His face softened and he touched my shoulder. “I’m not mad. I’m relieved you’re not worse off.”
The door opened and Detective Roche swaggered in, brushing the snow off his broad cop shoulders and stamping his boots.
“I’d like a minute with Ms. Glasser.”
Mac scowled and stood up.
“She could be hypothermic, Detective.”
Roche waved him off. “This won’t take long.”
Reluctantly, Mac stepped aside.
“Did you arrest Abbas Masout?” I asked, anxious.
Roche sat on the blind’s wooden bench, looking down at me. He cleaned snow off his brown corduroy pants and then blew on his hands.
“No.”
“You have to! He killed Hugh and Helene.”
“And you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be held against you in a court of law.”
“No!” I cried. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“What?” Mac cried out. “That’s crazy—”
Roche shot him a hard look.
“You’re making a mistake, Detective. Arrest Abbas,” I pleaded. “He killed them.”
“You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”
“He tried to kill me.”
“Mr. Masout says otherwise. He says you came to the studio to sell him valuable artwork you stole from your ex. When he refused to buy it, you attacked him with a knife. You told him you’d killed the Walkers and would kill him, too.”
“That’s a total lie.”
“He fired his gun in self-defense and you ran. He chased you. Found you injured from a fall. Before he could call us, the hunter misread the situation and shot him in the arm.”
“No, he’s lying. I swear. Ask the hunter. Ask Jake.”
“We’re about to get his statement.” Roche paused. “You know, you’re pretty good at deception yourself. Nice trick there with Sergeant Crawley.”
I put my hand under the blanket. Before I could reach the ninja book, Roche had already whipped out his gun.
“Don’t move.”
“Fuck,” Mac said.
“I’m just taking out a notebook.”
“Do it very slowly.”
I removed the battered book gradually and passed it to Roche.
“Abbas wanted to get his hands on this. That’s why he tried to kill me. His motive is in here.”
He took it and puzzled over the cover.
“There are sketches in there showing that Abbas knew Hugh was leaving the gallery and taking away millions of dollars’ worth of business,” I said. “Abbas would have been ruined by it. I can explain more if you need me to.”
“You and Mr. Masout will have a lot of explaining to do,” Roche said, standing up. “After you’re stabilized, I’m bringing both of you in.”
“No!” Mac cried out, unable to control himself.
“Abbas Masout killed them,” I insisted, frustrated.
“We’ll see.”
At least Roche is taking Abbas into custody, I thought fearfully.
“Mac, please call Douglas Gubbins. Tell him I’m under arrest.”
The klieg lights reflected off the snow, bathing the area in brilliant white as Mac and Al carried me out of the blind. The police were working the crime scene, tromping through the snowdrifts wearing plastic gloves and Tyvek paper shoes, measuring angles and trajectories, distances and shoe sizes. They’d collect DNA and blood samples. The powder they sprinkled on Jake’s arrow and on Abbas’s gun would capture fingerprints. Their labs would confirm that the gun had been fired numerous times near the inlet—evidence (I hoped) that Abbas had attempted to kill me because of what I knew.
The police were after the same “five w’s and an h” a reporter would seek: “Who? What? When? Where? Why? How?” They were using all the science at their disposal to compile the facts and help the district attorney build an airtight case. But “why?” was a question their methods couldn’t address. I was counting on the ninja notebook providing an answer to that one.
Mac radioed ahead to the hospital while he drove. His voice carried through to the back of the ambulance: “Coming in heavy. Forty-one-year-old Caucasian female. Possible hypothermia.” He gave them my stats as we traveled along the dark roads, snow crunching under the tires, a police car following behind. I had a warm saline drip in my left arm. My right wrist was cuffed to the gurney’s side bar. The tight metal bracelet pinched the skin, and I wriggled in frustration, rattling my chains against the railing.
Al looked up briefly at the sound, but avoided my eyes. He’d perched his bulky body on the end of the bench by the ambulance doors and was filling out a form on his clipboard in silence. He went back to writing, obviously nervous about being alone with me. I decided to break the ice.
“Isn’t Stokes on your team anymore?”
“He’s at the hospital.”
“He’s sick?”
“Their baby was in distress.”
“Oh no,” I groaned.
“It’s okay. The baby is out of danger. Mother and child are fine.”
We drove over a nasty pothole and Al looked up again. This time our eyes met. I knew that look from a man. Guilt. He lowered his gaze swiftly and went on with his paperwork.
“I’m sorry, Al. I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, still writing. “You didn’t put the arrow in the guy. And you didn’t kill the Walkers. I’d bet money on it.”
“Thanks. But I was talking about you, and my Tips column.”
Al’s hand stopped moving.
“I get why you’re mad as hell. You felt I was making fun of you. Believe me, I wasn’t. I’m really sorry it hurt you.”
Al pulled his cap down and stayed focused on the form.
“Al?”
After a few seconds, he sighed.
“I’ve never worked so hard in my life, and I’m barely making it,” he said, sadly. “The expenses get higher and higher. And with two more kids coming up on college . . . The bills are piling up. I’m always rushing from one lousy job to another to make my nut. I never have any time. I hardly see Sinead and my girls. I just get so frustrated. And angry. Really angry.”
He shook his head and clammed up.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re a solid guy, and I admire you.”
“Yeah?”
“The way you care about your family, and the community. I mean, besides working so hard, you’re still volunteering. Coaching kids. Saving lives. Please, can you forgive me?”
He was quiet. Then he removed his cap and studied its crown. He finally ran a hand over his buzz cut, put the cap back on and raised his head.
“This is all going to be over soon, and you’ll be back to work at the paper,” he said. “I want you to do something for me then.”
It was heartening to hear that Al was confident of a positive outcome.
“What would that be?”
“If you’re going to keep doing the column, write funnier stuff.”
I smiled, relieved. “I’ll try my best.”
Mac’s voice crackled though Al’s hand radio. “I’ve got Ben Wickstein on the phone. He said to let Nora know he’s on his way to the hospital. Check if there’s anything she wants me to tell him?”
I shook my head no.
I was glad Ben was back. I had a lot to say to him. But I’d say it in person.
“She’s good, Mac,” Al said into his radio. He clicked it off and gazed at me curiously. “So, you and Ben? You’re an item?”