Kovacliska - Ashes To Ashes Part 67

Rob's stare was locked on Angie. "Tell us, Angie. No more games."

Angie glared at him, shaking visibly now.

"Where did he take you? What did he do to you?"

"f.u.c.k you!" she spat out. "I'm not playing your game."

"Yes, you are, Angie," he said, his voice growing darker. "You will.

You don't have a choice."

"f.u.c.k you! I hate you!"

Shrieking, she came up off the couch, arm raised, knife blade flashing.

Kate moved fast, flinging the chenille throw to cover the knife and

diving into Angie from the side almost simultaneously. The girl howled as they crashed to the floor, knocking into the coffee table and

scattering the victimology reports.

Kate held her down as she struggled, the first wave of relief washingthrough her. Rob picked up the knife, closed the blade, and put it inhis pocket.

Angie was sobbing. Kate moved onto her knees and pulled the girl intoher arms to hold her.

"It's all right, Angie," she whispered. "You're safe now."

Angie pushed free, staring at her, incredulous and furious. "You stupidb.i.t.c.h," she rasped. "Now you're dead."

CHAPTER 32.

"THE SHARKS SMELL BLOOD in the water," Quinn commented as they watchedthe mob gather for the press conference.

Kovac scowled. "Yeah, and some of it is mine."

"Sam, I can guarantee you, with Vanlees on the block, they could give as.h.i.t about you."

The idea seemed to further depress Kovac. It did nothing for Quinneither. Having Bondurant's people leak information about Vanlees to thepress was bad enough, but to have the police talk openly to the pressabout Gil Vanlees at this point was dangerously premature. He'd said soto the mayor, Greer, and Sabin. That they were choosing to ignore hisadvice was beyond his control. And yet he could feel the anxietysingeing another hole in the wall of his stomach.

He was the one who had come up with the initial profile, which Vanleesfit, nearly to a T. In retrospect he thought he shouldn't have been soquick to offer an opinion. The possibility of tandem killers changedeverything. But the press and the powers running the show had Vanleesnow, and were all too happy to sink their teeth into him.

The mayor had chosen the grand Fourth Street entrance for the setting ofthe press conference. A cathedral of polished marble with an impressivedouble staircase and stained gla.s.s panels. The kind of place wherepoliticians could stand on the stairs above the common folk and lookimportant, where the glow of the marble seemed to reflect off their skinand make them seem more radiant than the average citizen.

Quinn and Kovac watched from a shadowed alcove as the television peopleset up and the newspaper people jockeyed for status spots. On thestairs, the mayor and Sabin conferred as the mayor's a.s.sistant brushedlint from her suit. Gary Yurek was deep in conversation with ChiefGreer, Fowler, and a pair of captains who seemed to have come out of thewoodwork for the photo op. Quinn would join the circus in a moment andgive his two cents' worth to the throng, trying to give the announcementof a suspect in custody a cautionary spin, which almost no one wouldlisten to. They would rather listen to Edwyn n.o.ble spin lies for PeterBondurant, which was almost certainly what he was doing standing with areporter for MSNBC.

There was no sign of Peter. Not that Quinn had expected him-not afterthis morning, and not with the possibility of incest allegations seepingout into the news pool. Still, he couldn't help but wonder at Bondurant's mental state, and what exactly had brought Lucas Brandtrunning with his little black bag. Jillian's supposed demise, or therevelation of what might have happened all those years ago?

"Charm," Kovac said with derision, staring at Yurek. "Destined for acorner office. They love him upstairs. A million-dollar smile on lips hewon't hesitate to use to kiss a.s.s."

"Jealous?" Quinn asked.

He made one of his faces. "I was made for chewing a.s.s, not kissing it.

What do I need with a corner office, when I can have a c.r.a.ppy littledesk in a c.r.a.ppy little cubicle with no decent file cabinets?"

"At least you're not bitter."

"I was born bitter."

Vince Walsh heralded his arrival with a phlegm-rattling coughing fit.

Kovac turned and looked at him.

"Jesus, Vince, hack up a lung, why don't you?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n cold," Walsh complained. His color had the odd yellow cast ofan embalmed body. He offered Kovac a manila envelope. "JillianBondurant's medical records--or what of them Leblanc would release. There are some X rays. You want to take them or you want me to drop themoff with the MET' "I'm out, you know," Kovac said even as he took theenvelope.

"Yurek's boss now."

Walsh sucked half the contents of his sinuses down the back of his throat and made a sour face.

Kovac nodded. "Yeah, that's what I said."

PETER WAITED UNTIL the press conference was under way to enter thebuilding. A simple matter of calling Edwyn on his cell phone from the car.

n.o.ble had no way of knowing he wasn't still at home.

Peter had dismissed from the house the employees Edwyn had posted tokeep an eye on him. They had gone without argument. He was the one whopaid their wages, after all.

He came into the hall, holding the duffel bag in his arms, his gazescanning the backs of five dozen heads. Greer was at the podium, goingon in his overly dramatic way about the qualifications of the man he hadchosen to succeed Kovac as head of the task force. Peter didn't care to hear it. The task force was no longer of any interest to him. He knewwho had killed Jillian.

The press shouted questions. Flashes went off like so many star bursts.

Peter worked his way along one side of the crowd, moving toward thestairs, feeling as if he were invisible. Maybe he was. Maybe he was already a ghost. All his life he had felt a certain emptiness in hissoul, a hole nothing had ever been able to fill. Maybe he had beeneroding away from the inside out for so long that the essence of whatmade him human had all leeched away, making him invisible.

QUINN SAW BONDURANT coming. Oddly, no oneelse seemed to. No one lookedclosely enough, he supposed. Their focus was on the podium and thelatest batch of bulls.h.i.t they wanted to spread on the news and in thepapers. And there was the fact that he looked vaguely seedy-unshaven,unkempt-not the Peter Bondurant of finely tailored suits, every hair inplace.

His skin looked so pale, it was nearly translucent. His face was gaunt,as if his body were devouring itself from within. His eyes met Quinn's,and he stopped behind the camera people and stood there, a black duffelbag in his arms.

Quinn's instincts went on point-just as Greer invited him to step to thepodium.

The glare of the lights blocked his view of Bondurant. He wondered ifKovac had spotted him.

"I want to stress," he began, "that the interview of a possible suspectdoes not end the investigation."

"Do you believe Vanlees is the Cremator?" a reporter called out.

"It wouldn't be prudent for me to comment on that one way or the other."

He tried to shift to an angle where he could see Bondurant again, butBondurant was gone from the spot where he had last been. His nervestightened.

"But Vanlees fits the profile. He knew Jillian Bondurant-"

"Isn't it true he had articles of her clothing in his-possession when hewas arrested?" another asked.

d.a.m.n leaks, Quinn thought, his attention focused more on gettingBondurant back in his sights than on the reporters. What was he doinghere on his own, and looking like a vagrant?

"Special Agent Quinn .. . T' "No comment."

"Do you have anything to say about the Bondurant case?"

"I killed her."

Peter stepped out from behind a cameraman at the foot of the stairs andturned to face the crowd. For a moment no one but Quinn realized theadmission had come from him. Then he raised a nine millimeter semiautomatic handgun to his head, and awareness ran back through thecrowd in a wave.

"I killed her!" Peter cried louder.

He looked stunned by his own confession-bug-eyed, stark white,openmouthed. He looked at the gun with terror, as if someone else wereholding it. He went up the stairs sideways, eyes darting to the crowd, to the people near the podium: Mayor n.o.ble, Chief Greer, Ted Sabin-all of whom backed away, staring at him as if they'd never seen him before.

Quinn held his spot at the podium.

"Peter, put the gun down," he said firmly, the microphone picking up his voice and broadcasting it to the hall.

Bondurant shook his head. His face was quivering, twitching, contorting.

He clutched the duffel bag to him with his left arm. Behind him Quinn

could see two uniformed officers moving into place with guns drawn and held low.

"Peter, you don't want to do this," he said quietly, calmly, shifting

subtly away from the podium.

"I ruined her life. I killed her. It's my turn."

"Why here? Why now?"

"So everyone will know," he said, his voice choked. "Everyone will know

what I am."

Edwyn n.o.ble moved from the front of the crowd toward the stairs.

"Peter, don't do this."

"What?" Bondurant asked. "Damage my reputation? Or yours?"

"You're talking nonsense!" the lawyer demanded. "Put down the gun."

Peter didn't listen. His anguish was an almost palpable thing. It was in

the sweat that ran down his face. It was in the smell of him. It was in

the air he exhaled too quickly from his lungs.

"This is my fault," he said, the tears coming harder. "I did this. I have to pay. Here. Now. I can't stand it anymore."

"Come with me, Peter," Quinn said, stepping a little closer, offering his left hand. "We'll sit down and you can tell me the whole story.

That's what you want, isn't it?"

He was aware of the whir of motor drives as photographers shot frame after frame. The video cameras were running as well, some likely running live feeds to their stations. All of them recording this man's agony for their audiences.

"You can trust me, Peter. I've been asking you for the truth from day