Catherine Coulter - Backfire

“We’re not just any clowns,” Sherlock said, “we’re FBI clowns, and we labor every day to bring criminals to justice-what you see is your taxpayer dollars at work. We have some questions for you about a shooting that happened yesterday.” And she flipped out her creds. After a thorough study, Boozer looked at Savich. “You her bodyguard?”

“That’s right,” Savich said, and handed over his own creds.

“Just what I needed,” Boozer said, and sighed. “Federal cops on a Sunday, doesn’t that make my day. It will only get suckier if the Forty-niners lose.

“Listen, you’re wasting your time. I’m innocent of anything that’s happened in the past two days-look at me, I’ve been in the hospital. I got the crap beat out of me, not in the ring, but in a stupid bar. Four morons whaled on me. Don’t get me wrong, I coulda taken them if I didn’t have beer leaking out my ears.”

“Six sheets to the wind?”

“Yeah.” He smiled down at Sherlock. “Only lucky thing is I never get hangovers.”

Savich thought, You’re only twenty-three. You just wait.

Boozer stepped back and let Savich and Sherlock walk into a small hallway with a living room off to the right, a long, narrow room that, surprisingly, had a big window that gave a sliver of view of the Golden Gate Bridge.

The room, even more surprisingly, was neat, down to the Sunday Chronicle stacked beside a big black La-Z-Boy with a beautifully crocheted dark blue afghan hanging over the arm.

Boozer waved them to a pale green sofa with three colorful throw pillows set just so along the back cushions.

“Nice pillows,” Sherlock said.

“My mom,” Boozer said. “She comes by when I’m not here to water my plants, and she does stuff, like brings pillows and changes the sheets and dries out the towels.”

“The ivy looks good, too,” Savich said. “Sit down, Mr. Gordon. We need your help.”

Boozer’s look was disbelieving. “My help? I told you, I’ve been out of commission for the past two days. I’ve never shot anybody-well, I couldn’t have even tried if this happened in the past two days.” He eased himself down in his big chair and pushed up the footrest. He gently unfolded the afghan and pulled it over his legs and leaned his head back against the headrest.

Sherlock and Savich sat on the sofa, careful not to disturb the artful placement of the throw pillows.

Sherlock said, “You were in San Francisco General Hospital until noon Friday, isn’t that right, Mr. Gordon?”

His head came up and his eyes popped open. “Listen, I didn’t hurt anybody at the hospital, I was too out of it even to get pissed off at anyone, and, well, everybody was nice to me.”

Sherlock said, “That’s good to know. I’m nice, too. Now, Mr. Gordon, we need you to think back. You’re lying in your room on Friday, you’re by yourself. You’ve got some nice pain meds working, and you’re feeling pretty good, right?”

“Yes, but it didn’t last all that long, maybe four hours; then I hurt again.”

Savich said, “This is very important, Mr. Gordon. While you were lying in your hospital bed did any hospital technicians come in to draw your blood?”

That roused Boozer. “Oh, man, did that torturer accuse me of having bad blood? Did the hospital send you over because I’ve got that avian virus?”

“No, your blood is splendid,” Sherlock said. “No viruses. We need you to tell us about the torturer.”

Boozer looked from one to the other. “Why should I? You’re cops, like those other yahoos who hauled my butt to lockup for no good reason. My manager had to bail me out, and he was yelling at me, too, and there I was, hurting since I was the one that got knocked crazy, not those four other bozos who ganged up on me. At least the cops sent me to the hospital. Why should I tell you anything?”

Savich said, “We think the person who drew your blood has tried to murder Judge Dredd twice.”

Boozer blinked raccoon eyes at them. “Judge Dredd? You’re kidding me, right? I mean, they used to have a poster of Judge Dredd at the martial arts school since he used to work out there. You’re telling me the dude who took my blood is the one who tried to shoot him in the elevator yesterday?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Judge Dredd is okay, for the moment, but we want to find the shooter before he tries again. You called the man who drew your blood a torturer. Tell us about it.”

The front door opened, and a very beautiful woman strolled in. She was wearing a black pantsuit and low-heeled shoes, and she was as blond, porcelain-skinned and fine-boned as a storybook princess. She was carrying a bag of groceries under her left arm with what looked like a pair of folded boxers sticking out of the huge tote in her right hand.

“What is going on here, Paul? Who are these people? You’re not one of those missionary groups, are you? If you are, you’re out of luck. Paul’s a devout Catholic.”

“Oh, hi, Mom. These here guys aren’t Christians, they’re FBI agents, and they need my help to find the guy who’s trying to kill Judge Dredd.”

Now it was her turn to stare. “Goodness me,” she said finally, and accepted their hands to shake and their introductions and creds.

Boozer said, “Oh, yeah, this is my Mom, Cynthia Howell. She doesn’t have my name because she divorced my pa for being a mean drunk and married Daniel, my stepdad. He gave me that black Ford One-fifty last Christmas. You saw it in the driveway, didn’t you?”

Savich said, “A fine machine.”

“Well, that about sums it up,” Mrs. Howell said. “My Paul can help you? Really?”

“Mom, it turns out I saw the guy who shot Judge Dredd in the hospital. He drew my blood.”

“I see. Paul, you tell these agents everything you know about this man while I get you another pain pill. Oh, I brought over two homemade pizzas, with lots of pepperoni, the way you like it. I know you’re hungry, but let me warm them in the oven for about ten minutes.” And she walked out of the living room and into the kitchen.

His mother made him pizza? Pepperoni? Sherlock felt her mouth water.

Mrs. Howell came right back with a glass of water with three ice cubes and a slice of lemon wedged on the side of the glass. Boozer took the pill, drank the water, and gave a sweet smile to his mother. She gently cupped his face. “It doesn’t look as bad this morning. I’ll get your pizza in the oven now, sweetie. Don’t wait for me. You can tell me everything later.”

Sherlock said, “The tech who came to draw your blood?”

Boozer leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling. “He was a little guy.”

Savich said, “Being as how you’re on the tall side, what do you mean, exactly, by little?”

“I don’t know, shorter than you, lots less than six feet. Kind of scrawny, not all that much to him, you know what I mean?”

You’re a behemoth. Even Dillon looks scrawny to you. Sherlock said, “Tell us about his face. What did he look like?”

“I can’t tell you much about his face because he was wearing one of those surgical masks, you know, like he needed protection from me, like I was contagious or something. That’s why I thought when you showed up the hospital had found something was bad.”

Savich said, “No, Mr. Gordon, there’s nothing wrong with your blood. How about his hair? What color?”

“He had a green scrub hat on his head.”

“Could you see his hair at all?”

“I remember thinking the cap was too big for him. It covered his whole head, came down over his ears. If he didn’t have that big needle in his hand, I would have said something, like why didn’t the hospital give him caps that fit him, but I kept quiet.”