“Until this morning, I hadn’t seen her in six or seven months.”
They tried to stonewall it, but Corso could see the surprise in their eyes.
“This morning?” Hamer said.
“Around noon. Maybe a little before.”
“Where was this?”
“The federal courthouse.”
“So you two just ran into one another?”
Corso shrugged. “We were both doing what we do.”
They looked blank.
“The Balagula trial,” Corso said. “I’m writing a book about it. She was there taking pictures. We ran into each other.”
“Just coincidence, huh?” sneered Hamer.
“After all these months,” his partner added.
Corso opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, and turned and walked away instead. At the far end of the dock, a pair of mallard ducks quacked angrily as they paddled around in the flotsam and jetsam driven ashore by the storm. Corso pulled open the gate and started up the ramp toward the parking lot. Above the bluster, he could hear the cops jogging along behind as he strode to the top.
Corso was one stride onto the asphalt when Sorenstam stepped in front of him, forcing him to come to an abrupt stop. “Happened around four o’clock,” Sorenstam said. He was so close, Corso could smell his breath mints. He looked over his shoulder. Hamer was tailgating him hard. Corso took a deep breath.
“Let me make this easy on you fellas. At four o’clock this afternoon, I was having drinks with a federal prosecutor named Renee Rogers.”
“Where was this?”
“Vito’s on Madison.”
The cab’s headlights appeared behind a crystal curtain of rain.
“She’s staying at the Madison Renaissance,” Corso said. “Give her a jingle.” He sidestepped out from between the cops and walked away.
9
Tuesday, October 17
9:29 p.m.
W hen Corso slipped through the door, there were three of them in the room with her.
Dougherty lay on her back, tilted halfway up in bed, her head bandaged up like the Mummy. Her black cape hung from a hook on the wall, like some nocturnal flier wounded and brought to ground. There must have been half a dozen tubes coming out of her. Corso winced at the sight.
Standing with her back to the bathroom door, chewing on a knuckle, was a girl of about sixteen, wearing a white uniform and a red-and-white striped apron. Next to the bed stood a pair of orderlies, a yoke of late twenty-somethings, losers spending their boogie nights emptying bedpans. One of them, a redheaded guy already sporting a nice case of male pattern baldness, stood with his hands in his pants pockets, squinting down at the bed, where his partner lifted the side of Dougherty’s hospital gown with the tip of a pen.
“Take a look at this shit,” he whispered to Redhead. “It’s filthy.”
Corso felt his despair turn livid. He crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed Redhead by the collar, and jerked him off his feet, sending him sliding backward across the room on his butt. Another step, and Corso grabbed a double handful of the other guy’s kinky black hair and lifted him to the tips of his toes.
The guy screeched like an owl as Corso slid him across the linoleum and slammed him face first into the back of the door. By the time Corso dragged him back and pulled open the door, the guy’s knees had gone slack and the screeching had turned into little more than a wet gurgle. With his left hand still in the guy’s hair, Corso grabbed him by the belt and lofted him out into the hall on a fly. When the door swung shut, a red stain decorated the inside.
Corso pointed at Redhead and the candy striper. “This is no freak show,” he said. “I see anything like that going on again, and it’s you motherfuckers who’re gonna need intensive care. You hear me?”
Between gulps, Redhead managed a tentative nod. Candy Striper was now sobbing and gnawing on her entire fist.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Corso said.
They kept their eyes locked on Corso and their backs against the wall as they sidestepped their way
They tried to stonewall it, but Corso could see the surprise in their eyes.
“This morning?” Hamer said.
“Around noon. Maybe a little before.”
“Where was this?”
“The federal courthouse.”
“So you two just ran into one another?”
Corso shrugged. “We were both doing what we do.”
They looked blank.
“The Balagula trial,” Corso said. “I’m writing a book about it. She was there taking pictures. We ran into each other.”
“Just coincidence, huh?” sneered Hamer.
“After all these months,” his partner added.
Corso opened his mouth to speak, changed his mind, and turned and walked away instead. At the far end of the dock, a pair of mallard ducks quacked angrily as they paddled around in the flotsam and jetsam driven ashore by the storm. Corso pulled open the gate and started up the ramp toward the parking lot. Above the bluster, he could hear the cops jogging along behind as he strode to the top.
Corso was one stride onto the asphalt when Sorenstam stepped in front of him, forcing him to come to an abrupt stop. “Happened around four o’clock,” Sorenstam said. He was so close, Corso could smell his breath mints. He looked over his shoulder. Hamer was tailgating him hard. Corso took a deep breath.
“Let me make this easy on you fellas. At four o’clock this afternoon, I was having drinks with a federal prosecutor named Renee Rogers.”
“Where was this?”
“Vito’s on Madison.”
The cab’s headlights appeared behind a crystal curtain of rain.
“She’s staying at the Madison Renaissance,” Corso said. “Give her a jingle.” He sidestepped out from between the cops and walked away.
9
Tuesday, October 17
9:29 p.m.
W hen Corso slipped through the door, there were three of them in the room with her.
Dougherty lay on her back, tilted halfway up in bed, her head bandaged up like the Mummy. Her black cape hung from a hook on the wall, like some nocturnal flier wounded and brought to ground. There must have been half a dozen tubes coming out of her. Corso winced at the sight.
Standing with her back to the bathroom door, chewing on a knuckle, was a girl of about sixteen, wearing a white uniform and a red-and-white striped apron. Next to the bed stood a pair of orderlies, a yoke of late twenty-somethings, losers spending their boogie nights emptying bedpans. One of them, a redheaded guy already sporting a nice case of male pattern baldness, stood with his hands in his pants pockets, squinting down at the bed, where his partner lifted the side of Dougherty’s hospital gown with the tip of a pen.
“Take a look at this shit,” he whispered to Redhead. “It’s filthy.”
Corso felt his despair turn livid. He crossed the room in four long strides, grabbed Redhead by the collar, and jerked him off his feet, sending him sliding backward across the room on his butt. Another step, and Corso grabbed a double handful of the other guy’s kinky black hair and lifted him to the tips of his toes.
The guy screeched like an owl as Corso slid him across the linoleum and slammed him face first into the back of the door. By the time Corso dragged him back and pulled open the door, the guy’s knees had gone slack and the screeching had turned into little more than a wet gurgle. With his left hand still in the guy’s hair, Corso grabbed him by the belt and lofted him out into the hall on a fly. When the door swung shut, a red stain decorated the inside.
Corso pointed at Redhead and the candy striper. “This is no freak show,” he said. “I see anything like that going on again, and it’s you motherfuckers who’re gonna need intensive care. You hear me?”
Between gulps, Redhead managed a tentative nod. Candy Striper was now sobbing and gnawing on her entire fist.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Corso said.
They kept their eyes locked on Corso and their backs against the wall as they sidestepped their way
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