
At his baiting, Kate saw red.
"Go to hell." She turned on him, her voice fierce. "And take your damned ball with you."
She thrust the bag containing the ball at him. Surprised, he took it. Then she turned and stepped back through the narrow fissure in the closing doors. The opening was now way too small for him to follow— she hoped. He lunged for the elevator button. The doors closed.
Hah.
Her last glimpse of him found him jabbing at the button and looking after her in frustration.
Just to make sure he didn't catch up with her again, she turned and ran down two flights of fire stairs to the third level, where she had left her car. The place was so silent now, her footsteps echoed in her ears; the chilly gloom of all that empty concrete made her shiver. As she power-walked to her car, it occurred to her that Braga might come looking for her, but since—presumably—he had no idea where she had parked, he was unlikely to find her before she could get in her car and drive away. And if he had the gall to show up at her house later, she would order him to leave.
If she had anything to say about it, she would never speak to him again.
Still fuming, she clicked the unlock button, opened the door, chucked her briefcase into the passenger seat as she got in, then started the engine and backed out of the space. Changing direction, heading toward the ramp that led up and out, she was just noticing how very eerie and deserted the third level really was when she sensed—not saw but sensed—movement in the backseat.
Glancing compulsively over her shoulder, she almost jumped out of her skin when she saw Mario levering himself up off the floorboard.
C h a p t e r 20
KATE SQUEAKED. It would have been a scream, but she caught herself before the full force of the shriek that instinctively burst from her lungs could get out.
"Holy shit, watch where you're going!" Mario yelped, planting his butt in the center of the backseat and bracing himself against the front passenger seat with one arm. In the tight confines of the small car, that was way too close for Kate.