The Isle: A refuge for fan fiction: Movies: Nick of Time

Overtime
By Mojave Dragonfly

Rating: T | Status: Completed | Genre: General | Series: None
Summary: Nick of Time fic. The police arrive at the Bonaventure Hotel, to catch the Governor's would-be assassin. What they find surprises them.

Go to: Part 1 | Part 2

Part 1

Mike and I were at Magee's Donuts when we got the call. Shots fired, Westin Bonaventure Hotel, all available units respond. Mike's eyes got big over his jelly-filled, so I responded to the call, digging out money to pay the tab. It's true, you know, what they say about cops and donuts. Mike likes chocolate, sprinkles, jelly-filled - actually Mike likes just about any donuts. Me, I'm an original glazed girl, but they go straight to my hips, so most of the time I just drink the coffee and wish that cops were famous for hanging out at Starbucks.

"Bonaventure Hotel," I said as we scrambled away from the table, the morning's briefings clicking into my head. "That's the Governor."

"Shit," said my ever-eloquent partner.

What he meant to say, of course, was "Shit, if every unit in central L.A. is responding, then it's not just shots fired and a perp on the run. It's going to be dangerous confusion as a bunch of cops, hotel security, and possibly gubernatorial bodyguards pour into the hotel, bouncing off each other like the original keystones." That's what he meant to say, but I knew that.

We were quiet beneath our siren as I raced the maze that is the jewelry and hotel district, listening for updates. Shots fired in the ballroom, possible assassination attempt, suspect believed to be still in the hotel. Description: white male, thirty, average height, brown hair, wearing a gray suit.

"Shit," I said. What I meant to say, of course, was "Shit, that's a business convention hotel, there must be hundreds of people fitting that description. Also, there must have been a bunch of trigger-happy security trying to bring the bastard down, so God knows how many shots we'll have to trace and morons we'll have to calm down. High likelihood of injured, too. The Governor may be shot, and won't that make for an interesting day."

I whipped the patrol car into the unloading-only area outside reception, studying everything I saw. A gray van squatted directly in front of the doors, its back cargo doors open, and - and this is the kind of thing that's out of place and tells you all is not well - a large teddy bear on the ground behind it. Of course it doesn't take a detective to know all is not well when you spot two crumpled bodies, one on either side of the van.

"Shit," said Mike as I squealed rubber to a halt.

I called for medical to the front of the hotel as Mike rolled out his door, weapon drawn. He approached the body on the side of the van closer to the hotel, barking orders at a startled-looking elderly couple with bags that stood pressed against the wall. They scooted back inside.

I checked out the other body. As I approached her - for it was a woman - I watched the heavy-set black man seated just beyond her on the small concrete median separating the hotel unloading zone from the traffic on Figueroa St. He had one pant leg rolled up, and struggled to attach a wooden prosthetic to just below his knee. He gave me a tired smile. "Officer," he said, with a nod.

He looked like a witness, to me, so I didn't order him to clear out. Besides, he wasn't very mobile, yet. The woman - I recognized her! Lenore Jones, from the 21st!

"Officer down!" yelled Mike from the other side of the van, and for a moment I wondered how he knew. Then I smartened up.

"Two officers down!" I yelled back at him, fumbling for my radio. "Is it Smitty?" I'd heard of these partners even though they weren't in my precinct. Smith and Jones. Like we were Pat and Mike.

"Yeah," Mike replied. "He's been shot."

I could tell from Mike's tone that there was no point in rushing Officer Smith to the hospital. I bit back another "shit" before I called in the update. In the hearing of civilians, we're supposed to be professional, but the adrenaline already coursing through me had a sudden sharp feel to it. A cop was dead. On this lovely crisp fall morning as I was sipping coffee at Magee's, a cop was killed. A cop like me.

What about Lenore? I checked her as I'd been trained, moving her as little as possible. She was alive, but unconscious. "Who shot her?" I demanded of the black man.

"Nobody shot her," he replied calmly. "I clobbered her with my wooden leg."

I stared at him. He was middle-aged and mostly bald, wearing one of those utility-type vests they sell for people who imagine they might go on safari. He looked familiar.

"To keep her from shooting the little girl," he added. "And me."

Oh, this was going to be an interesting day.

"Sir, you are a material witness in a homicide, and you have just admitted to assaulting a police officer," I told him in my best authority-voice as I glanced around for Jones's weapon. I found it in the shadow of one of the van's wheels. If someone else didn't arrive soon, Mike and I were going to have to leave this crime scene and enter the hotel. Under those circumstances, despite the disruption to the scene, department policy is to remove any weapon that a bystander could take, particularly an officer's piece. I heard sirens. Good. "Do not leave the area, do you understand?"

He shook his head, still smiling tiredly. He gave up working with the prosthetic and waggled it at me. "Officer, I have to take my pants off to get this thing on. I can't go anywhere."

I remembered who he was. He shined shoes in a rented booth inside the Bonaventure. I relaxed a little. It didn't mean he wasn't a perp, but when you know the regulars on your beat, you have an understanding of how they fit into the city's puzzle. Also, you have a line on tracking them down if you need it. I couldn't even begin to imagine why he would think Lenore Jones was going to shoot a little girl, but the day hadn't progressed that far yet.

Little girl. Teddy bear.

Mike came around to my side, his face set in stone. He'd been examining a fallen comrade. I only had an unconscious one. He said nothing, not interrupting my interview. We were after a cop-killer now.

"Do you know who shot the other officer?" I asked.

He lost his smile. "Yeah. They went back inside."

"They!"

"Him and his little girl."

Mike and I exchanged looks. What the . . .? Was this even related to the Governor incident? We headed around the van as two more patrol cars bounced into the drive, a third approaching behind them in the street, and an ambulance behind them. We relinquished control of the injured, the witness and the crime scene as quickly as we could, and then Mike and I and two other guys headed inside. Shortly there would be people who outranked us to take charge, and I wanted to get inside before that happened.

"He's not dangerous!" the shoe-shine guy called after us.

Yeah, right. Tell that to Smitty. What planet was that guy living on?

We holstered our weapons, but entered the hotel lobby with our hands on them. The spacious area looked as it usually did, except for the huge poster of Governor Grant hanging from a fourth level balcony. Staff and guests looked subdued and worried, as I'd expected, though they went about their usual business. The elderly couple hovered just inside the doors for the chance to get to their car and get out of Dodge. Not going to happen. This place would have to be shut down, at least until we could determine if the assassin was still inside.

My attention was drawn to the small knot of white-shirted hotel security standing together by the wall. They stood clustered around a guy they had up against the wall while they searched him. One security guy held on to a little girl, maybe five years old, who was screaming and struggling. Just as we came in, they yanked the guy from the wall, and whirled him around, unresisting, so they could start walking him. As Mike and I and the other pair trotted up, I heard somebody say something about going to the Security Office.

The suspect was average height and thirtyish, wearing a gray suit and tie. His brown hair was mussed beyond immediate repair, his tie dangled loosely like a noose around his neck, and, most interesting of all, water dripped from his hair and clothes. He looked pale as hotel sheets, except where he bled from two injuries to his face, and even from where I was, I could see he was shaking.

Gray suit, and he fit the description. I guessed this was both the assassin and the cop-killer. Bastard.

As they whirled him from the wall, he looked immediately to the little girl, and didn't take his gaze from her, even when his glasses fell off. "Daddy!" she sobbed, her tiny face red with crying. "Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

The suspect collapsed as he put weight on his left leg. I made note of which leg, because lots of time suspects try to buy time by pretending injuries or try to claim brutality. I'd watch for if later is injured leg became his right one. His captors held him up, but he paid attention only to the little girl. He looked so stricken, that I revised my opinion about his collapse. Maybe it wasn't his leg; maybe it was her cries. He could be putting on an act, but I didn't think the little girl was. She was terrified, but, then, she was being held prisoner by a stranger.

I wondered if the guy really was her father. What kind of an assassin brings a child along? Was he planning to use her as some kind of shield or something? "Please!" he gasped out. "Let her stay with me. For now." He pulled himself together a little and looked at the men holding him. "Some of you must be parents."

"Police!" I called out to the security men. "What's the situation?" The knot of white-shirted, clean cut men turned to face us. One older man answered, looking from me to Mike, and settling on Mike, even though I was the one who had spoken. This happens a lot. I outrank Mike, though I don't expect civilians to know that, but it would be nice if I were the one deferred to at least 50 percent of the time. Mike's big, and, you know, male.

"This asshole tried to take a shot at the Governor. We caught him in the john." Apparently they didn't even know about the dead officer on their doorstep. So the guy had tried to kill the Governor, Smitty and Jones got in the way of his escape, and he'd killed Smitty. I stomped hard on the anger burning inside me.

"What's in the john?" I asked, scooping up the guy's glasses. "Could he escape from there?"

Still looking sick, the suspect looked past me to the little girl. Her cries had grown heartbroken, like her whole world had ended, and his bereft expression as he regarded her hardly matched the usual cold-blooded killer act.

"He was coming out, actually," the head security guy admitted. "There's no other way out of there." I was careful not to smirk. Hardly the heroic take-down of a fugitive they were hoping for, I bet.

I didn't have the chance for any more questions right then. Mike nudged me and tilted his head. One by one, everyone turned their gaze up the staircase, as Governor Grant came down, live and in the flesh.

I'd seen her once before, at a rally where she'd been poised and elegantly dressed. Not that you couldn't recognize her here, particularly with a thirty- foot poster of herself right behind, but she looked a little more mussed than usual. And very angry. She was flanked by a tight cluster of hotel security guards. I wondered where her own security was.

"Officers," she called as she approached, her spiked heels tap-tapping importantly, "I need you to make some arrests, and . . . I'll need a police escort."

Now, technically, the Governor has no immediate authority over the municipal police force, but, well, you know, she's the Governor. And if she knew more about the attempt on her life than we did, I was all for it. A quick glance at the four of us confirmed for me that I was still the highest ranking here, if only by a smidgeon.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and I was glad to see that she, at least, focused on me as an authority, without hesitating. "But if you are still in jeopardy, we need to get you to safety. At least to the hotel security office."

I saw by some quick expressions on the guys with her, that they had been trying to persuade her of that very thing, so I had a good guess what her answer would be.

"Not yet. But I do want your people to keep my own security away from me. Some of them may be involved."

Really? Wow.

"I'll want to make a statement to your superiors, but I want one answer myself, right now." She zeroed in on our suspect-guy.

I gave the security guys holding him a concerned glance. Hunter and prey were meeting, and I wanted to be sure there'd be no bloodshed. The guys tightened their grips on his arms, probably painfully, as he straightened up a little. The suspect looked at the Governor steadily, though I did see apprehension in his brown eyes, and he paled even more, which I wouldn't have thought possible. I wondered if he was going into shock.

Behind us, the girl sobbed, "Daddy, Daddy," some more, and the guy winced.

"Is your name really Watson?" the Governor began, after a glance at the girl.

Geez, even we hadn't started questioning the guy. He hadn't been read his rights or anything. At least, I reminded myself, no actual police had restrained him yet. We would put him under formal arrest the moment we touched him.

"Gene," he said hoarsely. "Gene Watson."

I'm telling you, the dynamic between these two was weird. Watson, if that was his name, was neither defiant nor surly, and those were the only two attitudes I'd ever seen in comparable situations. He looked . . . a little embarrassed, is all.

"Mr. Watson, where is my assistant, Krista Brooks?" She was cool, but there was something like dread lurking in her tone.

Watson met her gaze levelly. "In the bathroom in your husband's suite," he answered, like it was a sentence of death.

Oh. Shit.

Governor Grant accepted this in silence, and the two regarded each other for another moment.

"Daddy don't leave me!" sobbed the girl.

Watson lost his control, not in anger or in threats, but in despair. "Governor," he begged, "ask them to let my daughter stay with me, please. She's been a hostage all morning. She lost her mother last week. Please."

"There seems to be a lot of death around you Mr. Watson," she replied. "You're not in a position to be asking for things."

"I'm sorry. I'm begging you. I'll do anything."

"For your daughter? I believe you," she said dryly. She looked at me. "What is your protocol about the child?"

"If there's no immediate family to take responsibility for her, we call Child Protective Services. Of course, it will take them some time to get here," I admitted.

The Governor nodded, looking thoughtful.

"Before this man is questioned, Governor, we need to charge him and read him his rights." I nodded at Mike, who shouldered into Watson's captors, and took him from them, none too gently.

"You have the right to remain silent . . ." Mike began as he yanked the unresisting man's hands behind his back. Watson slumped, defeated.

"Wait," said the Governor. "Would you 'cuff his hands in front, please, so he can hold his daughter?"

Mike froze. "Governor," he said, "this man tried to kill you." And he killed a cop, dammit!

She sighed and seemed suddenly weary. "Honestly, I'm not at all sure that he did. And I do believe his daughter has been a hostage today."

What? I was stunned, which was unprofessional of me, but at least, so was everyone else.

"You . . . he . . ." I got a grip. "Ma'am, this is not the assassin?" I almost squeaked.

"Oh, he's the man, all right, but I'm not sure he tried to kill me. He had a much better chance earlier." She turned to face me. "Please hold him, let him keep his daughter, and come with me to find my assistant. I believe she may have been murdered. Also, please find and detain my Security Chief, Alan White, and also . . ." She paused. "My husband, Brendan Grant."

"Your husband?" Still me with the squeaking.

"I promise I'll give your superiors a full statement. But right now, I want to find Krista, and I need your escort."

"Thank you, Governor," said Watson, as Mike moved his hands around to the front and finished Mirandizing him. Governor Grant wasn't looking at Watson, but I saw the look of immense gratitude that he gave her as the child flew to him and flung her arms around his waist. What gorgeous eyes that man had. I suddenly wished he had given me that look.

Watson sank down to the girl's level and buried his face in her hair.

I gave myself a shake as my stomach turned over. There was something loathsome about watching an assassin cop-killer coo to a child. What was I thinking? Gorgeous eyes, my foot. Looking for the missing assistant sounded better and better to me.

"We'll take them to the security office," offered one of the other two officers. Yeah, I was ranking, but cops don't usually stand around waiting for orders, not from each other.

"Okay," I said. "Mike and I will be escorts."

The hotel cops who had been flanking the Governor looked a little confused. Were they supposed to stay or go? "We'll need some of you guys," I told them. "We may need room access." They nodded, relieved, and split up according to their own mysterious rules. Three of them came with us as Mike and I mounted the stairs behind the Governor.

At the top of the stairs was the mezzanine and the main conference area, including the corridor to the California Ballroom. The Governor passed the corridor, heading for one of the hotel's exterior glass elevators. The official channels on the radio on my collar crackled as State Police checked in with our own Captain Plunkett, who was on his way, himself. Apparently there was a contingent of State Troopers in the hotel, for some reason, and they were responding to the ballroom. Oh great.

I say, that, by the way, with no facetiousness at all. Those guys are great. I just couldn't get that image of keystone cops out of my head. All we needed now, was, let's see, CHiPs and the FBI. I winced, mentally. The FBI we'd probably get.

I'd been paying more attention to the radio than to what we were doing, as we entered the all glass elevator and it started to rise. Mike hates heights, so I slid past him to let him be nearer the door. That put me next to the Governor.

"Governor," I asked, "do you know that Watson?"

"We met earlier today," she said with an expression of distaste, "but no."

"What makes you think your own security may be involved?"

"Because they were hand-picked by my husband and Alan White." I opened my mouth to ask why she thought her husband and security chief were involved in a plot to kill her, but right then we reached the penthouse suites level and she said, "I really don't want to speculate further until we know some more, officer."

Okey-dokey. That was pretty final.

Mike led the way out of the elevator, followed by the hotel security and the Governor, and last, me. We stood in a corridor with a desk across it, limiting access to the door beyond. No one sat at the desk. The Governor approached the door with the confidence of familiarity, but Mike slid in front of her to reach it first.

"Stand back, please, Governor," I said in a low voice. She halted and the hotel security guys moved to either side. I came forward and took my position beside the door, weapon drawn.

Mike knocked. "LAPD, open up!" he called. When there was no response a second time, Mike looked at me and drew his weapon. I saw one of the hotel security men with a universal key card in his hand, and gestured him forward.

He knew the drill. He came forward, inserted and withdrew the card, and, when the access light turned green, he retreated.

With a third warning from Mike, we burst into the suite, guns ready. At first look, the place was empty. We prowled around corners for a bit, still finding no one.

"All clear!" I called, and the Governor and the other guys came in. I gestured at a door. "There's no one in this bathroom," I said to the Governor.

"The other bathroom's in here," she said, and led the way into a small corridor. She stopped abruptly just before a door, and I almost bumped into her. She took a hesitant step away from the door and nodded at me.

The door to the small (for a VIP suite) bathroom opened easily, and yes, there was a body on the floor. She was an attractive young woman with light brown skin, dressed professionally in a silk suit and pearls. Her hair was drawn neatly back into a bun and her eyes were wide open and staring. She'd been gut-shot and her life's blood painted what had been white and gold tiles.

I've seen a number of bodies on the job, most of which had died violently, and this scene was no worse than most. I have never, however, come across the corpse of someone I knew well. I glanced back at the Governor, who had not come into the bathroom.

"Oh, Krista," she said, looking horrified. "I'm so sorry."

Mike stuck his head in and looked around, briefly, so he could also testify about the crime scene, if necessary. "Your assistant, Governor?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, still not recovered. "Krista Brooks. She works for me."

Uh huh. Usually one's assistant does work for you, I thought, but I left her alone. She would need a little time.

"Who . . . who did this?" she murmured.

"More of Mr. Watson's work?" asked Mike.

I shrugged, backing out of the bathroom, and pulling the door shut. At least this scene shouldn't be too hard to secure. Before I did, though, a couple of the security guys took a quick look inside. They were pretty good. They didn't stare or try to get in the way, but I couldn't entirely blame them for a little morbid curiosity. In fact, these guys hadn't been a problem for us, so far, and I appreciated that. Macho rent-a-cops are usually a big pain in the ass, but these guys had some training and discipline. I made a mental note to say something to their boss if I got the chance.

"He said he saw her die," the Governor said, staring at the door. "He said he didn't kill her."

Interesting, but not very useful, I thought. And when did the Governor have this chat with her assassin, anyway?

Mike saw the chance to get a little more information out of Governor Grant. "Did he say who did kill her?"

She fastened her distant gaze onto Mike's face and said, "He said a man who worked for my husband. He said my husband worked for someone else, and they wanted me dead."

We were all silent, and you could see her mental gears turning. Then she looked sharply at me. "We can't just leave her in there," she said.

I decided it was time to take the Governor in hand. "Yes we can, ma'am, and we will. We will make sure nothing is touched in this whole suite. We'll post a guard on the outside door. Clearly we need to question your husband, and clearly he is not here."

Obedient to my words, the security guys started back toward the front door, and Mike got on the radio to call in this update. The radio, during all this time, had been crackling away, announcing that Captain Plunkett had arrived, and had set up a command post downstairs. State Troopers were securing the ballroom and collecting witnesses' statements, and EMTs were treating someone who'd been shot in the ballroom. Mike had a little trouble getting through.

"Where did you last see your husband?" I asked as I herded her out of the corridor.

"The ballroom. He was in the ballroom when I left to find you."

"Patty," Mike said, "the Captain said to get the Governor downstairs, right now. Like, yesterday."

The Command Post was on the mezzanine level. At this point it consisted of a six foot table, the kind used by conferences for registration or holding literature, and a bunch of radios. Captain Plunkett, a big man, in all meanings of the word, waited for us at the door of the elevator. He and a brace of my fellows surrounded the Governor and escorted her from the car as the Captain gave me a very dark look. I was in trouble.

I sidled over to Lieutenant Martin at the table, watching the Captain talking to the Governor.

"What'd I do?" I asked.

Lieutenant Martin is a nice guy, if a little bit of a suck-up. "I can't believe you didn't immediately remove the Governor from the building," he said. "That's by the book, and the Captain isn't happy."

"Hey, she wouldn't go," I protested.

Martin shrugged, and we both looked back at the Captain and the Governor. "No," she was saying, very firmly. Plunkett was getting red in the face.

"See?" I said to Martin.

The Lieutenant tightened his lips. "If she won't go, we'll need to get her statement here, and the hotel security office is the only safe place. Get down there and find a placefor them to talk. Make sure the suspect is isolated from them."

I was grateful to go, distancing myself from the Captain. Maybe he'd have cooled off by later.

The hotel security office was no dinky affair. A ring of offices around a central open area, and halls leading to other places. Watson and the girl sat on a bench seat against the wall. Across the table from them was a detective, Lieutenant Gonzalez. It was good placement - to have Watson in the open, heavily guarded - so I looked for a more isolated place for the Captain and the Governor to talk. The security guys had no trouble clearing out a side office for the purpose, so I returned to the central area. I joined the guys acting as "door guards."

"Door guards" is what we call it when we have to stand around just being the muscle for an operation. Most of the guys hate it because it's boring, but I kind of like it. I get to eavesdrop on what the higher-ups are doing. Also, it kind of tickles me to think of myself as "muscle." I'm 5' 4" and distressingly roly-poly. I'm fully trained in hand-to-hand, of course, but to look at me you'd be more afraid I might bump into you and land on you.

Gonzalez was quizzing Watson on the administrative stuff - address, employment, etc. Watson looked some better, though no one had treated the cuts on his face and scalp, and blood trickled down the side of his face. He held the little girl close to him with one arm. She had stopped crying, but she still looked scared.

"What are you doing in LA, Mr. Watson?" Gonzalez asked. He was sticking to innocuous questions. Watson didn't have an attorney, and he was probably smart enough to clam up if the questions turned nasty.

"Business meeting."

"You take your daughter to business meetings?"

"LA is on the way back from San Diego. It's a one-on-one meeting, and he said it would be okay."

"And you were in San Diego for your wife's funeral."

Watson stiffened slightly and glanced at the girl. "Yes, like I said."

"How did your wife die?"

Watson sighed. "She had a fast growing brain tumor. By the time she saw a doctor …" He shook his head, and wiped at the blood on his temple.

"There will be records of her treatment at San Diego Medical Center?"

"Yes, of course." Watson frowned. "What does this have to do with anything?" The little girl wriggled out of his grasp, and Watson sat forward. "Lynn!" he called.

"Just a second, Daddy," she answered. She trotted over to a nearby desk and picked up a box of Kleenex. Watson squinted worriedly after her, and I remembered I had his glasses. The little girl returned, clambered onto the bench seat, and held out the tissues. "You're bleeding, Daddy," she said solemnly.

"Thanks, Sweetpea," he answered, and started blotting the blood on his face. Gonzalez let this all go on uninterrupted, because noise at the office door announced more officers arriving. Lt. Martin led the group in, and looked for me. With him came Captain Plunkett, the Governor, Mike, and some State Troopers.

I jumped up and led the way to the office security had given me for the Governor. Then I faded back, trying not to be too noticeable as they all flooded into the small room. The Governor passed by without a glance at Watson, though Watson watched her with interest.

"Have you found her husband?" I heard him ask as I moved back toward their table.

"I'm asking the questions, Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez.

Mike didn't enter the small office. He intercepted me and herded me aside. "What's that guy's story?" he asked me.

"I haven't heard much, yet," I said. "Why?"

"You should hear the song the shoeshine guy is singing," Mike said, waggling his eyebrows at me. "He thinks Smitty was part of a plot to kill the Governor. Jones, too. Also …" Mike glanced aside to make sure no one was noticing his gossip. "They found another stiff. They think it's her head of security."

Oh, this was getting good. Though I knew we shouldn't be whispering in a corner like this, I couldn't resist. "Watson shoot him?" I asked.

Mike shrugged. "He wasn't shot, and he wasn't in the ballroom. He was in a nearby service corridor, and he was fried."

"Fried!"

"Electrocuted." We both looked back at the near-sighted, unassuming-looking killer.

"Wow," I said. "You wanna be a door guard on him?"

"I'm going back to the shoe-shine guy."

I nodded and we separated.

Gonzalez was getting nastier. "Mr. Watson, we have a dead police officer on his way to the morgue and the 25 million dollar question everyone wants to know is why did you kill him?"

"I think I should have an attorney," said Watson wearily.

Gonzalez nodded, shuffling together his paperwork. "That can be arranged," he said, businesslike. "You can call one from the station. We'll go there now, and your daughter can go to CPS." He nodded at me.

I knew what he wanted me to do. I was to come briskly forward and firmly remove the girl from her father. Darn it! Why me? Was I closest? Was I the woman? Fifteen percent of the force is female, how come I managed to be the only woman on site? I didn't want to do this. I'd already seen that the girl could scream, and somehow this felt . . . slimy.

"No, wait," cried Watson, looking at me with alarm. Like a good little soldier, I kept coming anyway. "Why does she have to leave me? Can't she come too?"

Playing perfectly into Gonzalez's plans, the girl cried, "Daddy, nooo!" and clung to him.

"The station is no place for a child. We have a home for that," Gonzalez replied. "She'll be fine."

I was supposed to be intimidating. I stepped well inside their personal space and held out my hands to the girl. "Come with me, Honey," I said. "It's time to go."

The child hid her face in her father's embrace.

"Wait, wait!" Watson sounded almost panicky. "Can't we stay here? I could call an attorney from here."

"That's a procedure we do from the station, Mr. Watson. Here we're just gathering preliminary information."

This was total bullshit, of course. Gonzalez wanted the guy to talk and he knew what buttons to push.

Watson looked trapped. "You're doing . . . the same thing," he said. "The same thing they did."

Gonzalez was granite-faced. "Officer," he ordered.

I reached to take the girl, hoping I wouldn't have to.

"Daddy don't let them!" cried the girl, muffled.

Watson slid to the side on the bench seat, moving her from my immediate reach. "Okay!" he said, glancing from Gonzalez to me. "Okay, we can stay here. Let us stay here."

"I expect full cooperation, Mr. Watson," Gonzalez said with a tight smile.

Watson dropped a kiss on his daughter's head. "Yeah, okay," he said.

I straightened up, and, at a nod from the Lieutenant, I backed away a couple of steps.

"It's okay, Lynn," Watson said. "I'm right here. You're not going anywhere. It's okay."

Gonzalez waited patiently while Watson cajoled his daughter into calming down and peeking out at the world again. Watson used the Kleenex to wipe her nose. When she was willing to look around again, that child gave me a downright nasty glare. I smiled.

"What do you want to know?" Watson finally asked.

"Why did you kill Officer Smith?"

"So he really was a policeman," Watson said with a sigh. "Because he was shooting at my daughter."

I wondered if the guy realized he had just given us a confession. Gonzalez was good.

"You expect us to believe that a decorated thirty-year veteran of the LAPD was trying to kill your five-year-old daughter?" Gonzalez asked. "You must see how weak a story that one is."

"I'm six," said the girl in a small but defiant voice.

Watson raised his chin. "He was holding her hostage. Or, the woman was holding her. I didn't do what they wanted, so he came to kill her."

"The woman . . . what was her name?"

"I don't know. They didn't tell me their names. They both had badges, that's all I know."

The guy was either very crafty or . . . well, telling the truth, which was unlikely. He had dodged Gonzalez's trap without batting an eye.

"And what they wanted you to do was . . ."

"Kill the Governor."

"Have you ever killed anyone before, Mr. Watson?"

"No of course not."

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"

"No."

"Have you ever been arrested in connection with a violent crime?"

"No!"

"So how exactly did Officer Roland Smith expect you to be able to pull off an assassination? You don't seem to have any credentials."

"I don't know. He . . . I . . . he followed me everywhere, threatening what he was going to do to Lynn. He gave me the gun. He gave me a badge that gave me access to all the speaking events."

The guy still wore a name badge, I saw.

"I told him I wouldn't do this, I couldn't, but . . ." he looked down at the girl. "He said he was sure he could make a killer out of me, and maybe he could." He looked up again. "I guess he did."

Gonzalez regarded him for a moment. "What did you do with the weapon?" he asked.

"The gun?" Watson blinked. "I think I dropped it. Out by the van."

"And my teddy," said the girl. "Daddy, I dropped my teddy, too."

Geez, the teddy bear.

Watson looked a little glazed. "We'll . . . get you another one, Sweetpea, I promise," he said distractedly.

This was the damnedest thing I'd ever heard, and I was beginning to wonder if it were true.

I hadn't noticed Lt. Martin leave, but he came back in now, glanced at us, and strode to the Governor's office door.

"Excuse me, Captain," he said, and paused. He must have been given permission to continue, because he went on. "Governor, you said you wouldn't leave until your husband was found. The Mayor's office just called. They've heard from your husband's attorney. They're ready to negotiate how he'll turn himself in."

I heard the Governor's voice, but couldn't make out what she said. It was a question, though.

"I don't know," answered Martin. "But his attorney does. He wouldn't say."

A flurry of activity followed this announcement, and, before long, Captain Plunkett and the Governor came out of the office.

"We'll take the VIP exit," said the Captain, shepherding her away from the door to the hotel lobby.

"Just a moment," she said, spotting Watson.

To Plunkett's visible annoyance, she split from his group and approached us. Gonzalez watched her warily.

"Mr. Watson," she said.

He looked up at her.

"I think I may owe you thanks."

Watson swallowed. Handcuffed, surrounded by dark blue LAPD uniforms, and pinned across a table from Lt. Gonzalez, he gave her that same embarrassed look I had seen in the lobby. There it was again - that weird dynamic between these two.

"Is there anything you need?" The offer wasn't overly friendly, but she sounded genuine enough, and held her assassin's gaze levelly.

Watson blinked, glanced around, and looked back at her. "Can you get me a lawyer?" he asked.

"You don't have one?" she replied.

Watson shook his head. "My firm employs attorneys but they're in Santa Maria, and . . . they're not criminal law." He kind of choked on the word "criminal."

The Governor nodded slowly. "Unfortunately, my husband has employed our best attorney, and I think there would be a conflict of interest." She smiled ruefully, but nodded. "I'll get you a lawyer, Mr. Watson."

"Thank you," he said, looking down.

The Governor returned to Captain Plunkett, and their whole group trundled down the hall.

"Now, Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez, "first, tell me who else you have shot today."

"No one!"

"What about in the ballroom?"

"I can't have shot anyone." Watson looked uncertain, like he feared what Gonzalez would tell him. "I only shot up."

"One of the Governor's bodyguards would be very dead now, except he was wearing a vest. And a second one is on his way to the hospital."

Watson closed his eyes. "It wasn't me," he breathed. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"You discharged a weapon in a public gathering, and you thought no one would get hurt."

"I didn't have any choice! I had to do something!"

"So you did try to shoot the Governor."

"No! I tried to shoot the guy. Smith. I don't know who shot her bodyguards."

"You tried to shoot Smith in the crowd."

"No, I saw him up in one of those control booths over the ballroom. I tried to shoot him there. I missed. I've never shot a gun before." Watson had gone pale again, and I thought he was shivering a little. He was still wet. He took some more Kleenex and wiped at the blood on his face. "I chased him," he went on. He shouldn't have gone on, I thought. He really should stick to answering the questions Gonzalez asked. But often suspects get all caught up in trying to convince you they are innocent and they ramble on and on and hang themselves. Especially if they haven't got an attorney there to stop them. But Watson didn't seem intense and earnest, just . . . dazed and exhausted. "I knew he had to get out of the ballroom, because his radio wouldn't work in there. I had to get to him before he could call his partner. I got his radio away from him, but it was already after 1:30. She was supposed to kill Lynn at 1:30 either way."

"Daddy, you're squeezing me," complained Lynn.

"Sorry, Honey," he said, relaxing his grip.

Gonzalez cocked his head slightly. "His radio wouldn't work in the ballroom?"

"I heard a TV technician complain that the room was, you know, radios couldn't get out. So I knew whatever I did, he couldn't call his partner, not right away. So I tried to shoot him, and then I chased him."

"How did you kill Mr. White?"

"Who?"

"The Governor's Chief of Security."

"Oh. I didn't. He was after me from . . ." He passed a trembling hand, handcuffed to the other hand, across his eyes. "The ballroom. He was shooting at me. Jesus." He shook his head. He looked really bad again, and I wondered if he was going to be sick.

"Who killed him?"

Go to: Part 1 | Part 2

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