Play Dead

Chapter 39

Starsky, of the Starsky and Hutch team, rapped on the open office door. "Got a positive ID on the Tybee Island body," he said, clinging to the doorframe.

David swiveled around in the chair so his back was to the detective.

"Flora Martinez," Starsky announced.

Something big and solid dropped in the pit of David's stomach. Even though he'd known it was going to be her, subconsciously he'd been holding out hope that it wasn't. "Thanks for the information," David said, staring at the fish screen saver in front of him.

Jesus. Flora.

Was her murder his fault? Was it somehow connected to the TTX case? Or was it the result of her dangerous lifestyle, completely unrelated to him or the investigation?

"That's not all," Starsky added. "The GBI's been looking into things, and it seems they want you brought downstairs for questioning."

David wasn't surprised. What was a surprise was how quickly they'd connected a few random dots.

He got to his feet, rolled down his sleeves, and slipped into his jacket. When he stepped into the hall, he saw that Hutch had been lurking a few feet away, practically rubbing his palms together.

The Yankee was going down.

It was a long way from his third-floor office to the interrogation room.

A regular gauntlet.

Curious workers filled doorways. People stood in clusters around drinking fountains and rest rooms. Familiar and unfamiliar faces jumped in and out of focus. In front of him, the hall was silent. But then, behind his back as he passed, whispers began.

David's personal history seemed to have taken on a life of its own, becoming an entity that filled the brick building. Everyone was talking about David Gould, discussing and debating the issue.

"I don't understand why they sent him here in the first place after being under psychiatric care."

"That doesn 't mean anything," another voice argued. "Half the force should be seeing a therapist."

Ha-ha-ha.

"Did you hear about his kid? "

"He has a kid?"

A story like David's couldn't remain a secret forever. The truth had finally followed him to Savannah.

"Had. Dead. Killed by his wife. That's why he left the FBI. Had a breakdown. Snapped. They sent him back home to Cleveland. Cleveland didn 't want him, so what do they do? Send him to us."

Don't listen, David told himself.

But he couldn't help it. They were all enjoying this too fucking much.

Don't think.

He couldn't help that either.

He was an outsider. The white horse in a black herd. The one the other horses killed for being different. It wasn't just that he was from the North. Some of his coworkers also took a twisted pleasure in seeing an FBI agent crash and burn.

In the interrogation room, Agent Spaulding, from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, was waiting for him. Starsky and Hutch were also in on the event.

Great. His three favorite people were going to be involved in questioning him. A regular David Gould Fan Club.

The assholes should have felt uncomfortable, interviewing one of their own, but even though they weren't smiling, David got the idea they were struggling like hell to keep a lid on their excitement.

He took a seat. A camera and two tape recorders were turned on. After getting down the date and time, plus David's full legal name and date of birth, Spaulding moved to the real questions.

"Are you currently under psychiatric care?"

"I was until fairly recently." David leaned back. "I personally believe every police department should have a full-time shrink on staff."

"Are you taking medication?"

"No."

"No?" Spaulding pulled out a manila folder. "We were given access to your files, and it seems it was recommended you remain on a high dosage of Paxil, plus a tranquilizer, for an undetermined amount of time."

"I didn't feel I needed it anymore."

Spaulding nodded. "Interesting. And you have a degree in psychiatry?"

"Cut the crap."

Spaulding was using a standard interrogation technique of getting information. Bait and switch. You changed the subject, hit with something from left field, then went back to the real issue. David had used the method many times himself. Of course, he'd done a better job.

"Did you know Flora Martinez?" Spaulding asked.

"Yes."

"How well?" Spaulding sat across the table from David, Starsky at the opposite end, while Hutch held up the wall near the door.

"Fairly well."

"Weren't you a client of Ms. Martinez?"

"I wouldn't call myself a client. We were acquaintances."

"But you-a Savannah Police Department homicide detective-made use of her services. Isn't that correct?"

David was pleased to note that Spaulding was getting one of those pear-shaped bodies that often caught up with detectives who spent too much time behind the wheel eating fast food.

"Once."

"Only once?"

Spaulding placed a small open day planner on the table. "This date book belonged to the victim, Flora Martinez. Isn't that your name and address on page twenty-three?"

David leaned forward. "Yes."

"And your phone number?"

"Yes."

"Strange that a onetime-"

David was sure he would have said fuck if the interview weren't being recorded.

"-exchange… would gain you a permanent place in her address book."

"I called her once. After that, we became… friends." Not the right word. What had they been? Lovers? Not the right word either.

"Isn't it true that Flora Martinez was obsessed with you? That she often parked outside your apartment, waiting for you to come and go?"

"Obsessed? I wouldn't call it obsessed. She liked me because I'm a detective. Some women get off on that kind of thing. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

The GBI agent was the kind of guy who would have used his badge to get a woman in bed.

Spaulding placed a small plastic bag on the table. After snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he unzipped the bag and extracted a chunk of red flannel. The nose-stinging stench of old urine filled the small room, and everyone but Spaulding recoiled.

The flannel turned out to be a small drawstring pouch. Spaulding opened it and removed an object wrapped in wet grocery paper. "We found this with some of the victim's belongings." He unrolled the paper and spread it on the table.

David's full name was written over and over. Going in the other direction were the words Love me or die, also written numerous times.

Jeez. That was sick as hell. David thought about the way Flora had started coming around, as if he would welcome her as a girlfriend. The way she seemed surprised and shocked when he told her she was going to have to stay away. "This place is so fucked," he said, shaking his head.

"Have you ever seen this?" Spaulding asked, indicating the weird mess he'd dumped on the table.

"No."

"Do you know what it is?"

"I'll bet you'd like to tell me," David said, trying not to blink as ammonia fumes stung his eyes.

"It's called a mojo. It's supposed to cast a spell over the person whose name is written on the paper. Which would be you. I asked around. In order to keep the spell active, Flora would have urinated on it every day. I'd call that obsessed, wouldn't you?"

David would simply call it fucked-up.

Flora. Jesus. What had she been thinking?

"In fact, she was stalking you, wasn't she?"

"She wasn't a stalker. I was usually glad to see her, although I did eventually ask her to quit coming around."

"Did she?"

"For a while."

"Why didn't you report her to the police?"

David looked at him. "Totally unnecessary."

"If a prostitute was calling me, sometimes several times a day, plus hanging around my residence-I would have reported her."

"Of course you would have," David said sarcastically. Lying bastard.

"When did you last see Flora Martinez?"

"May eleventh." David thought a moment. "May twelfth, actually." By the time they were finished having sex.

"So she was with you late on the eleventh, early on the twelfth? Is that correct?"

Spaulding stood and put a foot on the seat of his chair, an elbow on his knee, and leaned in closer. 'Tell me about May twelfth."

There was no way David was going to tell him what led to his breakdown that day. "I went jogging. When I returned, Flora was waiting outside my apartment. End of story."

"Did she, spend the night?"

"I don't know how long she stayed. I fell asleep. She was gone when I woke up."

The agent opened his briefcase, pulled out a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. The coroner's preliminary report. "You can skip down to the bottom," Spaulding said. 'To where it says 'approximate date and time of death.'"

May 11, 2000 hours, to May 13, 0200. "That's a big spread," David said.

"Water does that. As I'm sure you know." "Right."

"But as you can see, a significant portion of that time overlaps with Flora's visit to your apartment."

David slid the paper back across the table. "What are you saying, Spaulding?"

"I'm saying that you are a prime suspect in the murder of Flora Martinez."

"That's what I thought you were saying."

"Another thing you might take note of from the autopsy report-Flora Martinez's throat was cut, just like Enrique Xavier's. You know what I think? I think you mimicked the Xavier murder to throw us off. That's what I think. So, is there anything you'd like to tell us?"

David got to his feet. They had no evidence; they couldn't hold him. "Other than to ask if your mother picks out your clothes?"

Spaulding laughed and shook his head. David had to admit it was a pretty weak insult, but he was under stress.

"Major Hoffman wants to see you in her office." Spaulding looked at the two detectives. "Escort him, will you? We don't want him to get lost and end up in his car, heading for Florida."

"I'm going to have to ask you to turn in your badge," Major Hoffman said.

David already had it in his hand.

"I've had numerous complaints about you over the past three months." She lifted a small stack of papers. "Would you like to see them?"

"That's okay."

"These complaints, along with your unprofessional connection to Flora Martinez, reflect poorly on the police department. I have to let you go."

David placed his badge on Major Hoffman's desk. Then he pulled out his police department gun, unloaded it, and put it and the bullets beside the badge.

He didn't blame the major. She couldn't take a chance on him. And then there was the media. They were going to love this.

"This is a real shame," Major Hoffman said sadly. "I think you could have been one of my best detectives. Too bad you're hell-bent on self-destruction."

David thought about Strata Luna's curse and the cluster effect. All excuses. The major was right; he'd brought this on himself.

"Stay in town," she told him. "We may need to bring you in for more questioning."

He nodded and backed out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

In Elise's office, David shook the contents of his desk drawers into a cardboard box.

It was amazing how much shit a person could accumulate in a short time. It looked like he'd been there for years, not months.

He regarded his loot.

Pens. Pencils. Paper. Receipts. Notebooks. Notes.

Nothing. Just stuff taking up space.

He carried the box to the trash can and dumped it.

From the bulletin board, he removed the photo of him and Elise. He stared at it a moment before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

The door crashed open. "I just heard," Elise said.

She was out of breath. She was pissed. At him?

"They can't do this!" she said angrily.

"Forget it, Elise. Let it go," he told her softly.

He'd felt this kind of calm a few times in his life. It was a nice feeling. As if some gentle saint had taken up residence in his body. "It's okay."

"It's not okay."

"I wasn't going to last here. We both knew that. Everybody knew that. Didn't expect it to happen this way, but does it really matter?"

He was actually surprised to find that it did matter. To him.

All along, he'd been thinking he maybe needed to get out of law enforcement completely. But now that it was happening, it seemed wrong.

And then there was Elise.

She'd been a good partner. And they were really starting to click.

"Of course it matters!" Elise said. "I can't believe you're giving up so easily. That you allowed Mason and Avery to get to you."

"Who are Mason and Avery?"

She glared at him. "Starsky and Hutch."

"Oh. Them."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Elise, this has nothing to do with them. It has nothing to do with the fact that I keep losing popularity contests around here. I'm a murder suspect."

"That's bullshit if you think this has nothing to do with your status. Do you think Mason-Starsky- would be fired over this? No! They would cover it up until the real killer was found, and then all would be forgotten. He might get a little slap on the wrist for such a personal endorsement of prostitution."

"I'm sorry." He really was. He liked Elise.

"What were you thinking? Calling a prostitute to begin with? Getting mixed up with her?"

"That's rather self-explanatory."

His answer seemed to make her uncomfortable.

"David… did your ex-wife have long dark hair?"

"Yeah, but-"

"You know what people downstairs are saying? They're saying that the anniversary of your son's death was May twelfth, the same night Flora visited your apartment."

"That's right."

"And when Flora arrived that night with her long dark hair, you flipped out and killed her, thinking she was your wife."

He stared at her for a long time as she waited for an answer, a reaction. Not Elise… that hurt. That really hurt. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he said.

He left the office.

As he passed a trash receptacle, he paused and pulled the photo from his jacket. He held it above the container for what seemed like minutes, but in real clock time was probably only a second or two.

He'd lived a lot of lives. Even though the photo now represented the end rather than the beginning, he couldn't make himself pitch it.

He stuck it back in his pocket and kept walking.

Outside, the media was waiting.

Bad news traveled fast.