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Chapter 123
AS I LEFT THE HOSPITAL with Jacobi, my mind flashed back and leaped forward.
Garza and Engstrom.
Garza and O’Mara.
Imagine the possibilities.
We got into the car, Jacobi taking the wheel, starting the engine. I was feeling the charge that comes when you’re this close to landing a big one. It’s like listening to a live concert and wanting to take to the stage and sing.
Only this was better.
“Cindy was at the trial when Garza was on the stand,” I told Jacobi. “O’Mara asked Garza if he had anything to do with the plaintiffs’ deaths. And get this, Jacobi. Garza took the Fifth Amendment.”
“That makes no sense,” Jacobi said, turning the car onto Leavenworth. “Garza wasn’t on trial.”
“Right. And Cindy’s reaction was ‘Wow. The guy was protecting himself from something.’ She told me that when he blurted that out, it was the turning point of the trial. He devastated the hospital’s defense.”
“So did O’Mara trip him up? Let him twist in the wind? Or did he do that all by himself?”
“Interesting question, Jacobi. I wonder who is letting who twist in the wind. Both of Garza’s girlfriends were involved in the case against Municipal.”
I grabbed the dash as Jacobi took a hard right onto Filbert Street.
“It’s all here, but I can’t quite see the whole picture. If Garza killed all of those people, where’s the connection?”
Jacobi parked in front of Garza’s creamy-yellow stucco house and turned off the ignition.
“Let’s go ask the doctor,” said Jacobi.
Chapter 124
JACOBI GRUNTED AS HE hauled himself out of the squad car. I joined him on the sidewalk, both of us shielding our eyes against the sun as we stared up at Garza’s spiffy three-story stucco house with a large front porch and cropped lawn on both sides of a flagstone walk.
I was thinking of Garza, wondering if he had some kind of relationship with a Haitian nurse by the name of Marie St. Germaine, when Jacobi stooped along the walkway, saying, “Lookit here, Boxer.”
He pointed out drops of blood on the path, the beginning of a trail speckling the walkway and beading up on the painted floor of the porch. A bloody smear sullied the shining brass doorknob.
“This is fresh,” Jacobi muttered.
Thoughts of interviewing Garza blew out of my mind.
What the hell had happened here?
I pressed the doorbell. At the same time, I took out my gun; so did Jacobi.
Chimes rang out, and the seconds dragged by as we waited for the answering sound of footsteps.
No one came to the door.
I banged on the door with my fist.
“Open up! This is the police.”
“I’m calling this ‘exigent circumstances,’” I said to Jacobi. It was a borderline call. We can only enter a home without a warrant if someone’s life is in danger.
There wasn’t a lot of blood. Maybe someone had cut a finger, but I had an overpowering sense that something was wrong. That we had to get into the house right now.
