The Target
Page 108
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"It was verified," Detective O'Connor said. "The bullet was a 7.62 mm sniping round." He turned toward Ramsey. "You probably know that this bullet is heavier, to give it more energy and a flatter trajectory. That's particularly important over a long distance." "Any sign of the shooter?"
"We went to the Ames Building, to the roof, which is the top of the fourth floor. We found a couple of cigarette butts, a to-go coffee container, and, wonder of wonders, there was this small wet spot."
Molly blinked at the detective. "Wet spot? Why is that a wonder?"
"He spit, Mrs. Santera. The shooter spit. That means DNA, if we're lucky. That means if and when we catch the guy, we'll have indisputable proof that he's guilty. The forensics folks think he's a smoker with a bad hacking cough. His vices might end up bringing him down.
"Since Mason Lord is a very powerful man, despite his more questionable associations and business practices, this case is very high profile. The press is starting to understand there isn't much to see around here. But they'll start showing up again at dawn, you can count on it. I'm glad you made it back so early. They'll find out soon enough that you're back, Judge Hunt."
"What do the doctors say about Mason's condition?"
Detective O'Connor checked his watch. "It's nearly midnight. I told his surgeon that you'd be arriving about now. He said you could call and he'd give you the latest word."
Detective O'Connor pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After five minutes of being sent from one person to the next, he handed the phone to Molly.
Ramsey watched her face as she took in what was being said to her. Her expression didn't change. That was odd. He watched her press the C^button, then hand the phone back to Detective O'Connor.
"He's alive. The surgeon, Dr. Bigliotti, says he's got a fifty-fifty chance-if, that is, he manages to survive the night. He already woke up." She looked at Detective O'Connor. "He whispered to the officer sitting next to his bed that Louey Santera shot him."
"You're kidding," Detective O'Connor said. "He must have been out of his head, what with the drugs."
"Yes, that's what Dr. Bigliotti said. My father hasn't said anything more. Dr. Bigliotti also said the media was all over him personally and the hospital in general. One of the night nurses nabbed a reporter who was carrying around a mop- as a disguise, I suppose-trying to find Mason Lord's room. Do you guys have any ideas? Any guesses that might help?"
Molly and Ramsey just looked at him. He knew defeat when he saw it.
THE hiss of the regulator was obscenely loud in the momentary quiet of the ICU at Chicago Memorial on Jefferson, the closest trauma center available when her father had been shot down in the street. Molly looked down at her father's white face, the tubes in his mouth and nose, the lines running into both arms, the bag emptying his bladder hanging from the side of the hospital bed. One officer sat not six inches away from him, a recorder on his lap, holding a police procedural mystery novel in his right hand. He nodded to them, then did a double take when he saw Ram-sey. He nodded again, this time, his head going lower, a sign of excessive respect, Molly thought, to Ramsey.
The ICU was huge, impersonal, filled with high-tech equipment. There were six other patients, with just curtains around their beds, and they weren't quiet. Moans of pain mixed with that damnable hissing sound, low voices of relatives speaking to patients, curses from the bed in the far corner, a nurse's hurrying footsteps.
Her father was as still as death. If it weren't for the machine, he would be dead. She lightly touched her palm to his cheek. His skin felt slack and clammy.
She realized in that moment that she wanted him to live. No matter what was true, he was her father. She wanted him to live. The nurse motioned them to leave after five minutes.
In the corridor, Molly said to Detective O'Connor, "Has anyone called my mother? She lives in Italy."
He looked at her blankly, scratched his ear, and shook his head. "Can't say anyone has, Mrs. Santera."
"I'll do it then when we get back home." It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Molly had wanted to come, to see his face, just to see for herself that he was alive. Life was there, huddling deep inside her father, barely.
There was no traffic on the drive back to Oak Park. Ramsey kept a hard focus on the road in front of him. He was nearly cross-eyed with fatigue.
Even if they'd managed to get married, he was so tired right now, he doubted he could even stay awake long enough to kiss Molly's ear, even if she offered her ear to him to kiss. She was in pretty bad shape herself.
"We went to the Ames Building, to the roof, which is the top of the fourth floor. We found a couple of cigarette butts, a to-go coffee container, and, wonder of wonders, there was this small wet spot."
Molly blinked at the detective. "Wet spot? Why is that a wonder?"
"He spit, Mrs. Santera. The shooter spit. That means DNA, if we're lucky. That means if and when we catch the guy, we'll have indisputable proof that he's guilty. The forensics folks think he's a smoker with a bad hacking cough. His vices might end up bringing him down.
"Since Mason Lord is a very powerful man, despite his more questionable associations and business practices, this case is very high profile. The press is starting to understand there isn't much to see around here. But they'll start showing up again at dawn, you can count on it. I'm glad you made it back so early. They'll find out soon enough that you're back, Judge Hunt."
"What do the doctors say about Mason's condition?"
Detective O'Connor checked his watch. "It's nearly midnight. I told his surgeon that you'd be arriving about now. He said you could call and he'd give you the latest word."
Detective O'Connor pulled out his cell phone and dialed. After five minutes of being sent from one person to the next, he handed the phone to Molly.
Ramsey watched her face as she took in what was being said to her. Her expression didn't change. That was odd. He watched her press the C^button, then hand the phone back to Detective O'Connor.
"He's alive. The surgeon, Dr. Bigliotti, says he's got a fifty-fifty chance-if, that is, he manages to survive the night. He already woke up." She looked at Detective O'Connor. "He whispered to the officer sitting next to his bed that Louey Santera shot him."
"You're kidding," Detective O'Connor said. "He must have been out of his head, what with the drugs."
"Yes, that's what Dr. Bigliotti said. My father hasn't said anything more. Dr. Bigliotti also said the media was all over him personally and the hospital in general. One of the night nurses nabbed a reporter who was carrying around a mop- as a disguise, I suppose-trying to find Mason Lord's room. Do you guys have any ideas? Any guesses that might help?"
Molly and Ramsey just looked at him. He knew defeat when he saw it.
THE hiss of the regulator was obscenely loud in the momentary quiet of the ICU at Chicago Memorial on Jefferson, the closest trauma center available when her father had been shot down in the street. Molly looked down at her father's white face, the tubes in his mouth and nose, the lines running into both arms, the bag emptying his bladder hanging from the side of the hospital bed. One officer sat not six inches away from him, a recorder on his lap, holding a police procedural mystery novel in his right hand. He nodded to them, then did a double take when he saw Ram-sey. He nodded again, this time, his head going lower, a sign of excessive respect, Molly thought, to Ramsey.
The ICU was huge, impersonal, filled with high-tech equipment. There were six other patients, with just curtains around their beds, and they weren't quiet. Moans of pain mixed with that damnable hissing sound, low voices of relatives speaking to patients, curses from the bed in the far corner, a nurse's hurrying footsteps.
Her father was as still as death. If it weren't for the machine, he would be dead. She lightly touched her palm to his cheek. His skin felt slack and clammy.
She realized in that moment that she wanted him to live. No matter what was true, he was her father. She wanted him to live. The nurse motioned them to leave after five minutes.
In the corridor, Molly said to Detective O'Connor, "Has anyone called my mother? She lives in Italy."
He looked at her blankly, scratched his ear, and shook his head. "Can't say anyone has, Mrs. Santera."
"I'll do it then when we get back home." It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. Molly had wanted to come, to see his face, just to see for herself that he was alive. Life was there, huddling deep inside her father, barely.
There was no traffic on the drive back to Oak Park. Ramsey kept a hard focus on the road in front of him. He was nearly cross-eyed with fatigue.
Even if they'd managed to get married, he was so tired right now, he doubted he could even stay awake long enough to kiss Molly's ear, even if she offered her ear to him to kiss. She was in pretty bad shape herself.
