Split Second (20 page)

CHAPTER 45

Savich said to Ruth as he slipped another hospital pillow under Sherlock’s head, “When Mr. Maitland got off the phone with Director Mueller tonight, he said the director wasn’t pleased, and that’s a whopper of an understatement. He can’t figure out how it all got so screwed up. I told Mr. Maitland I was having a hard time figuring that out, too, except then a huge herd of drunk people stampeding around flashed clear in my mind. Luckily, Mr. Maitland said he wouldn’t let the director reassign the case.”

His heart nearly stopped when Sherlock said clearly, “I should have taken her down in the bar.”

Not in this lifetime.
Savich smiled, leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Next time I’m thinking knockout gas for the whole bar, everyone down and out, including Kirsten and Comafield. How do you feel, sweetheart?”

She thought about it. “Like my throat is on fire and someone hollowed out my stomach with a big scoop. What’d they do to me?”

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that,” he said. “Go back to sleep, okay? You’ll feel fine in the morning.” To his surprise and relief, she did. She whispered something, but he couldn’t make out the words. He’d wanted to ask her how she could drink that beer, knowing it was drugged, but that could wait.

Savich left Ruth to keep watch over Sherlock and walked to the waiting room to talk to the agents sitting there, drinking coffee and looking flat-out depressed. He said, “Look, guys, there’s no reason for you to hang around any longer. It’s after two in the morning. Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see everyone tomorrow at the office. Don’t forget to make all your bedtime prayers for Comafield’s continued existence on this planet. He’s our one precious lead. We’ll discuss the operation tomorrow.”

Jack Crowne said, “The plan was fine, except for that mob of people, most of them so drunk they barely realized they could have been shot dead.”

“We couldn’t have worked it any worse,” Ollie Hamish said.

Jack’s cell blasted out toe-tapping salsa. It was his fiancée, Rachel. He was smiling a little as he said hello to her and walked out of the waiting room.

No one left. They spent the next hour going over every detail of what happened, what they could have done differently, until all of them were so tired they couldn’t think of anything intelligent to say.

At three a.m. Dr. Oliver Pendergrass, his green scrubs dotted with blood, strode into the waiting room. In a surprising British accent, he said immediately, “He made it through surgery.”

There was a collective sigh of relief.

Dr. Pendergrass continued: “It amazes me what damage a single small bullet can do to the human body. That scrap of metal caused a great deal of injured bowel, I’m afraid, and I had to remove a good length of it. We’ll see how he does. The major risk now is overwhelming infection, in his belly and in his blood. The next few days will tell.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Savich said. “You and your staff should be aware there will be police at his door and in the hospital during his stay.”

Dr. Pendergrass said, “Yes, I thought as much. By the way, the anesthesiologist said Mr. Comafield was involved with this woman I’ve seen plastered all over the TV—Ted Bundy’s daughter?”

“That’s right,” Savich said. “I know it’s tough to get your brain around that one.”

Dr. Pendergrass said, “Involved how? Is he related to her in some way?”

Ruth said, “Not related but involved, I guess is the best word, and that’s why it’s so important he live—we’re hoping he can tell us where to find her.”

Savich asked, “When do you think he’ll be able to talk to us, Dr. Pendergrass?”

Dr. Pendergrass turned to him. “Sorry, Agent Savich, but he’s been in recovery only five minutes.” He looked down at his oversized watch. “I’d say he might be fully conscious soon, but I doubt he will have his brain together enough to answer your questions. Why don’t you get some sleep and come back here maybe six hours from now?”

Savich wasn’t about to leave Sherlock, but he ordered the rest of the agents home. He had no worries about Sean, who was sleeping at Simon and Lily’s house.

One by one, they rose and shrugged into their coats. “Go home. I want you guys fresh tomorrow, your brains in gear. Don’t come back here, go on into the office about noon. I’ll be there when I can. Coop, you and Lucy meet me here at nine, but call me first to make sure Comafield is still breathing.”

Savich walked back to Sherlock’s room, listened to her even breathing for a while, then eyed the big chair beside her bed. No reason he couldn’t snooze for a while.

He fell asleep immediately, her hand lying limply in his.

CHAPTER 46

Thursday morning

Sherlock’s voice was raw. “I’d planned to pour the drugged beer on the floor beside my bar stool. There were so many people weaving around, dancing, singing, I thought I could pull it off. But then I saw Comafield staring at me, not only that, but Kirsten moved closer to me, no more than six inches away. I couldn’t toss it. If I’d tried to lip it, she’d have seen, so I had to drink it, no choice, but I didn’t drink very much.”

Savich wanted to tell her she should have called the whole thing off, simply left, but he kept his mouth shut. She’d made a judgment call. If they’d all done what they were supposed to do, her decision would have led to catching Bundy’s daughter.

Sherlock continued, “I was feeling pretty bad by the time we got outside. I don’t know if you saw me, but I hit her as hard as I could, pathetic though that was. At least I caught her by surprise, knocked her down, pulled my gun, and then everything went south. Where does that expression come from, Dillon? Then I remember being on the sidewalk, throwing up and wanting to die. I realize now that only a few seconds passed, but I’ll tell you, it seemed like hours. What really happened?”

Coop and Lucy stood on the opposite side of the bed, not looking too bad, considering they’d had maybe four hours of sleep. Coop gave her a running commentary on the havoc and the mayhem, until he got to where Sherlock had refused to drop her gun, even with Billy the Cop hanging all over her and feeling like she was going to die. He paused, wiggled his eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Spit it out, Coop, or I’ll deck you, maybe tomorrow. What happened then?” She rubbed her throat. She sounded like a frog, but the soreness was down and the hospital tapioca had settled nicely in her empty stomach. A nurse had told her cheerfully that she’d had her stomach pumped. So stomach lavage was “
the little bit of this, little bit of that”
her husband had told her about. She suddenly wasn’t so sure about the tapioca.

Coop told her about the gunshots after Comafield blew out of the alleyway, protected from return fire by the crowd, and how Savich had managed to put the bullet in his belly while on the run.

Sherlock felt her body creak with effort to push the stupid button that raised the bed so she could look at everyone straight on. When Savich would have helped her, she shook her head. She could do this. Once she was sitting up, she said, “What happened to Billy the Cop? I remember he was yelling at me, waving a Beretta around.”

Lucy said, “Full name’s William Benedict, and he’s a longtime homicide detective with the Baltimore Police Department. The Texas Range Bar and Grill is his neighborhood bar, been going there for years. He went after you, Sherlock, because you had a gun on Kirsten, but then, thank goodness, he realized what was happening. He took a bullet instead, but he’ll be fine. I heard him laughing this morning as I walked down the hall, talking about Gator and his freaking bat. What a story he has to tell his buds.”

Savich glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m off to see Bruce Comafield. Coop, Lucy, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think it’s best I speak to him alone. You guys stay here—if I need you, I’ll call.”

When Savich saw they would both argue, he raised his hand. “Look, we need information, and we need it now, with no messing around. I’m going to question him. Trust me, okay?” He didn’t tell them that he’d already asked Dr. Pendergrass to cut down Comafield’s morphine, told him exactly why. Savich wanted him awake and on the edge, if possible.

Bruce Comafield was in a small glass-fronted room in the ICU on the third floor. An FBI agent was seated at his door, his legs crossed, a magazine unopened on his lap.

“Hi, John,” Savich said to Agent Frish. “Anything interesting?”

“Nope, if by that you mean Kirsten Bolger waltzing by, maybe to shoot him to keep him quiet.”

Savich smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“Nope, not a whiff of her.”

“Keep a sharp eye, okay?”

“You’d better believe it. I wouldn’t want to get taken down by that crazy-ass woman.”

Savich stood in the doorway for a moment, staring over at Bruce Comafield. There were lines running into his arms, a line running under the hospital blanket. He had an oxygen clip in his nose, and he was awake, moaning, his eyes closed, turning his head back and forth on the flat pillow.

He wasn’t in happyland.
Good.

Savich didn’t say anything, simply walked to his bedside and looked down at him. Slowly, Comafield became aware of him, turned his head back, and opened his eyes to look up at him.

Comafield whispered, “You were one of the agents at the Willard, to speak to Lansford.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m pleased you recognize me. If you forgot my name, it’s Special Agent Savich, FBI.”

“You shot me.”

“Yes. I’m pleased you’re still alive, Bruce.”

“Not for long. They’re going to let me die of pain. If I turn my head I can see all the nurses out there at that big counter. I keep ringing for a nurse, but none of them come. Dear God, it’s horrible. Tell them I need some pain meds.”

Savich leaned down close. “Tell me where Kirsten is, and I’ll make sure you get more morphine.”

Comafield tried to spit at him, a stupid thing to do, since he didn’t have the strength to lift his head, and it hurt even to try, and the spit ran down his chin. He cursed the spit, cursed Savich, cursed fate. “Kirsten knows who you are, too, you bastard. She’s going to kill you; she’s going to execute you. It was a little promise we made to each other. Whoever brought one of us down is not going to live. So, you’re a dead man. She’s going to watch you die, count on it.”

“Where is she, Bruce?”

“Look over your shoulder if you want to find her. She’ll be looking for you.”

“That’s not going to cut it, Bruce.”

He closed his mouth and stared toward the pale green wall opposite his bed.

Savich leaned close, watched Comafield’s eyes dance madly with pain. “You want more morphine, Bruce? The only way you’ll get it is for you to tell me where Kirsten is hiding.”

Comafield’s dark eyes turned black, rage boiling up. He whispered, voice shaking, “You can’t do that. You think I’m stupid? You’re the law; you can’t torture me.”

“You let Kirsten torture all those women she butchered. Did you help her jerk a wire around their necks, pull it tight while your victims were helpless from the drug she’d fed them?”

“That’s different! How’d you even know about me?”

“A very sharp guy in New York described you very well. You know, the guy Kirsten set up to take the fall at Enrico’s Bar?”

Comafield knew; of course he knew.

Savich leaned close again. “I liked you better with hair. I’ve got to say, though, you fooled me. I never saw you go in the bar, and believe me, I was looking.”

“Yeah, I stuck myself right in the middle of a happy group, and hooked up with this little blonde. We waltzed right in. I’m always careful now—real careful after New York.”

He managed to preen through the pain. Savich leaned close. “Now that you had your little rush, I can see the pain’s really getting to you. Tell me where Kirsten is, and I’ll get you a ticket on the morphine express.”

At Comafield’s silence, Savich turned away from him. He walked over to the single window and looked down into the parking lot. It was nearly full at a little after nine o’clock in the morning. It was a gray day, clouds swirling low, the wind blowing fiercely. He was glad he’d put up the Porsche’s top. He began whistling.

He admitted to himself that he felt great relief when Comafield cursed him again, finally nodded, and whispered, “All right. Morphine, get me morphine.”

He gave Comafield a long look before he got Nurse Harmony, a lovely name for a nurse, Savich thought, and she nodded, said she’d just as soon leave the killer to rot. Comafield watched her hook up an infusion device to his IV. Every fifteen minutes he could press the button, she told him. When she left, he was frantically pushing the button, his eyes closed.

Savich walked back to the window, and waited.

It was Comafield who spoke first. “Like I said, you’ll never find her; she’ll be the one to find you. So, it doesn’t matter that you know where we were staying—at the Handler’s Inn on Chestnut. Hey, the room is one-fifty-one. Go search our room to the rafters, you won’t find anything, and believe me, Kirsten won’t care, she’ll be long gone.”

And he gave Savich a malicious smile, proof that the morphine was kicking in. “Why do you care, anyway? You’re going to be dead.”

“The two of you didn’t discuss where you were going after Baltimore?”

“Nope, she hadn’t decided.” Comafield actually gave Savich a small grin. “She told me her daddy was guiding her steps. Then she’d laugh and say, well, mainly it was her daddy.”

“What did she mean by that?”

“I don’t know exactly, but sometimes she’d talk on her cell phone, never told me who she was talking to.”

“Did you hold down the women while she strangled them with the wire?”

“No, that was her deal. She said her daddy always worked alone, and so would she, at least at the denouement. That’s what she called it—
the denouement.
She liked to say she not only wrote the scripts, she was the lead actress, and she wasn’t about to share that with anyone, even me. The denouement was always just her and the pathetic female she’d chosen to dance with.

“When I was working for Lansford, she’d call my cell, tell me where to meet her.” He shrugged, but it hurt and he grew very still.

After several minutes, he spoke again. “I met her in New York on Sunday, checked out Enrico’s that night. We left Monday night, after Kirsten was done with Genny, to drive here. We only had two nights together, and now she’s gone from me.”

Genny—Comafield had called Kirsten’s victim by her first name, like she was a friend.

“I really tried to hate Lansford, because Kirsten did, but when he finally accepted his political future was wrecked, I kind of felt sorry for him. The old bastard. She told me how he was terrified of her, she could see it in his eyes, and she’d laugh.”

“Is that how you met Kirsten? Through her stepfather?”

“It was back three years ago.” He stilled a moment, then said, “I’d seen her before, at his office once or twice, but never met her. She didn’t live at home, but she crashed there occasionally, for the fun of it, she told me, to think about her mother going into her old room and wondering.

“But one time I couldn’t sleep even though it was really late. I looked out the window, saw Kirsten unlock the back door and slip inside. I snuck down to her, saw she was covered in blood and she was smiling so wide I could see her molars. And you want to know what? All she had to do was say my name and we ran back to my room. I tore those bloody clothes off her, and we had at it until I heard people moving around the next morning.”

“Do you know who she killed that night?”

“I know her first name was Arnette. Kirsten kept saying it over and over, said it sounded tasty on her tongue. I think her last name had something with a rug—Carpenter, that was it. She was a model, like Kirsten, and a pretend artist, Kirsten said. Kirsten despised her because she was a fake and a snob, said she had put her lights out right and proper, and she deserved it.

“We were together whenever possible from then on.”

“Did you know when she killed other women? Did she come to you afterward?”

“If she killed anybody else, she didn’t tell me. I never got to see her come in fresh from a kill again until—well, until she left San Francisco. I realized I missed it, missed the planning of it, watching her work the woman at the bar, watching her change her hair and her role whenever she stepped in to put her name on another lady’s dance card. I was her front man, always checked things out, kept an eye on what was going on while she was working. She never made a mistake until last night, with that redhead. I thought when she hooked up with that redheaded girl, she’d really hit the jackpot. I’ve never before seen her so involved; she was nearly thrumming with excitement—”

“With the thought of killing her?”

“Of course.”

Savich held himself still as a statue, couldn’t trust himself not to rip the IV lines from Comafield’s body. To listen to him talk so calmly about murdering Sherlock. He said very quietly, “The redhead is my wife. They had to pump her stomach.”

Comafield stared at him for a moment, then grinned. “Go figure that. That girl really is your wife? So she was in on the setup, too,” and he fell silent again.

Savich smoothed himself out. He didn’t know why he’d even told Comafield; it had just come out. He said, “Since you worked for Lansford, you couldn’t see her all that often when she left San Francisco.”

“Yeah, since I had to stick with him, it was difficult to get away to join her.” His voice trailed off, and Savich feared he’d fallen into a drugged stupor, but then he whispered, his eyes tightly closed, “I remember one night we were together in Cleveland. She told me she sometimes warmed her hands over the fires. ‘What fires?’ I asked. ‘In hell,’ she said, where she was sitting cross-legged next to her daddy while he told her what he did to have the most fun. And he’d ask her when she was going to get serious about her own work, when was she going to hit the road, like he did?

“Then she’d talk about how sexy her daddy said dead people were, but only when you were the one who put out their lights. Then that made them yours, and it was a fine thing to come back to visit your works of art and enjoy them, over and over, until they fell apart, and then they weren’t art anymore, they were trash. I didn’t want to know exactly what she meant, but deep down, I knew.”

Comafield’s words were slurring. Savich knew he didn’t have much more time before he was out of it. “Of course you knew, since I’m certain you’ve read everything written about Ted Bundy, including his taste for necrophilia.”

“Yeah, lots of it. Maybe it scared me a little, and then she’d shrug and look at me like she was—” He closed his eyes again—from the pain or the image?