Split Second
Page 81
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Lucy said, “Full name’s William Benedict, and he’s a longtime homicide detective with the Baltimore Police Department. The Texas Range Bar and Grill is his neighborhood bar, been going there for years. He went after you, Sherlock, because you had a gun on Kirsten, but then, thank goodness, he realized what was happening. He took a bullet instead, but he’ll be fine. I heard him laughing this morning as I walked down the hall, talking about Gator and his freaking bat. What a story he has to tell his buds.”
Savich glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m off to see Bruce Comafield. Coop, Lucy, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think it’s best I speak to him alone. You guys stay here—if I need you, I’ll call.”
When Savich saw they would both argue, he raised his hand. “Look, we need information, and we need it now, with no messing around. I’m going to question him. Trust me, okay?” He didn’t tell them that he’d already asked Dr. Pendergrass to cut down Comafield’s morphine, told him exactly why. Savich wanted him awake and on the edge, if possible.
Bruce Comafield was in a small glass-fronted room in the ICU on the third floor. An FBI agent was seated at his door, his legs crossed, a magazine unopened on his lap.
“Hi, John,” Savich said to Agent Frish. “Anything interesting?”
“Nope, if by that you mean Kirsten Bolger waltzing by, maybe to shoot him to keep him quiet.”
Savich smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
“Nope, not a whiff of her.”
“Keep a sharp eye, okay?”
“You’d better believe it. I wouldn’t want to get taken down by that crazy-ass woman.”
Savich stood in the doorway for a moment, staring over at Bruce Comafield. There were lines running into his arms, a line running under the hospital blanket. He had an oxygen clip in his nose, and he was awake, moaning, his eyes closed, turning his head back and forth on the flat pillow.
He wasn’t in happyland. Good.
Savich didn’t say anything, simply walked to his bedside and looked down at him. Slowly, Comafield became aware of him, turned his head back, and opened his eyes to look up at him.
Comafield whispered, “You were one of the agents at the Willard, to speak to Lansford.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m pleased you recognize me. If you forgot my name, it’s Special Agent Savich, FBI.”
“You shot me.”
“Yes. I’m pleased you’re still alive, Bruce.”
“Not for long. They’re going to let me die of pain. If I turn my head I can see all the nurses out there at that big counter. I keep ringing for a nurse, but none of them come. Dear God, it’s horrible. Tell them I need some pain meds.”
Savich leaned down close. “Tell me where Kirsten is, and I’ll make sure you get more morphine.”
Comafield tried to spit at him, a stupid thing to do, since he didn’t have the strength to lift his head, and it hurt even to try, and the spit ran down his chin. He cursed the spit, cursed Savich, cursed fate. “Kirsten knows who you are, too, you bastard. She’s going to kill you; she’s going to execute you. It was a little promise we made to each other. Whoever brought one of us down is not going to live. So, you’re a dead man. She’s going to watch you die, count on it.”
“Where is she, Bruce?”
“Look over your shoulder if you want to find her. She’ll be looking for you.”
“That’s not going to cut it, Bruce.”
He closed his mouth and stared toward the pale green wall opposite his bed.
Savich leaned close, watched Comafield’s eyes dance madly with pain. “You want more morphine, Bruce? The only way you’ll get it is for you to tell me where Kirsten is hiding.”
Comafield’s dark eyes turned black, rage boiling up. He whispered, voice shaking, “You can’t do that. You think I’m stupid? You’re the law; you can’t torture me.”
“You let Kirsten torture all those women she butchered. Did you help her jerk a wire around their necks, pull it tight while your victims were helpless from the drug she’d fed them?”
“That’s different! How’d you even know about me?”
“A very sharp guy in New York described you very well. You know, the guy Kirsten set up to take the fall at Enrico’s Bar?”
Comafield knew; of course he knew.
Savich leaned close again. “I liked you better with hair. I’ve got to say, though, you fooled me. I never saw you go in the bar, and believe me, I was looking.”
Savich glanced at his Mickey Mouse watch, patted Sherlock’s hand. “It’s nine o’clock. I’m off to see Bruce Comafield. Coop, Lucy, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I think it’s best I speak to him alone. You guys stay here—if I need you, I’ll call.”
When Savich saw they would both argue, he raised his hand. “Look, we need information, and we need it now, with no messing around. I’m going to question him. Trust me, okay?” He didn’t tell them that he’d already asked Dr. Pendergrass to cut down Comafield’s morphine, told him exactly why. Savich wanted him awake and on the edge, if possible.
Bruce Comafield was in a small glass-fronted room in the ICU on the third floor. An FBI agent was seated at his door, his legs crossed, a magazine unopened on his lap.
“Hi, John,” Savich said to Agent Frish. “Anything interesting?”
“Nope, if by that you mean Kirsten Bolger waltzing by, maybe to shoot him to keep him quiet.”
Savich smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
“Nope, not a whiff of her.”
“Keep a sharp eye, okay?”
“You’d better believe it. I wouldn’t want to get taken down by that crazy-ass woman.”
Savich stood in the doorway for a moment, staring over at Bruce Comafield. There were lines running into his arms, a line running under the hospital blanket. He had an oxygen clip in his nose, and he was awake, moaning, his eyes closed, turning his head back and forth on the flat pillow.
He wasn’t in happyland. Good.
Savich didn’t say anything, simply walked to his bedside and looked down at him. Slowly, Comafield became aware of him, turned his head back, and opened his eyes to look up at him.
Comafield whispered, “You were one of the agents at the Willard, to speak to Lansford.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m pleased you recognize me. If you forgot my name, it’s Special Agent Savich, FBI.”
“You shot me.”
“Yes. I’m pleased you’re still alive, Bruce.”
“Not for long. They’re going to let me die of pain. If I turn my head I can see all the nurses out there at that big counter. I keep ringing for a nurse, but none of them come. Dear God, it’s horrible. Tell them I need some pain meds.”
Savich leaned down close. “Tell me where Kirsten is, and I’ll make sure you get more morphine.”
Comafield tried to spit at him, a stupid thing to do, since he didn’t have the strength to lift his head, and it hurt even to try, and the spit ran down his chin. He cursed the spit, cursed Savich, cursed fate. “Kirsten knows who you are, too, you bastard. She’s going to kill you; she’s going to execute you. It was a little promise we made to each other. Whoever brought one of us down is not going to live. So, you’re a dead man. She’s going to watch you die, count on it.”
“Where is she, Bruce?”
“Look over your shoulder if you want to find her. She’ll be looking for you.”
“That’s not going to cut it, Bruce.”
He closed his mouth and stared toward the pale green wall opposite his bed.
Savich leaned close, watched Comafield’s eyes dance madly with pain. “You want more morphine, Bruce? The only way you’ll get it is for you to tell me where Kirsten is hiding.”
Comafield’s dark eyes turned black, rage boiling up. He whispered, voice shaking, “You can’t do that. You think I’m stupid? You’re the law; you can’t torture me.”
“You let Kirsten torture all those women she butchered. Did you help her jerk a wire around their necks, pull it tight while your victims were helpless from the drug she’d fed them?”
“That’s different! How’d you even know about me?”
“A very sharp guy in New York described you very well. You know, the guy Kirsten set up to take the fall at Enrico’s Bar?”
Comafield knew; of course he knew.
Savich leaned close again. “I liked you better with hair. I’ve got to say, though, you fooled me. I never saw you go in the bar, and believe me, I was looking.”
