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44
Kent
Bellevue Hospital
Thursday
Kent couldn’t move, couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t see. Was he blind? Where was he? Were those voices he heard? Yes, a woman’s voice, and two men’s, calm, ordinary voices, workaday voices, like a team, calling out numbers, saying words he didn’t understand. There was something in his throat, a machine hissing in and out, like a bellows. He realized his brain was working even though his body was elsewhere. Should he be afraid? Before he could decide, his thoughts turned fluid, flowed in no particular direction, gently, slowly. He saw his grandmother, Kiki, smiling at him, her gold molar on display. He hoped she was all right, but no, she’d died, hadn’t she? Some time ago? He couldn’t remember how long, not that it mattered. He heard the machine huffing, in and out, in and out, and he let himself fall into the steady rhythm. Everything seemed to soften, as if he were floating on a cloud, content as he drifted. He knew nothing could hurt him here, wherever here was. He wondered if he was Snake, wondered if he’d sink into the cloud or draw his sword. No, he wasn’t Snake, he really wasn’t. He was himself. He heard a man’s urgent voice, “Blood pressure’s dropping!”
He saw Kiki again, on her knees in front of him, pulling his arms through the sleeves of his winter jacket. She smelled like strawberries. She always smelled like strawberries. She kissed him, laughed, kissed him again. He felt the sweetness on his cheek.
Mia
Mia heard a man nearly snarling as she, Tommy, and Juliet approached the surgery waiting room and stopped to listen.
“You’re telling me, Special Agent Sherlock, you were really there, as in right on the spot, and you watched Mr. Kent Harper get shot? The FBI ordered you to be there, watching him?”
Sherlock’s voice was lower, controlled, but Tommy heard the frustration boiling below the surface. He bet she wanted to punch the guy’s lights out. “Detective Hoolihan, as I’ve told you, Mr. Harper is a person of interest in a rape and murder investigation from seven years ago involving the FBI. As I told you, it wasn’t a formal op, I was doing a favor, all right? Keeping an eye on him, ready to follow him if he ran.”
Out came a snarl, fast and sarcastic. “Didn’t do such a good job, did you, Agent Sherlock? Yeah, I know who you are, but you didn’t shine very bright tonight, did you? I’m thinking you being there was probably what got him shot in the first place. The guy takes two bullets in the back with you sucking your thumb fifty feet away?”
They didn’t hear what Sherlock said because his voice was louder and overrode hers. “And you’re actually telling me Alex Harrington is involved? In rape and murder? Kent Harper’s in the papers now and then, but Harrington is running for mayor of New York City. Lady—smack my disrespectful mouth, I mean Special Agent Sherlock—cool your heels, try not to get anyone else shot. I’ve got to make some calls, get this going up to the big brass, see where they want to steer this boat. Then you’re going to give me every single detail. You and those people you say you’re working with, as soon as they arrive.”
“That’s our cue,” Tommy said, and the three of them walked into the waiting room to see a tall, stick-thin man in a rumpled suit, cruising close to sixty, his head bald as an egg, shining bright beneath the fluorescent light. He was standing maybe a foot in front of Sherlock, in her face, dismissive and impatient, a sneer on his thin lips, trying to intimidate her. Good luck with that. Tommy saw Sherlock was holding on to her patience and realized she was blaming herself for allowing Kent Harper to be shot, and that was why she hadn’t taken the detective apart. She felt guilty.
Tommy said in a deep, authoritative voice, “Detective Hoolihan? We’re the three who can tell you everything you like. I’m Special Agent Thomas Maitland, FBI.” He introduced Mia and Juliet.
Hoolihan turned to them slowly, nodded toward Mia and Juliet, eyed Tommy. “You freaking feds always travel in packs, don’t you? This one”—he shook his head in Sherlock’s direction—“tells me the New York City mayoral candidate Alex Harrington is not only a suspect, along with the guy who’s in surgery with two bullets in his back, but that candidate Harrington himself might have even been the one who shot him, afraid the guy would roll on him? Let’s give the poor schmuck a name—Kent Harper. As to her”—he gave Sherlock a dismissive glance—“I hope you’re going to tell me you’ve never seen her before and she’s barking nuts. Yeah, sure, I know who she is, who cares?” He ran his hand over his bald head, a longtime habit, back from when he had hair.
Tommy said calmly, stepping closer to look Hoolihan in the eye, “If you know about Agent Sherlock, you know she’s brave as a lion, which should make you realize there had to be circumstances outside her control. I also overheard you’ll be calling your lieutenant, who will of course contact his captain, and up it goes to police commissioner—”
Hoolihan looked pained as he said, “Up to the freaking current mayor.” He glanced at Sherlock. “Circumstances? She admitted she screwed up.”
Tommy continued, “You probably would have, too, if you’d been on her watch and in her shoes.”
“She shouldn’t have been alone!”
Sherlock said, “Detective Hoolihan is right. I should have known it was possible, Tommy, but I didn’t think it through. If Harper dies, it’s on my head.”
Mia wasn’t about to remind her that both she and Juliet had wanted to go with Sherlock and she’d been appalled to think of taking two civilians on a stakeout. Would there have been a different outcome? Very likely not.
Tommy said simply, “Then it’s on our heads as well; none of us gave a thought to there being a real threat, just Harper running. What’s done is done. Stop wallowing or I’ll call Savich and he’ll read you the riot act.”
“I already did,” Sherlock said, frowning. “I got his voice mail and that’s never happened before.”
Tommy turned back to Hoolihan. “There’s going to be a huge ruckus and the mayor will decide how to deal with it. He needs as much warning as he can get.” Tommy looked down at his watch.
Hoolihan wanted to punch this good-looking kid who looked to be younger than his own son. “When I get back, the four of you better be here.” He wagged a finger at all of them, turned on his heel, and marched out of the room, cursing under his breath, his cell phone in his hand.
Tommy said, “Sherlock, tell us what happened before our charming Detective Hoolihan comes back.”
Juliet was looking after him, clearly bewildered. “I don’t understand. He’s a cop. Just like you guys are cops. Why is he being a jerk?”
Sherlock said on a short laugh, “Territorial rights, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be happy either since, as I said, it’s my fault Harper got shot. This is a local matter now, as he sees it, no reason for the federales to stick their big noses in. Come, sit down and I’ll tell you what happened.”
Juliet thought Sherlock looked both exhausted and angry, with blood splattered all over her white shirt, black and stiff. She ran her fingers through her beautiful curly hair, making a clump stick up. Like Sherlock, Juliet still couldn’t believe Kent had been shot, couldn’t believe he could die. And how could he live with two bullets in his back? She knew Mia was as shocked as she was. She watched mesmerized as Sherlock picked at the dried blood on her blouse. What would she do if she was covered with someone else’s blood? Kent being shot was real. Juliet had to get her brain around it. It was too much, really too much.
Sherlock said, “Before I tell you what happened, did anyone tell you about Harper’s condition?”
