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 2

"I don't know. Could I have some water, please?" His voice shook.

"I'm thirsty, too, Daddy," said the girl.

"Could we have some water?" he corrected.

"I want 7-Up," said Lynn.

"Water's fine, Lynn," he said wearily.

Gonzalez nodded at another guy, who went to find some water. Great. I get to steal the child, but not bring the drinks. But I had a thought. My curiosity was growing. I slipped away, too, as if I was going to help the other guy with the water.

I left the hotel security office, and took the stairs to the mezzanine. The Command Post had more equipment, now, and a lot more people. I grabbed a uniform I recognized.

"Hey, Maglaras," I said.

"Hey, yourself."

"State Troopers got the ballroom?" I cocked my head toward the door.

"Yeah, they're taking hundreds of statements in there. Why?"

"Do you know if anyone's checked out the control booths above the room?"

"Me and Davis did. No more stiffs, if that's what you're thinking."

"Anything there?"

"In one of 'em. Some shot must have gone really wild, 'cause the plexiglass got shot out."

I'll be damned, I thought.

"Did you lock it up?"

"Sure. Don't know if forensics is going to want to bother, though."

"I think they will. I think they'll want to dust it. The perp says he shot up there on purpose."

Maglaras's eyes lit up. "You a door guard? What's his story?"

I snorted. "He says Smitty and Jones held his daughter hostage to get him to kill the Governor."

"What? Bullshit."

"I'm serious. That's what he says. Anyway, I gotta get back. I just wondered."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Maglaras stopped me. He glanced to the side, checking to see if we were being overheard. "Tell me more. Why'd he shoot at the booth?"

I tried not to smirk. It's so much fun to be the one in the know. "He says Smitty was up there, so he decided to shoot for him, instead of the Governor. I'm telling you, they'll want to dust up there."

"For Smitty's prints? Don't tell me you believe that crap!"

I shrugged. "I dunno. He doesn't seem wacko. And he's scared to death of losing his little girl."

"Listen to you. You're liking the guy."

"Where do you get that from? I'm just telling you."

Davis had seen us talking and came up. He's as tall and thin as his partner is short and stocky. "Who's she liking?" he asked.

"The guy who killed Smitty."

"Would you shut up? Hi, Davis."

It's an annoying thing. Have you ever noticed this? Everybody thinks it's cosmically wrong if you're not seeing anybody. They always figure there's somebody you've got your eye on. Or maybe you're dating someone and not telling your buddies at work, so it becomes their job to find it out. If a woman cop is unmarried, they partner her with a married guy, like Mike and me. Thank God Mike doesn't make it his mission to know all about my love life. Everyone else does, though. And they love to make these stupid guesses.

Thing is, you guess often enough and someday you'll hit the mark. It was irritating that Maglaras had guessed I thought that guy was drop-dead gorgeous, and so sweet to his little girl before I had even admitted it to myself.

I hate the guys.

Fortunately, Davis wasn't in the mood for prod-Patty-about-who-she-lusts-after. Maybe he even remembered we had a dead cop to avenge and I could never like a man who had killed a cop.

"You guys gotta come see this," Davis said, like a kid with a new toy.

The new equipment on the Command Post table was a video monitor, and they were viewing the security tape from inside the ballroom! Cool! Soon we wouldn't be able to see it, because hotel staff were erecting cubicle walls around the table to isolate it from prying eyes. One of the perks of having your crime scene in a four star hotel, I suppose. But for right now, we could hover in the background and watch.

I didn't hover really; more like bob and weave. I'm too darn short.

The detectives were playing frame-by-frame a segment where a bullet hit a guy in the back. I saw his arms fly up, taking four frames to reach over his head as the force of the shot knocked him slowly forward. I winced, waiting for the arterial blood to spray from his back - that should look great in freeze-frame - but it never came. Oh yeah, the bodyguard was wearing a vest.

They backed the tape up. The downed bodyguard was pulled back to his feet by invisible strings, his raised hands coming down. A blur emerged from his spine area, pointing to the upper right of the screen. The blur moved frame-by-frame to the upper right corner, where the detectives stopped and messed with the tape.

"That bullet came from above," someone murmured.

"Where's Watson," I wondered.

"Looking for your lover boy?" asked Maglaras.

"Shut up," I hissed, and kicked him in the shin.

"Ow."

They got the tape from a different camera synched, and we watched the blur fly up toward the back wall of the ballroom, finally entering the control booth. Cops don't gasp, you know, not even during scary movies, but you could feel the current go through us all. Someone up there had fired at the Governor. In fact, you could see the blur enter a small, fuzzy black tube.

"Freeze that," ordered one detective.

Yep, it was a gun. Revolver, I thought. Maybe a .38, hard to tell, though all around me, people were guessing. What I wanted to know was where was Watson when this happened, but I didn't dare say anything.

The detectives, fortunately, must have wanted to confirm the same thing. They adjusted the angle of view down from the control booth, and then zoomed forward into the crowd. Standing there, with no one immediately around him, was Gene Watson, wearing his grey suit, and with his gun hand pointed at the ceiling. He looked scared out of his wits. Maglaras tried to elbow me, but I dodged him, and ducked to the back of the crowd.

I headed back to the Security Office in amazement. On my way, I passed the hotel bar. I ducked in to pick up a 7-Up. No, make that two.

I found Watson and his daughter, not alone, certainly, but Gonzalez had left them in order to consult with Martin about something. Father and daughter were deep in conversation.

"Because I killed somebody, Honey. You can't do that and expect nobody to care."

"I'm glad you killed him."

Watson paused and I could see him thinking about how to respond to that. "So am I, Sweetpea," he said, softly. "But it will take a lot of explaining."

I set the 7-Ups in front of them. Lynn reached immediately for hers. Her father gave his glass a surprised look, and then raised his gaze up to me. There it was: that intense look of gratitude. Okay, maybe it wasn't as intense as what he had given the Governor, but it hit me like a bullet on a Kevlar vest. He crooked half a smile at me, and now my head was full of dryer lint. "Thanks," he said. "Lynn, what do you say?"

The child took one look at me and hid her face in her father's coat. "Lynn," he coaxed, "say thank you."

"No," she said against his chest.

His smile turned apologetic. He still looked sort of ill.

"It's okay," I managed.

"I . . ." He glanced around, unable to maneuver much with his handcuffed hands around the girl. ". . . don't have my wallet."

"No, it's okay," I said, and damn if I didn't feel my face turn hot as I imagined Maglaras's comments. I looked uneasily at the other officers, who were, yes, watching me curiously. I backed up a step or two, and the child showed her face again. Without looking at me, she reached for her glass and drank.

She kicked her feet, as she drank, striking her father. "Uh," he grunted, wincing. "Honey, please, not that leg."

The left leg, still, I noticed.

A look of alarm flashed on her round features, and silent tears started down her cheeks.

"It's okay. It's okay," he told her, rocking her slightly at his side.

Gonzalez approached, Martin right behind. They both loomed across the table from Watson.

"Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez, "I understand you had help from the hotel staff."

"Y-yes," said Watson.

"Who?" demanded Martin.

Watson looked surprised at their hostility. "Um, Huey, the guy who shines shoes."

"And who else?"

Watson regarded them for a moment. "There were other people who helped me, but I don't know their names."

"Who was in charge, then?" Martin asked.

Watson frowned. "In charge of what?"

"The conspiracy."

"What?" Watson's eyes grew large. "They helped me. I was trying to save my daughter."

"And kill the Governor."

" I didn't want to kill the Governor. Smith wanted me to. I can tell you some of the people in his conspiracy."

"Go on."

Watson took a deep breath. "The Governor's husband and some other guy who was staying with them. Didn't she tell you?"

"We want to hear your story, Mr. Watson. We hear you broke into the Governor's suite and threatened her."

"No! I . . . " He stopped, gulped, and swallowed some 7-Up. "I needed to talk to her, to get her to help. I didn't know who to trust."

"You held a gun on her."

Watson gazed at Martin with an expression of dismay. Then he slumped, staring at the table. "I can't believe she didn't tell you," he said.

"That's assault, Mr. Watson."

"It is?" He sounded almost disinterested. "I couldn't let her call her security. They were in on it."

"How did you get in her room?"

He looked up again. "The hotel staff helped me."

"Who did?"

"Well, Huey did. Didn't he tell you?"

Probably Huey had, but I guessed Huey had left off the names of their other helpers and Martin was trying to get the info out of Watson. I also was willing to bet the Governor had given a more sympathetic statement regarding Watson than Martin would let on. It was all part of bludgeoning information from a suspect you assumed didn't want to tell you the truth.

The door opened as someone went out, and I spotted Mike just outside the door. I slipped out to join him.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Are they done with the shoe-shine guy?"

"For now," Mike said. "They've got his statement. And a heckuva statement it is, too. But you aren't gonna guess what they found outside."

I thought. It was too early for ballistics to be back. "A bomb in the teddy bear?" I guessed.

Mike grinned. "First of all, all three guns were unregistered. Watson's and Smitty's and Jones's."

Let me just say here, cops have a lot of access to unregistered guns. And, if you're found to have one, well, they really have to wonder why.

"What about their own guns?"

"Not on 'em," Mike said.

Oh my. Why would two cops be going around with unregistered guns and not their own pieces?

"Watson's gun was there?"

"Probably his. The one that looks like it killed Smitty. Did Watson confess?"

I nodded. "Just about Smitty though. He says Smitty was trying to kill his little girl." I still hadn't decided what I thought about this whole part of the story. I didn't really know Smith and Jones, but, you know, you hate to lose faith in a fellow cop.

Mike nodded. "Hardimon says he saved her."

"Who?"

"The shoeshine guy. Huey Hardimon. When he got to the van, Jones had her gun on the little girl."

A man in a suit with a briefcase brushed by us on his way toward the office, and we both glanced around, checking that we weren't being overheard. Over by the doors to the street, TV cameras were setting up. They must have let the press who were in the ballroom go, or else their stations had sent reinforcements.

Mike went on. "And I heard that Jones woke up on the way to the hospital and lawyered up."

"Well," I said, still trying to believe the best, "she should, you know, what with everything . . ."

Mike's eyes sparkled. "Nobody had told her anything. They were the first words out of her mouth."

Okay, that was a little surprising.

Mike still looked like he'd recently dined on canary. He had more to tell me.

"What?" I prodded him.

"Guess what they found out by the trash can." He didn't wait for me to guess. "A business card belonging to Gene Watson, accountant. And on the back someone had written "Grey van Little girl Please help."

"No way!" I said.

"Yes, way."

"Mike," I said, like I was telling a secret. "Smitty and Jones tried to get the Governor killed. I can't believe it."

"And they used that poor SOB to do it," he said, nodding toward the security office.

"But he didn't," I replied, and I realized I was impressed. "The Governor and his little girl are both fine."

"Damn."

What Mike meant to say, of course, was damn, if a guy like Smitty intended to make you do something, he'd have every escape blocked and he'd bully you with thirty years of practice at intimidation. If this guy Watson managed to escape Smitty and even turn the tables on him, then he has some huge ones between the legs. That's what Mike meant to say.

Mike went back outside to the crime scene, and I followed another officer back through the door. The man with the briefcase stood beside Watson's table, looking proprietary. Attorney, I guessed.

Gonzalez stood and approached the guy I was following, so I couldn't really get by. Rather than stand by Watson, I had intended to go check the office where the Governor had been, straighten anything that needed fixing, and let the hotel security know they could have the room back.

"What have you got?" Gonzalez asked in a low voice, glancing back to check that he was out of Watson's hearing. I stopped and tried to blend in with the scenery.

"His story checks, Lieutenant," the guy said. "He has a residence in Santa Maria, his employer confirmed him, and the only record he's got is in San Diego where he parked a rental illegally outside the Medical Center. They can't find that he's ever been involved with politics, and he doesn't seem to have any connection to the Governor."

"That's crazy," said Gonzalez. "They've got to look harder."

"They found this outside by a trash can," the man said, handing him an evidence bag with a crumpled business card inside. Gonzalez took it and read the writing on both sides. He raised his bushy eyebrows. "Sir," the guy went on, "even without ballistics, they can tell the shots in the van probably came from the gun Smitty had on him. His was the only .44 out there. Watson's gun was a detective special and Jones had a 9mm."

Gonzalez looked at him for a moment. "Any shots from the 9mm?"

"Yes sir. In the shoe-shine guy's fake leg."

Again Gonzalez's eyebrows lifted. "And the .38?"

"Nothing we've found. But the team upstairs think the woman could have been shot with a .38."

Gonzalez nodded and handed him back the evidence bag. "Get more on Watson. College records. Check out his wife. Get the Governor's staff to give you a list of any organizations they're aware of with a beef with the Governor and find Watson connected to one. It's got to be there."

"Yes sir," said the man. "Should I …"

"Yes?"

"Should I check for Smitty, too?"

Gonzalez didn't answer. I saw his jaw tighten. Then he looked at me. He'd known I was listening all along. I refused to look embarrassed and lifted my chin. Tight-lipped, he nodded. "Jones, too."

They got out of my way, and I attended to the business I'd been aiming at, as quickly as I could, so I could return to Watson. Er, Gonzalez, I meant.

As I approached the cluster by the table, Lynn piped up. "Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom," she said.

An alarmed look entered Watson's gorgeous eyes, and other talking around the table ceased. "Didn't you go when we were there before?" he tried to ask quietly enough to not be heard by all of us.

"You were throwing up, remember?" she said. "And it was the men's room."

Watson blinked and I thought he might have blushed if the blood could win out over his general shock and pallor.

The man with the briefcase stood on Lynn's side of the table. He regarded her somewhat sternly, I thought, but his tone was kindly. "I'll take you, Honey," he said.

"No!" Lynn barked at him, more belligerent than scared.

"Lynn. Don't be rude," said Watson. "Mr. Poole is our friend."

"Daddy, you take me," she pleaded.

"I …" Watson looked around at the police surrounding him.

Gonzalez also searched for a solution, and spotted me. "Officer Schwartz!" he said.

"Yes, sir," says I, my heart sinking.

"This policewoman will take her," Gonzalez said.

The child's eyes went as round as saucers, regarding me, and she froze. "No," she whimpered.

I found her obvious terror unnerving. She seemed bratty enough that I had expected more of a tantrum. This wasn't temper; this was … trauma. I froze, too. What the heck?

Watson looped his bound hands protectively around her. "Listen," he said in a voice more strong and determined than I had heard yet from him, "the last policewoman I left her with tried to shoot her. How can I tell her the police are our friends now?" He scooted with her along the bench seat, toward the attorney.

Ooh, good point. All the cops standing around looked to Gonzalez for instructions, but he merely frowned in silence.

"I'm taking her to the bathroom," Watson said, getting awkwardly and painfully to his feet. "You can all come along, if you like."

Okay, now let me say here, this kind of assertiveness is not permitted in a suspect. From a cop's perspective, this bordered on mouthing off. Gonzalez's frown became a scowl.

I found myself speaking, hoping to intervene. "Security told me there's no exit from the bathroom in the lobby," I told him.

After a second of looking at me, Gonzalez nodded once. "We're all taking a little trip, then," he said, his gaze including my own self and four other cops. At Gonzalez's summons, Martin came too. The attorney - Poole? - also followed, maybe to make sure no questioning of Watson took place without him.

So an entire entourage escorted a five, no, six-year-old girl to the bathroom. As we passed through the lobby, the assembled camera crews swiveled, scooped up their cords, and swarmed. I saw now Martin's role: he ran interference, promising them an on-the-spot statement. They mostly accepted the deal, realizing, I think, that our suspect was well-guarded and an official statement of some kind would give them more than would hounding us. Still, a half-dozen cameras followed our progress across the airy lobby of the Hotel Bonaventure, and I wondered what they thought when they saw where we were going.

Watson made slow progress. His daughter clung to his hand, which forced both of his hands across the front of his body in an awkward angle. His limp was much worse. I ended up at his side opposite Lynn, and I heard his pained breathing. He lurched into me a couple of times, and I swear, it would have been the most natural thing in the world to slip my arm under his and give him some support. The effort to not do that had my heart pounding.

We reached the bathrooms, and the girl balked. "Not the men's room!" she cried.

I couldn't believe Watson managed to keep his temper with her. I knew he was in pain, and making an embarrassing display of himself for her, but he reasoned with her as if no one else were there.

"You can go by yourself in the Ladies'," he suggested, though there was an odd tone of apprehension in his voice. He didn't want to let her go, I realized. Geez, there really was a lot of trauma around here.

"You come with me," she begged.

"I'll wait right here for when you come out."

The girl didn't answer for a moment, but then she sort of whispered, "What if they take you away?"

Watson caressed her head. "Honey, believe me, it's a lot worse for me to go in the Ladies Room than for you to come in the Men's Room," he said gently. "Let's go in the Men's."

One of the guys ducked into the Men's Room to check it out.

"Let's go, Sweetpea," he said, steering her firmly.

The guy popped out, right behind a startled looking hotel patron. "All clear," he said.

"Just pretend it's the Ladies' Room, Honey. You were in here before."

Father and daughter passed through the swinging door, two cops on their heels.

"I can't pretend that," Lynn said, practically. "What are those funny little sinks for?"

The door closed, so the others and I didn't hear Watson's response.

I did spot a few twinkles of mirth in the guys's eyes, though, quickly smothered. The guys love bathroom humor.

So now we had nothing to do but stand around looking at each other, and eye the nearby press of Press. Above us, at the top of the staircase, the Command Post bustled with people. Witnesses from the ballroom trickled down the stairs, released after giving their statements.

A State Trooper trotted down the stairs, aiming for Gonzalez. Our group parted to let him through. The two men exchanged quick introductions, then the Trooper said, "They wanted me to let you know - the security tape and the witnesses agree your suspect exited into the service corridor and was pursued by Alan White, the Governor's head of security. If there were any witnesses to his death it would be the hotel staff; no one else from the ballroom followed, not at first."

"Did they exchange fire?"

"White shot at him. We can't find that your guy returned fire."

Gonzalez glanced at the lawyer, who was listening, but from a polite distance. "Did he shoot at the Governor?" Gonzalez asked.

The Trooper's professional demeanor slipped, allowing him to look uncertain. "We . . . haven't found a credible witness who says he did . . . he did fire a couple of shots. They can see him clearly on the security tape. He shot into the ceiling and into a projection booth. The tape didn't catch anything else."

"Okay, thanks," said Gonzalez with an uneasy glance at the bathroom door.

"I'm supposed to ask, do you need us to check for anything in particular?"

"Yeah, find out if anyone saw someone in the projection booth and get a description if they did."

"Right." The Trooper took himself off back upstairs.

Watson and his daughter emerged, closely escorted. Watson must have had a chance to see himself in a mirror, for he had his shirt and tie straightened up and his wild hair calmed down. He looked quite preppy, I thought.

The lawyer frowned at Watson's limp. "Lieutenant," he said, "my client is injured. He needs medical assistance."

I expected Gonzalez to say it could wait, but it was Watson who protested softly, "No, it's okay, really."

I didn't think it was okay, and neither did the lawyer. "Let's let a doctor decide that, shall we?" he replied archly.

Gonzalez nodded. "If any paramedics are still here, we'll get them down at the office," he said.

Well, well.

We started back across the lobby. This time I didn't get to walk so close to Watson. Before, I hadn't noticed that the black man from the crime scene was sitting on the low wall of a fountain planter watching us.

Lynn saw him. "Daddy! That man there!" She tugged on her father's bound hands. "He was at the car. The lady shot at him!"

Huey Hardimon, the shoeshine guy, waved at Lynn. "Hello, little girl," he said. Watson gave him a weak smile and an inclination of his head. "I know, Honey. I think he saved your life."

"Can we go talk to him? Is he all right? Where's his leg?" I looked, and sure enough, Mr. Hardimon's prosthetic was still off, and I didn't see it anywhere. A sturdy wooden cane leaned against the wall, next to him.

Watson stopped, and the crowd of us surged uncertainly around him like a wave breaking and falling back. No, no, no. You do not let a suspect and a witness chat. They'll compare notes and get their stories matching, or something.

"Come along, Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez.

Watson ignored him. "Huey! Are you all right? Your leg . . ."

Hardimon gave a huge grin. "It don't hurt as much as yours," he called cheerfully.

"That's enough," Gonzalez said, so one of the guys dutifully grasped Watson's bicep. I saw my chance. I ducked around two other guys to get to Watson's other side. I slid my arm under his. Oh, he was just the right height for me. I could feel the others' surprise. Who cared? Let 'em talk.

Watson resisted us pulling him forward, his worried gaze on Hardimon. Hardimon waved him away, still grinning. "It's a wooden leg! They kept it as ev-vee-dence, can you believe it?"

Watson stumbled forward, wincing. I tried to keep him from landing on his injured leg.

Lynn waved at Hardimon. "Bye!" she said.

"Bye!" He waved back.

The guy on Watson's other side let him go, but Watson made no attempt to shake me off. I had the side of his hurt leg and I was able to be under his stride on that side. I made quite a good crutch, if I say so myself, and I only wished the walk back to the security office was longer.

I helped Watson to his bench seat as everyone arranged themselves around us again. He sat down with a sigh of relief and Lynn clambered up to snuggle at his side. He didn't look at me as I released him, and I really wanted him to at least notice who had been his prop, so I took his glasses out of my pocket. "Here," I said quietly.

It worked. I got that surprised, then grateful look from him. What's more, he put the glasses on and looked more directly at me. I smiled. I looked around. No one had noticed. Good.

Someone brought a paramedic. They moved the table out a little so the guy could work on Watson's leg while he sat there. He slit Watson's trousers to up above the knee, and you could see how badly swollen the knee and leg were, as well as bloody. Lynn watched, wide-eyed.

As everyone was settling in, Mike came in with a good-sized evidence bag in his hand. I knew that kind of I-have-something-important look on his face. He didn't even glance at me; he went straight for Gonzalez. The two of them stepped to the side, and then Gonzalez took Mike into another little office.

They emerged a few minutes later, as the paramedic was getting going with some of those adhesive thingys they use before you put stitches in. Gonzalez approached the table slowly, Mike a discreet few paces behind.

The lawyer faced Gonzalez. "Lieutenant," he said, "if you have the preliminary information you need from my client, I think it's time he gives a full statement, from beginning to end. Shouldn’t we be at the station?"

Gonzalez didn't answer right away. He looked at Watson and the little girl. Then he leaned over and said something to one of the "door guards" standing there. "No, Mr. Poole," Gonzalez said. "We can take his statement here, for now. We can see him at the station tomorrow."

What? Tomorrow?

The door guard, looking a little surprised, reached across the table with a handcuff key. Watson also looked surprised, but then held up his hands for the man to unlock him. The handcuffs fell away and the room fell quiet.

"Mr. Watson, you are a material witness to conspiracy and murder," Gonzalez said. "You are not to leave L.A., do you understand?"

Stunned, Watson gave a small nod.

"When we're done here, you may go. But we'll need to see you downtown tomorrow. The FBI will have more questions for you by then."

No one said anything. Watson nodded again.

Poole, the lawyer, cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, we need to talk."

"Yes, Mr. Poole, we do."

But they didn't talk right then, to my disappointment, so I didn't have a chance to haul Mike to the side. Lt. Gonzalez settled in with a tape recorder and asked Watson to start at the beginning. I was itching with curiosity, and so were most of the other guys, I could tell. Mike joined the silent door guards, still with that knowing look on his face. I could find no excuse to drag him outside and question him. I had to settle for glaring at him. He gave me a slight smile.

Soon, though, I was caught up in the story Gene Watson was telling. He spoke in a tired, matter-of-fact way as he described the events of earlier today. His daughter's attention wandered, but the rest of us were riveted. I learned why he was wet; Smitty had thrown him off a stairwell and into one of the fountains. Injured, bruised, wet and panicked, he had dragged himself up and charged out to the van where he saw Smitty shoot at the child. Apparently Jones had been occupied with Hardimon. Watson killed Smitty and Hardimon knocked Jones unconscious. Watson had then taken his daughter to the bathroom, where, I gathered from the girl's comment earlier, he had been sick. Hotel security nabbed him as they came out, and that's where his story met up with what we already knew.

"He said, 'I knew I'd make a killer out of you, Mr. Watson.' It was . . . the last thing he said," Watson said, frowning.

He'd mentioned that before. I guessed the guy was a bit hung up over that. You know, I've never had to kill anyone, but at least I've had some preparation for it, and have friends who've dealt with it. Watson was just on his way home from his wife's funeral.

Geez, I could've kicked myself. My next thought was 'Hey, that means he's single!' God, I'm hopeless.

Gonzalez asked some clarifying questions, but I could tell he had lost a lot of his skepticism. Poole gave very little advice to his client, and seemed to have few objections to how Gonzalez proceeded, which also told me the questioning had lost its sharp edge. How I wanted to know what had been in Mike's bag!

A commotion at the door to the lobby attracted everyone's attention. Captain Plunkett and co. had returned from wherever they had escorted the Governor to. The commotion was caused by Plunkett being pursued by reporters right to the door of our office. The door opened, admitting some of the men with him, and also admitting a blinding beam from a TV camera. Our training kicked in and we door guards automatically moved to block any view of Watson and his daughter. This put me next to Mike as Captain Plunkett himself finally made his entrance, almost slamming the door on somebody's hand holding a mike.

Plunkett's presence is always hard to ignore. Gonzalez glanced uneasily at him, though he should have had all his attention on his suspect or witness, or whatever Watson was now. For his part, Captain Plunkett surveyed the room, noticing, I am sure, Watson's un-handcuffed state, and glancing over me. I held my breath, but if he still had any beef with my handling of the Governor earlier, I saw no sign of it. He inclined his bald head at Martin. "Detective" he said, summoning the lieutenant for an audience. He swept into the office I had just straightened up, followed by Martin and a couple of others. At least he was getting out of the way of the questioning. Probably what he intended.

In his wake, we all breathed out, fluttered, and re-settled ourselves. The energy in the room called for taking a break. I couldn't haul Mike out to the lobby - not with reporters right on the other side of the door - but I grabbed a chance at a whisper. "What was in the bag?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case," he whispered back, looking down at me from the side, coy.

"So don't discuss, asshole, tell me," I replied. I'm Mike's partner! No fair holding out.

He grinned and gave me a placating nod, telling me he'd spill as soon as he could. Not good enough, darn it. I wanted to know, now. I looked around, frustrated. There were other offices . . . pretty obvious if we vanished into one, but I wasn't going to get another chance. Already, Poole, who had found the water cooler, was returning, and someone had placed a styrofoam cup of coffee in front of Gonzalez. Lynn, who had jumped up in a burst of childish energy and run from desk to desk collecting Kleenex boxes, obeyed her father's summons back to his side, and in moments we'd all be back to silent door-guarding.

I grabbed Mike's arm and tried to haul him into the nearest small office. He resisted, darn it. I have mentioned that Mike's a big guy? It was like trying to move a six foot pile of rock. Well, there are ways. I adjusted my grip and got his fingers in a painful control hold. He gasped, gave me an outraged look, but rather than make a scene, he followed.

Feeling like a teenager slipping into the janitor's closet for nookie between classes, I pulled him after me and shut the door. He wrenched his hand away and I let him go.

"Patty!"

"What was in the bag? Talk fast."

No arguing. He gave. "In the van there was a portable printing machine for labels like name tags. The tape leaves an imprint, and you could see the last thing it had printed. The name Gene Watson."

I nodded, but must have looked blank. Very suggestive, but not clearly incriminating.

"Also, a cassette tape."

"A tape?"

"A wiretap tape. Smitty's no detective. It must have been unauthorized. We popped it in the van's tape deck. It was a call where Brendan Grant tells him to find an assassin to kill his wife."

"Tells Smitty?"

"Yep."

I'm ashamed to say I wasn't quick on the uptake with this. "Why would Smitty keep such a thing?"

"Blackmail," said Mike, like he had said "Duh."

Oh, wow. Since the tape would incriminate Smitty, too, he must have kept it in case he got caught and he needed the help of the Governor's husband in his defense. I nodded my thanks for the information, and opened the door. I knew everyone had seen what I did, and they would know why, and I didn't really care. But we didn't dare stay away too long.

We re-joined the group, ignoring the meaningful looks the other guys threw our way. We'd let them all know, too, eventually, but not in front of Watson, of course.

The interview didn't last much longer. Gonzalez stood, pocketing the tape recorder, and that served as the signal. Captain Plunkett re-emerged, and Poole pulled out his cell phone and talked earnestly to someone. The door guards milled, and two other guys pulled Mike aside. Poole ended his call, and after a brief word to Watson, followed Gonzalez down the small hallway. Watson looked around, oddly abandoned in the middle of the milling.

I approached. "Did they tell you you can go now?" I asked, smiling.

Watson focused on me, uncertainly. Generally door guards are like background scenery, and you don't expect the wallpaper to talk to you. But, darn it, I was the one who brought the Seven Up and rescued the glasses. You know, the woman?

He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a shaky half-smile. "But I can't leave L.A.," he said.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Lynn, I noticed, was following our conversation with interest, now. At least she wasn't glaring at me.

"We'll need to get a hotel," he said, half to his daughter.

"You're in a hotel," I said.

"No!" he replied, almost sounding like Lynn. Then he looked sheepish. My toes curled. It was an adorable look on him. "Uh, some other hotel. Cheaper, for one thing. I don't know how long we'll have to stay here."

Poole returned. "Mr. Watson, please call me this evening and tell me where you are," he said, holding out a business card. Watson took it slowly, as if it were an alien thing. He looked at Poole, and I could see he felt abandoned by his only ally. But Poole was all business as he snapped shut his briefcase. "I don't want you to worry," he said, patting Lynn on the head. "You aren't under arrest, and I don't think you will be. I'll let you know tomorrow morning where we need to be."

"What was in the bag?" Watson asked, still holding the card as if he'd forgotten to put his arm down.

Poole smiled and glanced at me. "We'll talk this evening," he said, and headed briskly for the door to the lobby. I watched with interest. Sure enough, as soon as the door opened, I saw reporters closing in. Someone pulled the door shut behind Poole, quickly. I wondered if the guy would make a statement on TV.

I turned back to Watson. "There's a Comfort Inn not far from the station," I said. "Walking distance. You don't have a car, right?"

"I'll need a rental, I suppose," he said, now looking down at the card.

Might as well go for broke. And take advantage of his somewhat vulnerable situation. "I'm off duty at 4:30. I could give you a lift."

My heart sank as I saw the expression in his eyes. Startled recognition that I was coming on to him, followed by shields and rejection. But before he could say anything, Captain Plunkett lumbered up to our table, and I stepped back to give him room.

"Mr. Watson, I'm Captain Anthony Plunkett." He held out a fleshy hand, and Watson took it automatically. "We're going to escort you out the VIP exit," Plunkett said. "It goes into the parking structure. Do you have a car? No? Well . . ." and to my eternal gratitude to a friendly Almighty God, Plunkett looked around and saw me. "Sgt. Schwartz will take you in a prowler to wherever you need to go, unless you want to talk to the press?"

"No, no," said Watson. "But . . ." he glanced from the Captain to me, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he was going to ask for a different escort. "Our luggage . . . it's still in that van."

"Sorry, Mr. Watson, everything in that van is evidence. You'll just have to go shopping. Schwartz can probably help you with that, too." It was potentially a sexist remark coming from a superior who was a lot more than just potentially sexist, but I didn't care a whit. Shopping! I tried to give Watson a reassuring smile.

"Now I'm going out front to give them all some footage for the six o'clock news. That's when you go. Most of them know about the VIP exit, but they should be lured away when they hear I'm speaking out front. You got that, Schwartz?"

"Yes, sir," I said, trying not to sound too happy.

Plunkett turned away, to arrange to have someone give the press a heads up that he would speak. "I'll be right back," I said to Watson. I didn't look directly at him; I couldn't bear to see suspicion or distaste in his expression.

"Mike," I called through the group, and wound my way to him. "You gotta get another ride to the station." My partner nodded. He'd probably heard Plunkett. Most people do.

I had to pass through the lobby to reach my patrol car. The cameras and reporters were dutifully lining up, looking for the best backdrop, some of them speaking to the camera already. I managed to pass unaccosted and was admitted through the cordon around the van crime scene to my car. I drove around the block to the parking structure, and, on the second level, parked outside the corridor door. No reporters in sight.

The door opened, and there, flanked by two uniforms, stood Gene Watson, glasses, tie, and preppy grey suit, his daughter's hand in his. This ordinary guy who had done and survived extraordinary things today. My heart beat faster.

Watson limped to the car, and, somewhat to my disappointment, got in the back with Lynn. Oh well, I refused to be discouraged.

"Where to?" I asked cheerily.

"Western Union," he said. "I have to get someone to wire me money. My wallet's evidence, too."

"I'm Patty," I said, as we started down the ramp.

"Gene Watson," he said, and I could hear the small smile in his voice. "And this is my daughter, Lynn."

It promised to be an interesting evening.

The end.

Go to: Part 1 | Part 2

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