Stuart Kaminsky - Deluge

"I guess not," said the man.

"Does he have crutches?"

"No," said the man, "but I do."

"Mind if I borrow them? I'll get another pair and send these right back."

Charles awkwardly managed to put on the slippers.

"I guess," said the man. "They're hospital crutches."

Charles hobbled to the man's bed. The crutches leaned against the wall near the head of the bed. Charles reached for them.

"You are one fuckin' bad liar," the man said, grabbing Charles's wrist.

Charles tried to pull away, but the man was remarkably strong.

"I thought I was pretty good at it," Charles said. "I'm just having a bad day."

The man let go of Charles's wrist and said, "So am I," said the man, "but you can bounce away. I can't."

The man patted the blanket where his right leg used to be.

"Diabetes," the man said.

"Sorry," said Charles, taking the crutches.

"You think you're having a bad day? Talk to me about bad days," said the man, turning away.

"We'd like to look in your locker," said Danny.

"My locker? What for?"

"We think you know," said Lindsay.

A tall, broad young uniformed officer named Dave Wolfson stood behind her. Wolfson had been drafted as a wide receiver by the Jets. He got cut early in the season and became a cop. He still played weekend football for the NYPD team. Wolfson knew how to smile. He just didn't do it when he was on the job.

"You'll need a warrant."

"We can get one," said Danny. "Officer Wolfson will just stand guard in front of your locker till it arrives."

"I want a lawyer."

"We haven't charged you with anything," said Lindsay. "Are we going to need that warrant?"

"No."

"Let's go," said Danny.

They went down the steps at the end of the main corridor in the Wallen School. Classes were in session. Footsteps of the quartet clicked down the stairs. They went into a room at the end of the lower level corridor. The room was just past the video security center where a woman in a security uniform looked up at them from the screens.

Danny, Lindsay and Wolfson moved to a quintet of lockers. The man inserted a key into the lock on the third locker and stood back. Danny opened the door. The locker was empty, clean.

"You cleaned it out?" asked Danny.

"Yesterday," he said.

"Then why didn't you want us to look inside it?" Danny asked.

"It's empty. I knew you'd ask me why."

"Why?" asked Danny.

"I took a few things, computer programs, a hard drive, some things. You going to turn me in?"

"You've got bigger worries," said Danny. He nodded at Lindsay. She set down her kit, reached into it and came up with a spray and a pair of goggles. The others stood and watched as she sent a mist onto the inside of the locker door. Dozens of fingerprints appeared. Lindsay put the spray back in the kit and came up with a pack of transparencies inside of clear plastic envelopes. She selected one and held it up to the locker door.

"Your fingerprints aren't inside this locker," she said.

"I don't understand. Maybe I never touch- "

"This isn't your locker," said Danny. "Which one is it? We can open them all."

Resigned, the man moved to the first locker and used another key on his chain to open it.

Officer Wolfson moved to the door of the small room. Danny reached over and opened the locker door. Inside, on the high shelf, were two books. Hanging on one of the three hooks was a shirt.

"Looks like blood," said Danny.

On the bottom of the locker was a white plastic grocery bag. Lindsay reached over, gloves on, and opened the bag.

"And what's this?" asked Danny.

He got no answer.

"More blood," said Lindsay, taking something carefully from the bag.

She held up a dress. The front of it was covered with dried blood splatter.

"Want to tell us who the girl is?" asked Danny.

"What girl? I found that in the garbage this morning. I was going to turn it in to you."

"You weren't in a big hurry," said Danny.

"I did it on my own."

"Did what?" asked Danny.

"Killed Havel."

"We'll see," said Lindsay.

"I want a lawyer now," said Bill Hexton.

"Now," Lindsay said, "you get one."

Keith Yunkin watched the bald man heading toward the door of the hotel with an older man who was talking animatedly. Both men held black umbrellas and the pounding rain made them raise their voices to be heard. The bald man was carrying a container of coffee in one hand, umbrella in the other, and a newspaper under his arm. He glanced at the hotel entrance, looking as if he wanted to escape.

"You can close the deal by dropping two points," said the older man as they made it up the stairs and under the alcove in front of the hotel entrance. "Two points, Jerry. You'll still walk away with what…?"

"One hundred and forty-two thousand," said the bald man.

"One hundred and forty-two thousand," repeated the older man.

"One hundred and forty thousand is ten years ago's sixty thousand," said Jerry.

"So you're going to pass up writing the policy because of nostalgia? Insurance is insurance."

"That it is," said Jerry.

Keith stood to the side, listening.

"So you're going to write it up or not?" the older man said.

Jerry pressed a button on the umbrella to close it. He had purchased it from a one-eyed nervous vendor this morning for five dollars. It was working just fine.

"I'll write it up," said Jerry. "When I get back to Dayton."

"Before you go home," pressed the older man. "Jerry, don't give me a heart attack here."

"Before I go home," Jerry conceded.

The older man patted Jerry's shoulder and grinned. He was getting a piece of the action and it was enough.

"Gotta go," said the older man. "You going up to your room and getting it done now, right?"

"Right."

"I'll send a messenger to pick it up in an hour, okay?"

"An hour's fine," said Jerry.

The older man looked at the sky and shook his head. He muttered, "Fucking rain," and ran to the curb where a cab was waiting.

Keith walked up to Jerry, doing his best to hide the limp he knew the police would be on the lookout for. They would also be looking for a lone man. He meant to remedy that situation right now.

"Jerry?" he said as the bald man turned to head for the hotel.

"Yeah."

"I thought it was you," Keith said, holding out his hand to shake. "Ted Wingate from Dayton. You sold my uncle a great policy on his business."

Jerry took the offered hand and said, "Frank Terhune?"

"My uncle," said Keith. "What brings you to New York?"

"Insurance," said Jerry. "You?"

"Surgery," said Keith. "Leg. Long, boring story. Afghanistan. Got a minute? I haven't talked to anyone from home in weeks."

Jerry hesitated and then said, "Sure. We can sit in the lobby or- "

"Mind if we go to my room? I've got to make a call."

"No, that'll be fine. I just have a few minutes."

"Me too. I've got a check up at Mount Sinai at one. Wait. They were just starting to clean my room when I came down."

"We can go to my room," said Jerry.

They walked in together. Keith put his hand on Jerry's arm to steady himself, hide the limp. The hand made Jerry uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to distance himself from a wounded veteran.

Installation art. That's what it looked like to The Hat. A long time ago. A year? Six years? He had been an artist. A real artist. Shows in galleries in San Antonio, Los Angeles, Dallas, Chicago, Manhattan. He could have designed something like this back then.

A cleanly painted room with shining floors. A single office chair in the middle. Someone sitting almost motionless. A boy in jeans and a blue pullover shirt, short sleeves.