My legs were wobbly: shock, too much exertion. All the gunfire in the hall had left me with a loud whining in the ears; I had a hard time hearing what any of them, cops or robbers, was saying.
“We wasn’t doing nothing,” Freddie said to the first responders. “This bitch comes and starts picking my locks, can you believe that? In broad daylight?”
“You a user or a dealer?” one of the officers asked me.
“My name is V. I. Warshawski; I’m a licensed investigator. You can see my ID in my wallet. A woman who disappeared two days ago is in this building. These goons threatened to shoot her. We need to look for her now: she may still be alive.”
The officers were not interested. They were so sure I was in the drug business that they only made a pretense of looking at my license. When it became clear they weren’t going to ask the crime scene crew to look for Judy, I stopped contributing to the conversation—even after Freddie claimed I had broken in, killed his main man, Bullet, trashed his building by shooting it up. Basically, he added, he was just a man trying to live a peaceful life; he only started firing a semiautomatic in self-defense.
Various officers wanted to know if someone sent me to take out Freddie. Who was my Mexican contact? Where was I standing when I shot Bullet?
I didn’t say anything, just stared at the street, silently cursing myself for not following Conrad’s advice. At one point an ambulance arrived; a stretcher crew brought Bullet down. His face was uncovered; they had him strapped in a neck restraint, which made me believe he wasn’t actually dead.
“He’s still breathing,” I said to Freddie. “If you’ve got good health insurance for your playmates he should be back in the lineup before long.”
Freddie spat in my face. What a prince.
When Lt. Downey finally arrived and learned who I was claiming to be, his face did not light up in ecstasy. “Yeah, we got a heads-up she’d be coming out here. What’s been going on?”
The first responders said they’d been alerted to gunfire on Lorel, found the three of us shooting at each other. Freddie started his pitch about self-defense, that I’d broken in, blah, blah.
“You a deaf-mute, Warshawski, or you going to give your version?” Downey asked.
I twisted my neck to look at my cuffed hands, but didn’t speak.
“Oh, release her,” Downey said to one of the officers in a voice of long suffering. “Rawlings over in the Fourth vouches for her, although damned if I can see why.”
When my hands were free I rubbed them slowly, massaged my shoulders, did some neck rolls. “Judy Binder is or was on the third floor.” I still was having trouble hearing and wondered if I was actually speaking. “I came to see if she was hiding here, which I told your team; so far I don’t think they’ve bothered to look for her. When I got here, Freddie and his buddies didn’t answer the bell.”
“That why you were picking the lock?” Downey’s sergeant asked me.
Bullet had taken my picks before shoving me into the building; the techs had found them on their way in.
“Man, we saw her breaking in, watched it on the monitor,” Vire blurted. “Bullet went down to stop her!”
“That why you broke Bullet Bultman’s neck?” the sergeant asked me.
“He had a gun stuck in my spine. I didn’t like my odds if we got all the way to the top of the stairs, so I ducked and gave him a hard shove. I didn’t shoot him. If there’s a bullet in him, it came from Erwin. Erwin was pretty hysterical. He flew down the stairs, shooting like a maniac. I don’t know how he missed me.”
“It’s ‘Virus,’” Erwin hissed.
“Is there a bullet in the Bullet?” Ferret Downey turned to survey his squad.
“Don’t think so, Looey.” One of the SCI team stepped forward. “They’ll be able to tell at the hospital.”
“Take me inside; we’ll have a look-see. Warchosi, or whatever your name is, you come along. We’ll find you a place to sit that doesn’t contaminate the evidence.”
“Erwin here said Judy Binder was in the building,” I repeated. “He offered to kill her if Freddie wanted, but Freddie told him to shoot me first. I want to find her before another of Freddie’s punks tries to kill her.”
Downey blew on the ends of his droopy mustache. “I know you’re God’s gift to Conrad Rawlings, but I’ve managed to stagger my way through crime scenes without your help for twenty years. It’s hard to believe anyone would waste time and money looking for a junkie, but if we find one hiding on the premises, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
His sergeant snickered appreciatively. I took a deep breath: I reminded myself that a clever response would bring me only a brief reward. What I really wanted most was not to have the last word, but to leave soon. With my gun and without being charged.