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“The medical examiner is doing a full workup. She hasn’t determined the cause of death.” That was pretty much true.
I asked Nugent questions about his travel plans, the state of his marriage, and if either he or his wife had been harassed in person, on the phone, or on the internet.
The bereaved man had no answers, and after he put down his empty glass, he had zero ability to focus. The manager had a bellman take him to his room, and Rich and I talked about the work we had in front of us: checking Nugent’s financials, his insurance policies, his internet life. But I didn’t see anything in this man that would lead me to think he had killed his wife.
We interviewed the day manager and the door and lobby staff, including the doorman who had been on the scene when Mrs. Nugent went down. He was earnest and professional, and he had called 911—but his back had been to the street when the shouting started.
We headed back to the Hall with plans to return in three hours and interview the night staff.
I said to my partner, “We’ve got male victims, female victims. Local folks and out-of-towners. Some that were well off and some that were street sleepers. Were they all victims of opportunity? Does the perp just kill at random?”
Rich turned down the radio. I realized I’d been shouting.
I said it again. “Let’s run Nugent’s name through the computer.”
“Copy that, Captain Obvious.”
Conklin was laughing when Brady called.
“Boxer, you got Conklin with you?”
“He’s right here.”
“Good. Our favorite science teacher was beaten up pretty good last night. He’s conscious and talking. Why don’t you head on over to San Francisco General.”
CHAPTER 63
CONNOR GRANT WAS lying in a hospital bed, snoring loudly. His eyes were blackened, his nose was taped, and every part of him that I could see was bruised, contused, or abraded. Looked like after he’d been beaten all to hell, he’d been dragged behind a pickup for a couple of miles.
Conklin said, “Shit.”
I grunted my agreement.
Despite my revulsion for Connor Grant, I felt bad for the guy.
But my mind had its own agenda. I flashed on the moment when I saw Joe bei
ng evacuated from Sci-Tron on a stretcher. He’d been almost unrecognizable. I remembered his comatose days, when he’d been straddling a wobbly line between life and death. Even now he was in pain because of this man.
I said, “Mr. Grant?”
I touched his arm and he jolted awake, pulling back as though I was going to hit him.
“Mr. Grant, it’s Sergeant Boxer.”
“Right. I didn’t do it,” he said. “Hand me my glasses?”
They were mangled, and one lens was cracked across the middle, and when he couldn’t lift his left arm, I helped him put them on. Jesus Christ.
Grant asked me for the remote that controlled the bed. I grabbed it, saying, “Tell me when to stop.”
When Grant was in a semi-sitting position, I pulled up a chair and Conklin did the same.
I asked the usual first question: “Can you tell us what happened?”
“I had a hot date with a cement mixer,” Grant said.
The painkiller in his IV bag was giving him quite the funny bone. I played along.
