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I said, “Can you describe the cement mixer?”
Grant cracked a giddy oxy grin.
“I think I’m starting to like you.”
The feeling was not mutual. I took out my notepad and let Conklin run the interview. Even doped up, Mr. Grant was a blithe fast-talker.
“Last night. I opened the back door and went for a walk. I don’t know how they saw me, but a bag went over my head. Made of cloth. A hood, I guess you’d call it. Then I was punched. Thrown down. Kicked everywhere. I screamed. Pretty sure I must have screamed very damned loud,” said Grant. “I must have passed out. I woke up a couple blocks up on Hollister Avenue behind some garbage cans. I still had my phone. I called the cops. And here I am.”
The jerk had slipped away from the cops assigned for his protection.
I pictured Grant’s neighborhood, the featureless buildings, dim lighting, the entire area on the fringe of the vibrant city of San Francisco. This was how and where the science teacher wanted to live—isolated, so that his neighbors wouldn’t object to things that went kaboom in the night.
Conklin talked to Grant some more. Asked some of the questions over again, looking for discrepancies, locking his story in. He prodded and probed in his disarming way, but there was nothing to learn. The mad science teacher hadn’t seen his assailants. They hadn’t spoken to him, they hadn’t smelled like anything, and they hadn’t poked him with a gun.
He said, “For some reason I’m still alive. I think I’m going to be released tomorrow.”
Conklin said, “Feel better,” and I added, “Please, Mr. Grant. Check into a hotel.”
We left a pair of cops at Grant’s hospital door and were heading back to the Hall to brief Brady on our “No news, no leads, not much of anything to report, Lieu” kind of day when we reached the elevator bank and the doors opened.
Elise Antonelli stepped out.
“Visiting my client?” she asked.
“It was a professional call,” I said.
Antonelli said, “I think he’s going to be all right. We’ve been talking about you, Sergeant.”
“Only saying nice things, I guess.”
Antonelli laughed. “You’ll be hearing from me soon,” she said, then she lifted her hand in a wave and headed toward Grant’s room.
“What the hell was that?” Conklin asked. He jabbed the elevator button repeatedly and hard until the doors finally opened. We got inside.
“Any idea?” my partner asked.
“I don’t know what she was talking about,” I said. “And I don’t like the way she said it.”
CHAPTER 64
IT WAS AFTER lights-out time at the Loony Bin.
Inside the ward, Neddie was in his favorite sleeping position when Mikey said from the next bed, “I can’t sleep.”
Neddie was so charged up with recent memories, he couldn’t sleep, either.
“Tell me the story,” said Mikey.
“You want me to start at the castle?”
“Okay … no,” Mike said. “Start at the beginning.”
“Scooch over,” said Neddie Lambo.
Mike shouted, “Scooch,” and pushed his bed up to Neddie’s and got back under the covers. The traffic outside on Hyde Street splashed the walls with soft streaks of light. Around Mike and Neddie, the other patients in Ward Six were in various stages of sleep.
“Go on,” said Mike. “I’m ready, Neddie.”
