Catherine Coulter: Blindside

“Hello, Ms. Barton. Aren’t you cold, ma’am?”

It was in that moment Ms. Aquine Barton realized she was standing in front of three people wearing only her nightgown. She pointed the skillet at Troy Ward. “You don’t let him escape, Agent Savich, and I’ll get a robe on and turn up the heat in here.”

They barely had time to turn Troy Ward onto his back before she was back, belting her long purple chenille bathrobe while somehow keeping a grip on the skillet.

Troy groaned, his eyelashes fluttered and he stared up at Savich. “You bastard. How did you know I was here?”

“I think the more relevant question is what you’re doing here, Troy. It’s kind of late to be paying a social call, don’t you think? And you didn’t even use the front door. Now, coming through a dining room window makes things look a little suspect, don’t you think, Troy?”

“I didn’t want her to hear me.”

Sherlock said, “You landed a little hard, Troy.”

“I’d say so,” Ms. Barton said. “I can hear a boy playing with a paper clip at the back of the classroom. You sounded like a hippo trying to squeeze into a water bottle.”

“Bastard. I want my lawyer.”

“I’m not a bastard, you nasty little man. I’m a teacher.”

“Not you, you stupid woman, him!”

Savich said, “You know, that’s why I didn’t call you in for a chat. You’re too smart, Troy, for me to talk you into confessing, aren’t you? Yeah, I’ll bet you would have kept your mouth shut and demanded a lawyer. And I did wonder if I would have ever gotten enough to send you to prison for three murders and one attempted murder. So we just watched you. Thank you for climbing right in.”

“I’m at the wrong house. I didn’t mean to be here. It’s all a mistake. I want my lawyer.”

“Yep, a big mistake, I’d say. Agent Carver here followed you to the library this afternoon, saw you perusing local yearbooks. He figured you’d spotted your next victim. Fact is, though, even if we hadn’t been doing our good old-fashioned police work, you picked the wrong math teacher.”

“No, that’s a lie. But why did you suspect me? What was there about me that made you suspicious? I can see it on your face. There was something you latched onto, wasn’t there? But what? I’m a professional sports announcer, what could have made you suspect me?”

Savich saw that Aquine Barton was holding her iron skillet a little tighter. He gave her a slight shake of his head. He said, “I was in an accident several weeks ago, Troy, and they loaded me up with morphine. I was remembering our conversation, but in a morphine haze everything’s different. Maybe some hidden connections came bursting through, things that I’d picked up that you hadn’t actually said to me.”

“And what did you pick up on, you bastard? That I wasn’t like you, because you were just like all those other moron jocks? You knew I was different, didn’t you?”

“I listened to you call some of the Ravens game on Sunday. You were very good, just the right mix of play calling, commentary, and sweet silence.”

“Yeah, I’m the best, but it’s just not enough, is it? You’re just waiting to tell everyone, aren’t you?”

Savich said, “That Smith and Wesson.38 of yours, Troy. Turns out when I spoke to your wife’s sister, she remembered your owning a gun a long way back. A revolver, just like this.38 you brought here to Ms. Barton’s house. I know there are lots of.38s in the world, Troy, but the thing is, now we’ll get to test yours. Do you think we’ll find a match?”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get your lawyer. But you might as well know we found where you bought the gun way back in 1993 in Baltimore. A small gun shop owned by a Mr. Hanratty on Willowby Street, downtown. He keeps excellent records. I’m sure your lawyer will show you a copy of the sale.”

“Sounds like you better fess up, Mr. Ward,” said Aquine, who now was sitting on a dining room chair, the skillet in her lap.

“Like I said, Ms. Barton, Troy here is really smart. You know, I kept worrying about motive, Troy, just couldn’t understand why you’d murder your wife, even if she found out you were gay.”

“I’m not gay! That’s a lie! That’s not a motive either.”

“No, but she wasn’t just going to tell the world about your being gay, Troy. I think some people already knew that and didn’t really care. What she was going to tell the world was that you trade in child pornography, and that you couldn’t allow.”

“You can’t know about that, you can’t, unless-you hacked into my computer without a warrant? I’ll sue your ass off, Savich! That’s against the law!”

“You’re right, it is. But you know, I have an agent in my unit by the name of Ruth Warnecki, and she used to be a D.C. cop. She has lots of snitches. One of them called her, told her he’d seen you on TV and knew he’d also seen you one night buying some kiddy porn on the street over on Halloran. I went there, and guess what, Troy? We found a witness who recognized your photo, said he’d seen you pay to go into a live shop with little kids parading around naked. Now, I can’t prove yet exactly what went on in those shows, and if we find out who the owners of that nasty little business are, we’ll nail them right along with you. But how much of that did your wife find out about, Troy? Did she even know you were gay?”

“I want a lawyer. None of that crap means anything. Witnesses are paid off all the time. I don’t know anything about child pornography. Leave me alone.”

“You know, Troy, we really don’t need your cooperation, not after you huffed your way over the windowsill and landed in Ms. Barton’s dining room with the murder weapon in your hand. That’s what I’d call catching the perp dead to rights. You’re a murderer, Troy, a vicious, cold-blooded murderer, and you’re going down for it. All the way down. You got anything else to say?”

“I want a lawyer,” Troy Ward whispered and pulled his legs into his chest.

Dane Carver hauled Troy Ward to his feet, read him his rights, and cuffed him. They left Ms. Aquine Barton with a fine story to tell the press and her students.

K atie was sore, but she wasn’t about to lie in bed and have the kids wonder if there was something else going on other than a brief bout with the flu. She showed up at the breakfast table, trying to stand straight and not limp. “Okay, I’m making waffles this morning. Miles, do you have twenty minutes?”

He really didn’t, but he leaned over and kissed her. “Sure. I’ve never had your waffles, Katie.”

“It’s the best thing Mama makes,” Keely said. “You’re lucky. She doesn’t make them often.”

Miles grabbed Keely and tossed her into the air. She was his daughter, he thought, an amazing thing. She was laughing, and Sam joined in, hoping he was next. Miles, not about to let him down, swung him up and around, too, nearly crashing into the kitchen table.

“Did I hear waffles ?”

“Aunt Cracker! That was a neat movie yesterday. And the pizza was yummy.”

“Sure was,” she said, reaching out and ruffling Sam’s hair, then touching Keely’s hair. “See kids, Katie is just fine today. It wasn’t the full-blown flu, was it, Katie? Something not quite so bad, thank God, maybe just something you ate that didn’t agree with you.”

“Could be,” Katie said. “Thank goodness it was nothing much, whatever it was.”

Katie made the largest batch of waffles ever, Miles fried up bacon, and Cracker made the coffee. The kids laughed and argued and ate until Katie thought they’d both be sick.

Forty-five minutes later, Katie dropped Keely and Sam off at the Hendricks Elementary School, with its attached preschool, only four blocks from their home. The last thing she wanted to do was go back to the house and pace and worry and wonder and make herself nuts. So she started driving. Even though she rarely saw them, she knew her two bodyguards were following her, two FBI agents assigned to protect her after the shooting in the park on Saturday, whenever she left the house.