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“Head case.”
“What do you know about her?”
“A lot.”
“You do? How?”
“I read, man, I read. You should try it.”
“I read.”
“The sports page doesn’t count.” Bodybuilder took another long swallow from his can. “And I’ve seen all the documentaries and specials about it, ya know. My old man? He worked for the department when it all happened, one of the deputies first on the scene up at that bloodbath. It was all he could talk about for weeks. So yeah,” he was nodding to himself as he crunched into a pickle, “I took a major interest. And the woman in 234?” Tapping a thick finger on the tabletop, he added, “Trust me. She’s certifiable.”
“If you say so.”
“Not just me. It’s all over the media. It was big news then, and maybe even bigger now cuz, ya know, the Internet and all. Anyway, a cop lost his life saving that little girl’s. Pissed off my old man. Big time.” He polished off the first half of his sandwich and said around the final bite, “The cop who died that night? He was on vacation with his family. Not even on duty. But he had to help out, ya know? In his blood.”
Tate froze.
The room seemed to shrink, the buzz of conversation receding to a dull hum as he strained to listen.
“That right?”
“Uh-huh. Tate, his name was. Some of the other guys who worked the scene afterward, checking for evidence and shit, they think he saw something.”
“You mean, he saw something other than the girl who almost drowned that night?”
“Oh, yeah. He ran through that house, saw all those bodies—man, that must’ve been something. Gory as hell. Then he took off, chased the little girl onto the pond and fell through the ice.” He picked up the second half of his sandwich and glanced around, his gaze skating over Tate. Lowering his voice, he added, “That cop. Tate? He said something to the rescue worker as he was loaded into the ambulance.”
Tate froze. Strained to listen. Even though he’d heard this story before. They were talking about his father.
“What’d he say?”
“The EMT, he wasn’t sure, but it sounded like, you know, like fee or fie . . . maybe it was fee, fi, fo, fum . . . or backwards. Who knows? It probably don’t mean anything. The cop was probably delirious. On his way out, if you know what I mean. Had himself a massive heart attack and was out of his head.” In three huge bites, he polished off the remainder of his sandwich as his partner chugged down the remainder of his pink drink.
Tate remembered the stories about his father’s death. Even now he felt a familiar pang in his chest at the memory. He slid a glance at the guy. Saw his name tag:LESTER ALLEN.
“Hey, you gonna eat that?” Allen the bodybuilder was eyeing his companion’s plate.
“What? My donut? Hell, yeah, I’m gonna eat it.” To prove it, he took a big bite of the chocolate-covered pastry, then licked the brown drizzle from his lips. “If you want one, go through the damned line and get your own.”
“Nah, don’t need it. Too many calories—all carbs, sugar. Trans fats.”
“Whatever.”
Allen finished his drink in one long swallow, then crushed the can in one meaty fist just as his cell phone jangled. Glancing at the screen, he scowled. “Hey, we gotta go,” he said, his voice lowered.
“Why?” His partner shoved the donut into his mouth.
“Not really sure. But something was caught on camera.”
“That idiot fan club, I’ll bet. I’m telling you, those females who think McIntyre is, like, the Second Coming or something? They’re nuts. And rabid.”
“Don’t know, but it didn’t sound like a mob. Anyway, the lieutenant wants us to meet up. Check it out.”
“Shit.”
Tate’s insides clenched and he kept his back to them as they scrambled away, kicking out their chairs, leaving their trays and striding to the main door. Maybe the call was about someone else, but maybe not. He couldn’t take a chance. Didn’t want to blow his cover. Nerves strung tight, he waited, precious seconds ticking by. He didn’t have much time. Not only had he already been discovered, but there were the cameras filming the area. If Lester Allen was as much of a McIntyre Massacre devotee as he claimed, he might recognize Wesley as Edmund Tate’s son. Right now, Tate didn’t want to take a chance on blowing his cover.
Scooping up his phone, he headed toward a side door and, keeping his face averted from cameras or anyone he came across, found his way to a stairway and climbed to the second floor. Adrenaline fired his blood and he kept a lookout as he slipped into the corridor—empty except for a janitor’s push cart left near a closet. He moved quickly and wondered if even now Allen and his partner were watching from a secure location as they eyed over a dozen screens with camera views of the hallways.
Rounding the corner, he nearly ran into an orderly pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair at the elevators. Pretending to be talking on his phone, his head down, he walked quickly past and with a glance over his shoulder saw them disappear into a waiting elevator car. Thankfully no one stepped out.
He found the door marked 234, paused to listen for voices and, hearing none, quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside.