Overtime
by Mojave Dragonfly

Mike and I were at Magee's Donuts when we got the call. Shots fired, Westin Bonaventure Hotel, all available units respond. Mike's eyes got big over his jelly-filled, so I replied on my radio, digging out money to pay the tab. It's true, you know, what they say about cops and donuts. Mike likes chocolate, sprinkles, jelly-filled—actually Mike likes just about any donuts. Me, I'm an original glazed girl, but they go straight to my hips, so most of the time I just drink the coffee and wish that cops were famous for hanging out at Starbucks.

"Bonaventure Hotel," I said as we scrambled away from the table, the morning's briefings clicking into my head. "That's the Governor."

"Shit," said my ever-eloquent partner.

What he meant to say, of course, was "Shit, if every unit in central L.A. is responding, then it's not just shots fired and a perp on the run. It's going to be dangerous confusion as a bunch of cops, hotel security, and gubernatorial bodyguards pour into the hotel, bouncing off each other like the original keystones." That's what he meant to say, but I knew that.

We were quiet beneath our siren as I raced the maze that is the jewelry and hotel district, listening for updates. Shots fired in the ballroom, possible assassination attempt, suspect believed to be still in the hotel. Description: white male, thirty, average height, brown hair, wearing a gray suit.

"Shit," I said. What I meant to say, of course, was "Shit, that's a business convention hotel, there must be hundreds of people fitting that description. Also, there must have been a bunch of trigger-happy security trying to bring the bastard down, so God knows how many shots we'll have to trace and morons we'll have to calm down. High likelihood of injured, too. The Governor may be shot, and won't that make for an interesting day."

I whipped the patrol car into the unloading-only area outside reception, studying everything I saw. A gray van blocked the hotel entrance, its back cargo doors open, and—and this is the kind of thing that's out of place and tells you all is not well—a large teddy bear on the ground behind it. Of course it doesn't take a detective to know all is not well when you spot two crumpled bodies, one on either side of the van.

"Shit," said Mike as I squealed rubber to a halt.

I called for medical to the front of the hotel as Mike rolled out his door, weapon drawn. He approached the body on the side of the van closer to the hotel, barking orders at a startled-looking elderly couple with bags that stood pressed against the wall. They sidled back inside.

I checked out the other body. As I approached her—for it was a woman—I watched the heavy-set black man seated just beyond her on the small concrete median separating the hotel unloading zone from the traffic on Figueroa St. He had one pant leg rolled up, and struggled to attach a wooden prosthetic to just below his knee. He gave me a tired smile. "Officer," he said, with a nod.

He looked like a witness, to me, so I didn't order him to clear out. Besides, he wasn't very mobile, yet. The woman—I recognized her! Lenore Jones, from the 21st!

"Officer down!" yelled Mike from the other side of the van, and for a moment I wondered how he knew. Then I smartened up.

"Two officers down!" I yelled back at him, fumbling for my radio. "Is it Smitty?" I'd heard of these partners even though they weren't in my precinct. Smith and Jones. Like we were Pat and Mike.

"Yeah," Mike replied. "He's been shot."

It was clear from Mike's tone that there was no point in rushing Officer Smith to the hospital. I bit back another "shit" before I called in the update. In the hearing of civilians, we're supposed to be professional, but the adrenaline already coursing through me had a sudden sharp feel to it. A cop was dead. On this lovely crisp fall morning as I was sipping coffee at Magee's, a cop was killed. A cop like me. What about Lenore?

I checked her as I'd been trained, moving her as little as possible. She was alive, but unconscious. "Who shot her?" I demanded of the black man.

"Nobody shot her," he replied calmly. "I clobbered her with my wooden leg."

I stared at him. He was middle-aged and mostly bald, wearing one of those utility-type vests they sell for people who imagine they might go on safari. He looked familiar.

"To keep her from shooting the little girl," he added. "And me."

Oh, this was going to be an interesting day.

"Sir, you are a material witness in a homicide, and you have just admitted to assaulting a police officer," I told him in my best authority-voice as I glanced around for Jones's weapon. I found it in the shadow of one of the van's wheels, and I noticed with vague curiosity that it had a silencer on it. I scooped it up with a crime cloth, carefully noting where and how I had found it. If someone else didn't arrive soon, Mike and I were going to have to leave this crime scene and enter the hotel. Under those circumstances, despite the disruption to the scene, department policy is to remove any weapon that a bystander could take, particularly an officer's piece. I heard sirens. Good. "Do not leave the area, do you understand?"

He shook his head, still smiling tiredly. He gave up working with the prosthetic and waggled it at me. "Officer, I have to take my pants off to get this thing on. I can't go anywhere."

I remembered who he was. He shined shoes in a rented booth inside the Bonaventure. I relaxed a little. It didn't mean he wasn't a perp, but when you know the regulars on your beat, you have an understanding of how they fit into the city's puzzle. Also, you have a line on tracking them down if you need it. I couldn't even begin to imagine why he would think Lenore Jones was going to shoot a little girl, but the day hadn't progressed that far yet.

Little girl. Teddy bear.

Mike came around to my side, his face set in stone. He'd been examining a fallen comrade. I only had an unconscious one. He said nothing, not interrupting my interview. We were after a cop-killer now.

"Do you know who shot the other officer?" I asked.

He lost his smile. "Yeah. They went back inside."

"They?!"

"Him and his little girl."

Mike and I exchanged looks. What the...? Was this even related to the Governor incident? We headed around the van as two more patrol cars bounced into the drive, a third approaching behind them in the street, and an ambulance behind them. We relinquished control of the injured, the witness and the crime scene as quickly as we could, and then Mike and I and two other guys headed inside. Shortly there would be people who outranked us to take charge, and I wanted to get inside before that happened.

"He's not dangerous!" the shoe-shine guy called after us.

Yeah, right. Tell that to Smitty. What planet was that guy living on?

We holstered our weapons, but entered the hotel lobby with our hands on them. The spacious area looked as it usually did, except for the huge poster of Governor Grant hanging from a fourth level balcony. Staff and guests looked subdued and worried, as I'd expected, though they went tentatively about their usual business. The elderly couple waited just inside the doors for the chance to get to their car and get out of Dodge. Not going to happen. This place would have to be shut down, at least until we could determine if the assassin was still inside.

My attention was drawn almost immediately to the small knot of white-shirted hotel security standing together by the wall. They clustered around a guy they had up against the wall while they searched him. One security guy held on to a little girl, maybe five years old, who was screaming and struggling. Just as we came in, they yanked the guy from the wall, and whirled him, unresisting, around so they could start walking him. As Mike and I and the other pair trotted up, I heard somebody say something about going to the Security Office.

The suspect looked terrible. He was average height and thirtyish, wearing a gray suit and tie. His brown hair was mussed beyond immediate repair, his tie dangled loosely like a noose around his neck, and, most interesting of all, he was soaking wet. He was pale as hotel sheets, except where he bled from two injuries to his face, and even from where I was, I could see he was shaking.

Gray suit, and he fit the description. I guessed this was both the assassin and the cop-killer. Bastard.

As they whirled him from the wall, he looked immediately to the little girl, and didn't take his gaze from her, even when his glasses fell off.

"Daddy!" she sobbed, her tiny face red with crying. "Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

The suspect collapsed as he put weight on his left leg. I made note of which leg, because lots of time suspects try to buy time by pretending injuries or try to claim brutality. I'd watch for if later his injured leg became his right one. His captors held him up, but he paid attention only to the little girl. He looked so stricken, that I revised my opinion about his collapse. Maybe it wasn't his leg; maybe it was her cries. He could be putting on an act, but I didn't think the little girl was. She was terrified, but, then, she was being held prisoner by a stranger. I wondered if the guy really was her father.

What kind of an assassin brings a child along? Was he planning to use her as some kind of shield or something?

"Please!" he gasped out. "Let her stay with me. For now." He pulled himself together a little and looked at the men holding him. "Some of you must be parents."

"LAPD!" I called out to the security men. "What's the situation?"

The knot of white-shirted, clean cut men turned to face us. One older man answered, looking from me to Mike, and settling on Mike, even though I was the one who had spoken. This happens a lot. I outrank Mike, though I don't expect civilians to know that, but it would be nice if I were the one deferred to at least 50 percent of the time. Mike's big, and, you know, male.

"This asshole tried to take a shot at the Governor. We caught him in the john."

Apparently they didn't even know about the dead officer on their doorstep. So this son-of-a-bitch had tried to kill the Governor, Smith and Jones got in the way of his escape, and he'd killed Smitty. I stomped hard on the anger burning inside me.

"What's in the john?" I asked, scooping up the guy's glasses. "Could he escape from there?"

Still looking sick, the suspect looked past me to the little girl. Her cries had grown heartbroken, like her whole world had ended, and his bereft expression as he regarded her hardly matched the usual cold-blooded killer act.

"He was coming out, actually, both of them," the head security guy admitted. I was careful not to smirk. Hardly the heroic take-down of a fugitive they were hoping for, I bet.

I didn't have the chance for any more questions right then. Mike nudged me and tilted his head. One by one, everyone turned their gaze up the staircase, as Governor Grant came down, live and in the flesh.

I'd seen her once before, at a rally where she'd been poised and elegantly dressed. Not that you couldn't recognize her here, particularly with a thirty-foot poster of herself right behind, but she looked a little more mussed than usual. And very angry. She was flanked by a tight cluster of hotel security guards. I wondered where her own security was.

"Officers," she called as she approached, her spiked heels tap-tapping importantly, "I need you to make some arrests, and—I'll need a police escort."

Now, technically, the Governor has no immediate authority over the municipal police force, but, well, you know, she's the Governor. And if she knew more about the attempt on her life than we did, I was all for it. A quick glance at the four of us confirmed for me that I was still the highest ranking here, if only by a smidgeon.

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and I was glad to see that she, at least, focused on me as an authority, without hesitating. "But if you are still in jeopardy, we need to get you to safety. At least to the hotel security office."

I saw by some quick expressions on the guys with her, that they had been trying to persuade her of that very thing, so I had a good guess what her answer would be.

"Not yet. But I do want your people to keep my own security away from me. Some of them may be involved."

Really? Wow.

"I'll want to make a statement to your superiors, but I want one answer myself, right now." She zeroed in on our suspect-guy.

I gave the security guys holding him a concerned glance. Hunter and prey were meeting, and I wanted to be sure there'd be no bloodshed. The guys tightened their grips on his arms, probably painfully, as he straightened up a little. The suspect looked at the Governor steadily, though I did see apprehension in his brown eyes, and he paled even more, which I wouldn't have thought possible. I wondered if he was going into shock.

Behind us, the girl sobbed, "Daddy, Daddy," some more, and the guy winced.

"Is Watson really your name?" the Governor began, after a glance at the girl.

Geez, even we hadn't started questioning the guy. He hadn't been read his rights or anything. At least, I reminded myself, no actual police had restrained him yet. We would put him under formal arrest the moment we touched him.

"Gene," he said hoarsely. "Gene Watson."

I'm telling you, the dynamic between these two was weird. Watson, if that was his name, was neither defiant nor surly, and those were the only two attitudes I'd ever seen in comparable situations. He looked a little embarrassed, is all.

"Mr. Watson, where is my assistant, Krista Brooks?" She was cool, but there was something like dread lurking in her tone.

Watson met her gaze levelly. "In the bathroom in your husband's suite," he answered, like it was a sentence of death.

Oh.

Shit.

Governor Grant accepted this in silence, and the two regarded each other for another moment.

"Daddy don't leave me!" sobbed the girl.

Watson lost his control, not in anger or threats, but in despair. "Governor," he begged, "ask them to let my daughter stay with me, please. She's been a hostage all morning. She lost her mother last week. Please."

"There seems to be a lot of death around you, Mr. Watson," she replied. "You're not in a position to be asking for things."

"I'm sorry. I'm begging you. I'll do anything."

"For your daughter? I believe you," she said dryly. She looked at me. "What is your protocol about the child?"

"If there's no immediate family to take responsibility for her, we call Child Protective Services. Of course, it will take them some time to get here," I admitted.

The Governor nodded, looking thoughtful.

"Before this man is questioned, Governor, we need to charge him and read him his rights." I nodded at Mike, who shouldered into Watson's captors, and took him from them.

"You have the right to remain silent..." Mike began as he pulled the unresisting man's hands behind his back. Watson slumped, defeated.

"Wait," said the Governor. Everyone looked at her. "Would you 'cuff his hands in front, please, so he can hold his daughter?"

Mike froze. "Governor," he said, "this man tried to kill you." And he killed a cop!

She sighed and seemed suddenly weary. "Honestly, I'm not at all sure that he did. And I do believe his daughter has been a hostage today."

What? I was stunned, which was unprofessional of me, but at least, so was everyone else.

"You—he—" I got a grip. "Ma'am, this is not the assassin?" I almost squeaked.

"Oh, he's the man, all right, but I'm not sure he tried to kill me. He had a much better chance earlier." She turned to face me. "Please hold him, let him keep his daughter, and come with me to find my assistant. I believe she may have been murdered. Also, please find and detain my Security Chief, Alan White, and also..." She paused. "My husband, Brendan Grant."

"Your husband?" Still me with the squeaking.

"I promise I'll give your superiors a full statement. But right now, I want to find Krista, and I need your escort."

"Thank you, Governor," said Watson, as Mike moved his hands around to the front and finished Mirandizing him. Governor Grant wasn't looking at Watson, but I saw the look of immense gratitude that he gave her as the child flew to him and flung her arms around his waist. What gorgeous eyes that man had. I suddenly wished he had given me that look.

Watson sank down to the girl's level and buried his face in her hair.

I gave myself a shake as my stomach turned over. There was something loathsome about watching an assassin cop-killer coo to a child. What was I thinking? Gorgeous eyes, my foot. Looking for the missing assistant sounded better and better to me.

"We'll take them to the security office," offered one of the other two officers. Yeah, I was ranking, but cops don't usually stand around waiting for orders, not from each other.

"Okay," I said. "Mike and I will be escorts." The hotel cops who had been flanking the Governor looked a little confused. Were they supposed to stay or go? "We'll need some of you guys," I told them. "We may need room access."

They nodded, relieved, and split up according to their own mysterious rules. Three of them came with us as Mike and I mounted the stairs behind the Governor.

At the top of the stairs was the mezzanine and the main conference area, including the corridor to the California Ballroom. The Governor passed the corridor, heading for one of the hotel's exterior glass elevators. The official channels on the radio on my collar crackled as State Police checked in with our own Captain Plunkett, who was on his way, himself. Apparently there was a contingent of State Troopers in the hotel, for some reason, and they were responding to the ballroom. Oh great.

I say, that, by the way, with no facetiousness at all. Those guys are great. I just couldn't get that image of keystone cops out of my head. All we needed now, was, let's see, CHiPs and the FBI. I winced, mentally. The FBI we'd probably get.

I'd been paying more attention to the radio than to what we were doing, as we entered the all glass elevator and it started to rise. Mike hates heights, so I squeezed past him to let him be nearer the door. That put me next to the Governor.

"Governor," I asked, "do you know that Watson?"

"We met earlier today," she said with an expression of distaste, "but no."

"What makes you think your own security may be involved?"

"Because they were hand-picked by my husband and Alan White."

I opened my mouth to ask why she thought her husband and security chief were involved in a plot to kill her, but right then we reached the penthouse suites level and she said, "I really don't want to speculate further until we know some more, officer."

Okey-dokey. That was pretty final.

Mike led the way out of the elevator, followed by the hotel security and the Governor, and last, me. We were in a corridor with a desk across it, limiting access to the door beyond. No one sat at the desk.

The Governor approached the door with the confidence of familiarity, but it was our job to be more paranoid. Mike slid in front of her to reach it first.

"Stand back, please, Governor," I said in a low voice.

She halted and the hotel security guys moved to either side. I came forward, and took my position beside the door, weapon drawn.

Mike knocked. "LAPD, open up!" he called.

When there was no response a second time, Mike looked at me and drew his weapon. I saw one of the hotel security men with a universal key card in his hand, and gestured him forward.

He knew the drill. He came forward, inserted and withdrew the card, and, when the access light turned green, he retreated.

With a third warning from Mike, we burst into the suite, guns ready. At first look, the place was empty. We prowled around corners for a bit, still finding no one.

"All clear!" I called, and the Governor and the other guys came in. I gestured at a door. "There's no one in this bathroom," I said to the Governor.

"The other bathroom's in here," she said, and led the way into a small corridor. She stopped abruptly just before a door, and I almost bumped into her. She took a hesitant step away from the door and nodded at me.

The door to the small (for a VIP suite) bathroom opened easily, and yes, there was a body on the floor. She was an attractive young woman with light brown skin, dressed professionally in a silk suit and pearls. Her hair was drawn neatly back into a bun and her eyes were wide open and staring. She'd been gut-shot and her life's blood painted what had been white and gold tiles.

I've seen a number of bodies on the job, most of which had died violently, and this scene was no worse than most. I have never, however, come across the corpse of someone I knew well. I glanced back at the Governor, who had not come into the bathroom.

"Oh, Krista," she said, looking horrified. "I'm so sorry."

Mike stuck his head in and looked around, briefly, so he could also testify about the crime scene, if necessary. "Your assistant, Governor?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, still not recovered. "Krista Brooks. She works for me."

Uh huh. Usually one's assistant does work for you, I thought, but I left her alone. She would need a little time.

"Who—who did this?" she murmured.

"More of Mr. Watson's work?" asked Mike.

I shrugged, backing out of the bathroom, and pulling the door shut. At least this scene shouldn't be too hard to secure. Before I did, though, a couple of the security guys took a quick look inside. They were pretty good. They didn't stare or try to get in the way, but I couldn't entirely blame them for a little morbid curiosity. In fact, these guys hadn't been a problem for us, so far, and I appreciated that. Macho rent-a-cops are usually a big pain in the ass, but these guys were full-time employees and had some training and discipline. I made a mental note to say something to their boss if I got the chance.

"He said he saw her die," the Governor said, staring at the door. "He said he didn't kill her."

Interesting, but not very useful, I thought. And when did the Governor have this chat with her assassin, anyway?

Mike saw the chance to get a little more information out of Governor Grant. "Did he say who did kill her?"

She fastened her distant gaze onto Mike's face and said, "He said a man who worked for my husband. He said my husband worked for someone else, and they wanted me dead."

We were all silent, and you could see her mental gears turning. Then she looked sharply at me. "We can't just leave her in there," she said.

I decided it was time to take the Governor in hand. "Yes we can, ma'am, and we will. We will make sure nothing is touched in this whole suite. We'll post a guard on the outside door. Clearly we need to question your husband, and clearly he is not here."

Obedient to my words, the security guys started back toward the front door, and Mike got on the radio to call in this update. The radio, during all this time, had been telling us that Captain Plunkett had arrived, and had set up a command post downstairs. State Troopers were securing the ballroom and collecting witnesses' statements, and EMTs were treating someone who'd been shot in the ballroom. Mike had a little trouble getting through.

"Where did you last see your husband?" I asked as I herded her out of the corridor.

"The ballroom. He was in the ballroom when I left to find you."

"Patty," Mike said, "the Captain said to get the Governor downstairs, right now. Like, yesterday."

On the ride down, the elevator stopped at almost every floor as hotel guests tried to abandon ship. I had to tell them all to take another car.

The Command Post was on the mezzanine level. At this point it consisted of a six foot table, the kind used by conferences for registration or holding literature, and a bunch of radios. Captain Plunkett, a big man, in all meanings of the word, waited for us at the door of the elevator. He and a brace of my fellows surrounded the Governor and escorted her from the car as the Captain gave me a very dark look. I was in trouble.

I headed over to Lieutenant Martin at the table, watching the Captain talking to the Governor.

"What'd I do?" I asked.

Lieutenant Martin is a nice guy, if a little bit of a suck-up. "I can't believe you didn't immediately remove the Governor from the building," he said. "That's by the book, and the Captain isn't happy."

"Hey, she wouldn't go," I protested.

Martin shrugged, and we both looked back at the Captain and the Governor. "No," she was saying, very firmly. Plunkett was getting red in the face.

"See?" I said to Martin.

The Lieutenant tightened his lips. "If she won't go, we'll need to get her statement here, and the hotel security office is the only safe place. Get down there and make sure the suspect is isolated from somewhere for them to talk."

I was grateful to go, distancing myself from the Captain. Maybe he'd have cooled off by later.

The hotel security office was no dinky affair. A ring of offices around a central open area, and halls leading to other places. Watson and the girl sat on a bench seat against the wall. Across the table from them was a detective, Lieutenant Gonzalez. It was good placement—to have Watson in the open, heavily guarded—so I looked for a more isolated place for the Captain and the Governor to talk. The security guys had no trouble clearing out an office for the purpose, so I returned to the central area. I joined the guys acting as "door guards."

"Door guards" is what we call it when we have to stand around just being the muscle for an operation. Most of the guys hate it because it's boring, but I kind of like it. I get to eavesdrop on what the higher-ups are doing. Also, it kind of tickles me to think of myself as "muscle." I'm 5' 4" and distressingly roly-poly. I'm fully trained in hand-to-hand, of course, but to look at me you'd be more afraid I might bump into you and land on you.

Gonzalez was quizzing Watson on the administrative stuff—address, employment, etc. Watson looked some better, though no one had treated the cuts on his face and scalp, and blood trickled down the side of his face. He held the little girl close to him with one arm. She had stopped crying, but she still looked scared.

"What are you doing in LA, Mr. Watson?" Gonzalez asked. He was sticking to innocuous questions. Watson didn't have an attorney, and he was probably smart enough to clam up if the questions turned nasty.

"Business meeting."

"You take your daughter to business meetings?"

"LA is on the way back from San Diego. It's a one-on-one meeting, and he said it would be okay."

"And you were in San Diego for your wife's funeral."

Watson stiffened slightly and glanced at the girl. "Yes, like I said."

"How did your wife die?"

Watson sighed. "She had a fast growing brain tumor. By the time she saw a doctor..." He shook his head, and wiped at the blood on his temple.

"There will be records of her treatment at San Diego Medical Center?"

"Yes, of course." Watson frowned. "What does this have to do with anything?"

The little girl wriggled out of his grasp, and Watson sat forward. "Lynn!" he called.

"It's okay, Daddy," she answered. She trotted over to a nearby desk and picked up a box of Kleenex. Watson squinted worriedly after her, and I remembered I had his glasses. The little girl returned, clambered onto the bench seat, and held out the tissues. "You're bleeding, Daddy," she said solemnly.

"Thanks, Sweetpea," he answered, and started blotting the blood on his face with his handcuffed hands. Gonzalez let this all go on uninterrupted, because noise at the office door announced more officers arriving. Lt. Martin led the group in, and looked for me. With him came Captain Plunkett, the Governor, Mike, and some State Troopers.

I jumped up and led the way to the office security had given me for the Governor. Then I faded back, trying not to be too noticeable, as they all flooded into the small room. The Governor passed by without a glance at Watson, though Watson watched her with interest.

"Have you found her husband?" I heard him ask as I moved back toward their table.

"I'm asking the questions, Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez.

Mike didn't enter the small office. He intercepted me and herded me aside.

"What's that guy's story?" he asked me.

"I haven't heard much, yet," I said. "Why?"

"You should hear the song the shoeshine guy is singing," Mike said, waggling his eyebrows at me. "He thinks Smitty was part of the plot to kill the Governor. Jones, too. Also..." Mike glanced aside to make sure no one was noticing his gossip. "They found another stiff. They think it's her head of security."

Oh, this was getting good. Though I knew we shouldn't be whispering in a corner like this, I couldn't resist.

"Watson shoot him?" I asked.

Mike shrugged. "He wasn't shot, and he wasn't in the ballroom. He was in a nearby service corridor, and he was fried."

"Fried?!"

"Electrocuted."

We both looked back at the near-sighted, unassuming looking killer. "Wow," I said. "You better get back."

Gonzalez was getting nastier. "Mr. Watson, we have a dead police officer on his way to the morgue and the 25 million dollar question everyone wants to know is why did you kill him?"

"I think I should have an attorney," said Watson wearily.

Gonzalez nodded, shuffling together his paperwork. "That can be arranged," he said, businesslike. "You can call one from the station. We'll go there now, and your daughter can go to CPS." He nodded at me.

I knew what he wanted me to do. I was to come briskly forward and firmly remove the girl from her father. Darn it! Why me? Was I closest? Was I the woman? 15 percent of the force is female, how come I managed to be the only woman on site? I didn't want to do this. I'd already seen that the girl could scream, and somehow this felt—slimy.

"No, wait," cried Watson, looking at me with alarm. Like a good little soldier, I kept coming anyway. "Why does she have to leave me? Can't she come too?"

Playing perfectly into Gonzalez's plans, the girl cried, "Daddy, nooo!" and clung to him.

"The station is no place for a child. We have a home for that," Gonzalez replied. "She'll be fine."

I was supposed to be intimidating. I stepped well inside their personal space and held out my hands to the girl. "Come with me, Honey," I said. "It's time to go."

The child hid her face in her father's embrace.

"Wait, wait!" Watson sounded almost panicky. "Can't we stay here? I could call an attorney from here."

"That's a procedure we do from the station, Mr. Watson. Here we're just gathering preliminary information."

This was total bullshit, of course. Gonzalez wanted the guy to talk and he knew what buttons to push.

Watson looked trapped. "You're doing—the same thing," he said. "The same thing they did."

Gonzalez was granite-faced. "Officer," he ordered.

I reached to take the girl, hoping I wouldn't have to.

"Daddy don't let them!" cried the girl, muffled.

Watson slid a foot to the side, moving her from my immediate reach. "Okay!" he said, glancing from Gonzalez to me. "Okay, we can stay here. Let us stay here."

"I expect full cooperation, Mr. Watson," Gonzalez said with a tight smile.

Watson dropped a kiss on his daughter's head. "Yeah, okay," he said.

I straightened up, and, at a nod from the Lieutenant, I backed away a couple of steps.

"It's okay, Lynn," Watson said. "I'm right here. You're not going anywhere. It's okay."

Gonzalez waited patiently while Watson cajoled his daughter into calming down and peeking out at the world again. Watson used the Kleenex to wipe her nose. When she was willing to look around again, that child gave me a downright nasty glare. I smiled.

"What do you want to know?" Watson finally asked.

"Why did you kill Officer Smith?"

"So he really was a policeman," Watson said. "Because he was shooting at my daughter."

I wondered if the guy realized he had just given us a confession. Gonzalez was good.

"You expect us to believe that a decorated thirty-year veteran of the LAPD was trying to kill your five-year-old daughter?" Gonzalez asked. "You must see how weak a story that one is."

"I'm six," said the girl in a small but defiant voice.

Watson raised his chin. "He was holding her hostage. Or, the woman was holding her. I didn't do what they wanted, so he went out to kill her."

"The woman—what was her name?"

"I don't know. They didn't tell me their names. They both had badges, that's all I know."

The guy was either very crafty or—well, telling the truth, which was unlikely. He had dodged Gonzalez's trap without a stumble.

"And they wanted you to kill the Governor."

"That's right."

"Have you ever killed anyone before, Mr. Watson?"

"No, of course not."

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?"

"No."

"Have you ever been arrested in connection with a violent crime?"

"No!"

"So how exactly did Officer Roland Smith expect you to be able to pull off an assassination? You don't seem to have any credentials."

"I don't know. He—I—he followed me everywhere, threatening what he was going to do to Lynn. He gave me the gun. He gave me a badge that gave me access to all the speaking events."

The guy seemed unaware that he was still wearing a name badge.

"I told him I wouldn't do this, I couldn't, but..." he looked at the girl. "He said he was sure he could make a killer out of me, and maybe he could." He looked up again. "I guess he did."

Gonzalez regarded him for a moment. "What did you do with the weapon?" he asked.

"The gun?" Watson blinked. "I think I dropped it. Probably out by the van."

"And my teddy," said the girl. "Daddy, I dropped my teddy, too."

Geez, the teddy bear.

Watson looked a little glazed. "We'll—get you another one, Sweetpea, I promise," he said distractedly.

This was the damnedest thing I'd ever heard, and I was beginning to wonder if it was true.

I hadn't noticed Lt. Martin leave, but he came back in now, glanced at us, and strode to the Governor's office door.

"Excuse me, Captain," he said, and paused. He must have been given permission to continue, because he went on. "Governor, you said you wouldn't leave until your husband was found. The Mayor's office just called. They've heard from your husband's attorney. They're ready to negotiate how he'll turn himself in."

I heard the Governor's voice, but couldn't make out what she said. It was a question, though.

"I don't know," answered Martin. "But his attorney does. He wouldn't say."

A flurry of activity followed this announcement, and, before long, Captain Plunkett and the Governor came out of the office.

"We'll take the VIP exit," said the Captain, shepherding her away from the door to the hotel lobby.

"Just a moment," she said, spotting Watson.

To Plunkett's visible annoyance, she split from his group and approached us. Gonzalez watched her warily.

"Mr. Watson," she said. He looked up at her.

"I think I may owe you thanks."

Watson swallowed. Handcuffed, surrounded by dark blue LAPD uniforms, and pinned across a table from Lt. Gonzalez, he gave her that same embarrassed look I had seen in the lobby. There it was again—that weird dynamic between these two.

"Is there anything you need?" The offer wasn't overly friendly, but she sounded genuine enough, and held her assassin's gaze levelly.

Watson blinked, glanced around, and looked back at her. "Can you get me a lawyer?" he asked.

"You don't have one?" she replied.

Watson shook his head. "My firm has attorneys but they're in Santa Maria, and—they're not criminal law." As he said the word "criminal" he kind of choked.

The Governor nodded slowly. "Unfortunately, my husband has employed our best attorney, and I think there would be a conflict of interest." She smiled ruefully. "I'll get you a lawyer, Mr. Watson."

"Thank you," he said, looking down.

The Governor returned to Captain Plunkett, and their whole group trundled down the hall.

"Now, Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez, "first, tell me who else you have shot today."

"No one!"

"What about in the ballroom?"

"I can't have shot anyone." Watson looked uncertain, like he feared what Gonzalez would tell him. "I only shot up."

"One of the Governor's bodyguards would be very dead now, except he was wearing a vest. And a second one is on his way to the hospital."

Watson closed his eyes. "It wasn't me," he breathed. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

"You discharged a weapon in a public gathering, and you thought no one would get hurt."

"I didn't have any choice! I had to do something!"

"So you did try to shoot the Governor."

"No! I tried to shoot the guy. Smith. I don't know who shot her bodyguards."

"You tried to shoot Smith in the crowd."

"No, I saw him up in one of those control booths over the ballroom. I tried to shoot him there. I missed. I've never shot a gun before." Watson had gone pale again, and I thought he was shivering a little. He took some more Kleenex and wiped at the blood on his face. "I chased him," he went on. He shouldn't have gone on, I thought. He really should stick to answering the questions Gonzalez asked. But often suspects get all caught up in trying to convince you they are innocent and they ramble on and on and hang themselves. Especially if they haven't got an attorney there to stop them. But Watson didn't seem intense and earnest, just—dazed and exhausted. "I knew he had to get out of the ballroom, because his radio wouldn't work in there. I had to get to him before he could call his partner. I got his radio away from him, but it was after 1:30 already. She was supposed to kill Lynn at 1:30 either way."

"Daddy, you're squeezing me," complained Lynn.

"Sorry, Honey," he said, relaxing his grip.

Gonzalez cocked his head slightly. "His radio wouldn't work in the ballroom?"

"I heard a TV technician complain that the room was, you know, radios couldn't get out. So I knew whatever I did, he couldn't call his partner, not right away. So I tried to shoot him, and then I chased him."

"How did you kill Mr. White?"

"Who?"

"The Governor's Chief of Security."

"Oh. I didn't. He was after me from..." He passed a trembling hand, handcuffed to the other hand, across his eyes. "The ballroom. He was shooting at me. Jesus." He shook his head. He looked really bad again, and I wondered if he was going to be sick.

"Who killed him?"

"I don't know. Could I have some water, please?"

"I'm thirsty, too, Daddy," said the girl.

"Could *we* have some water?" he corrected.

"I want 7-Up," said Lynn.

"Water's fine, Lynn," he said wearily.

Gonzalez nodded at another guy, who went to find some water. Great. I get to steal the child, but not bring the drinks. But I had a thought. My curiosity was growing. I slipped away, too, as if I was going to help the other guy with the water.

I left the hotel security office, and took the stairs to the mezzanine. The Command Post had more equipment, now, and a lot more people. I grabbed a uniform I recognized.

"Hey, Maglaras," I said.

"Hey, yourself."

"State Troopers got the ballroom?" I cocked my head toward the door.

"Yeah, they're taking hundreds of statements in there. Why?"

"Do you know if anyone's checked out the control booths above the room?"

"Me and Davis did. No more stiffs, if that's what you're thinking."

"Anything there?"

"In one of 'em. Some shot must have gone really wild, 'cause the plexiglass got shot out."

I'll be damned, I thought.

"Did you lock it up?"

"Sure. Don't know if forensics is going to want to bother, though."

"I think they will. I think they'll want to dust it. The perp says he shot up there on purpose."

Maglaras's eyes lit up. "You a door guard? What's his story?"

I snorted. "He says Smitty and Jones held his daughter hostage to get him to kill the Governor."

"What? Bullshit."

"I'm serious. That's what he says. Anyway, I gotta get back. I just wondered."

"Hey, wait a minute!" Maglaras stopped me. He glanced to the side, checking to see if we were being overheard. "Tell me more. Why'd he shoot at the booth?"

I tried not to smirk. It's so much fun to be the one in the know. "He says Smitty was up there, so he decided to shoot for him, instead of the Governor. I'm telling you, they'll want to dust up there."

"For Smitty's prints? Don't tell me you believe that crap!"

I shrugged. "I dunno. He doesn't seem wacko. And he's scared to death of losing his little girl."

"Listen to you. You're liking the guy."

"Where do you get that from? I'm just telling you."

Davis had seen us talking and came up. He's as tall and thin as his partner is short and stocky. "Who's she liking?" he asked.

"The guy who killed Smitty."

"Would you shut up? Hi, Davis."

It's an annoying thing. Have you ever noticed this? Everybody thinks it's cosmically wrong if you're not seeing anybody. They always figure there's somebody you've got your eye on. Or maybe you're dating someone and not telling your buddies at work, so it becomes their job to find it out. If a woman cop is unmarried, they partner her with a married guy, like Mike and me. Thank God Mike doesn't make it his mission to know all about my love life. Everyone else does, though. And they love to make these stupid guesses.

Thing is, you guess often enough and someday you'll hit the mark. It was irritating that Maglaras had guessed I thought that guy was drop-dead gorgeous, and so sweet to his little girl before I had even admitted it to myself.

I hate the guys.

Fortunately, Davis wasn't in the mood for prod-Patty-about-who-she-lusts-after. Maybe he even remembered we had a dead cop to avenge and I could never like a man who had killed a cop.

Or maybe not. "You guys gotta come see this," he said, like a kid with a new toy.

The new equipment on the Command Post table was a video monitor, and they were viewing the security tape from inside the ballroom! Cool! Soon we wouldn't be able to see it, because hotel staff were erecting cubicle walls around the table to isolate it from prying eyes. One of the perks of having your crime scene in a four star hotel, I suppose. But for right now, we could hover in the background and watch.

I didn't hover really; more like bob and weave. I'm too darn short.

The detectives were playing frame-by-frame a segment where a bullet hit a guy in the back. I saw his arms fly up, taking four frames to reach over his head as the force of the shot knocked him slowly forward. I winced, waiting for the arterial blood to spray from his back—that should look great in freeze-frame—but it never came. Oh yeah, the bodyguard was wearing a vest.

They backed the tape up. The downed bodyguard was pulled back to his feet by invisible strings, his raised hands coming down. A blur emerged from his spine area, pointing to the upper right of the screen. The blur moved frame-by-frame to the upper right corner, where the detectives stopped and messed with the tape.

"That bullet came from above," someone murmured.

"Where's Watson," I wondered.

"Looking for your lover boy?" asked Maglaras.

"Shut up," I hissed, and kicked him in the shin.

"Ow."

They got the tape from a different camera synched, and we watched the blur fly up toward the back wall of the ballroom, finally entering the control booth. Cops don't gasp, you know, not even during scary movies, but you could feel the current go through us all. Someone up there had fired at the Governor. In fact, you could see the blur enter a small, fuzzy black tube.

"Freeze that," ordered one detective.

Yep, it was a gun. Maybe a .38, hard to tell, though all around me, people were guessing. What I wanted to know was where was Watson when this happened, but I didn't dare say anything.

The detectives, fortunately, must have wanted to confirm the same thing. They adjusted the angle of view down from the control booth, and then zoomed forward into the crowd. Standing there, with no one immediately around him, was Gene Watson, wearing his gray suit, and with his gun hand pointed at the ceiling. He looked scared to death. Maglaras tried to elbow me, but I dodged him, and ducked to the back of the crowd.

I headed back to the Security Office in amazement. On my way, I passed the hotel bar. I ducked in to pick up a 7-Up. No, make that two.

I found Watson and his daughter, not alone, certainly, but Gonzalez had left them in order to consult with Martin about something. Father and daughter were deep in conversation.

"Because I killed somebody, Honey. You can't do that and expect nobody to care."

"I'm glad you killed him."

Watson paused and I could see him thinking about how to respond to that. "So am I, Sweetpea," he said, softly. "But it will take a lot of explaining."

I set the 7-Ups in front of them. Lynn reached immediately for hers. Her father gave his glass a surprised look, and then raised his gaze up to me. There it was: that intense look of gratitude. Okay, maybe it wasn't as intense as what he had given the Governor, but it hit me like a bullet on a Kevlar vest. He crooked half a smile at me, and now my head was full of dryer lint. "Thanks," he said. "Lynn, what do you say?"

The child took one look at me and hid her face in her father's coat. "Lynn," he coaxed, "say thank you."

"No," she said against his chest.

Now his smile turned apologetic. He still looked sort of ill.

"It's okay," I managed.

"I..." He glanced around, unable to maneuver much with his handcuffed hands around the girl. ". . . don't have my wallet."

"No, it's okay," I said, and damn if I didn't feel my face turn hot as I imagined Maglaras's comments. I looked uneasily at the other officers, who were, yes, watching me curiously. I backed up a step or two, and the child showed her face again. Without looking at me, she reached for her glass and drank.

She kicked her feet, as she drank, striking her father. "Uh," he grunted, wincing. "Honey, please, not that leg."

The left leg, still, I noticed.

A look of alarm flashed on her round features, and silent tears started down her cheeks.

"It's okay. It's okay," he told her, rocking her slightly at his side.

Gonzalez approached, Martin right behind. They both loomed across the table from Watson.

"Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez, "I understand you had help from the hotel staff."

"Y-yes," said Watson.

"Who?" demanded Martin.

Watson looked surprised at their hostility. "Um, Huey, the guy who shines shoes."

"And who else?"

Watson regarded them for a moment. "There were other people who helped me, but I don't know their names."

"Who was in charge, then?" Martin asked.

Watson frowned. "In charge of what?"

"The conspiracy."

"What?" Watson's eyes grew large. "They helped me. I was trying to save my daughter."

"And kill the Governor."

"I didn't want to kill the Governor. Smith wanted me to. I can tell you some of the people in his conspiracy."

"Go on."

Watson took a deep breath. "The Governor's husband and some other guy who was staying with them. Didn't she tell you?"

"We want to hear your story, Mr. Watson. We hear you broke into the Governor's suite and threatened her."

"No! I..." He stopped, gulped, and swallowed some 7-Up. "I needed to talk to her, to get her to help. I didn't know who to trust."

"You held a gun on her."

Watson gazed at Martin with an expression of dismay. Then he slumped, staring at the table. "I can't believe she didn't tell you," he said.

"That's assault, Mr. Watson."

"It is?" He sounded almost disinterested. "I couldn't let her call her security. They were in on it."

"How did you get in her room?"

He looked up again. "The hotel staff helped me."

"Who did?"

"Well, Huey did. Didn't he tell you?"

Probably Huey had, but I guessed Huey had left off the names of their other helpers and Martin was trying to get the info out of Watson. I also was willing to bet the Governor had given a more sympathetic statement regarding Watson than Martin would let on. It was all part of bludgeoning information from a suspect you assumed didn't want to tell you the truth.

The door opened as someone went out, and I spotted Mike just outside the door. I slipped out to join him.

"What are you doing?" I asked. "Are they done with the shoe-shine guy?"

"For now," Mike said. "They've got his statement. And a heckuva statement it is, too. But you aren't gonna guess what they found outside."

I thought. It was too early for ballistics to be back. "A bomb in the teddy bear?" I guessed.

Mike grinned. "First of all, all three guns were unregistered. Watson's and Smitty's and Jones's."

Let me just say here, cops have a lot of access to unregistered guns. And, if you're found to have one, well, they really have to wonder why.

"What about their own guns?"

"Not on 'em," Mike said.

Oh my. Why would two cops be going around with unregistered guns and not their own pieces?

"Watson's gun was there?"

"Probably his. The one that looks like it killed Smitty. Did Watson confess?"

I nodded. "Just about Smitty though. He says Smitty was trying to kill his little girl." I still hadn't decided what I thought about this whole part of the story. I didn't really know Smith and Jones, but, you know, you hate to lose faith in a fellow cop.

Mike nodded. "Hardimon says he saved her."

"Who?"

"Huey Hardimon. The shoeshine guy. When he got to the van, Jones had her gun on the little girl."

A man in a suit with a briefcase brushed by us on his way toward the office, and we both glanced around, checking that we weren't being overheard. Over by the doors to the street, TV cameras were setting up. They must have let the press who were in the ballroom go, or else their stations had sent reinforcements.

Mike went on. "And I heard that Jones woke up on the way to the hospital and lawyered up."

"Well," I said, still trying to believe the best, "she should, you know, what with everything..."

Mike's eyes sparkled. "Nobody had told her anything. They were the first words out of her mouth."

Okay, that was a little surprising.

Mike still looked like he'd recently dined on canary. He had more to tell me.

"What?" I prodded him.

"Guess what they found out by the trash can." He didn't wait for me to guess. "A business card belonging to Gene Watson, accountant. And on the back someone had written "Grey van Little girl Please help."

"No way!" I said.

"Yes, way."

"Mike," I said, like I was telling a secret. "Smitty and Jones tried to get the Governor killed. I can't believe it."

"And they used that poor SOB to do it," he said, nodding toward the security office.

"But he didn't," I replied, and I realized I was impressed. "The Governor and his little girl are both fine."

"Damn."

What Mike meant to say, of course, was damn, if a guy like Smitty intended you to do something, he'd have every escape blocked and he'd bully you with thirty years of practice at intimidation. If this guy Watson managed to escape Smitty and even turn the tables on him, then he has some huge ones between the legs. That's what Mike meant to say.

Mike went back outside to the crime scene, and I followed another officer back through the door. The man with the briefcase stood beside Watson's table, looking proprietary. Attorney, I guessed.

Gonzalez stood and approached the guy I was following, so I couldn't really get by. Rather than stand by Watson, I had intended to go check the office where the Governor had been, straighten anything that needed fixing, and let the hotel security know they could have the room back.

"What have you got?" Gonzalez asked in a low voice, glancing back to check that he was out of Watson's hearing. I stopped and tried to blend in with the scenery.

"His story checks, Lieutenant," the guy said. "He has a residence in Santa Maria, his employer confirmed him, and the only record he's got is in San Diego where he parked a rental illegally outside the Medical Center. They can't find that he's ever been involved with politics, and he doesn't seem to have any connection to the Governor."

"That's crazy," said Gonzalez. "They've got to look harder."

"They found this outside by a trash can," the man said, handing him an evidence bag with a crumpled business card inside. Gonzalez took it and read the writing on both sides. He raised his bushy eyebrows. "Sir," the guy went on, "even without ballistics, they can tell the shots in the van probably came from the gun Smitty had on him. His was the only .44 out there. Watson's gun was a detective special and Jones had a 9mm."

Gonzalez looked at him for a moment. "Any shots from the 9mm?"

"Yes sir. In the shoe-shine guy's fake leg."

Again Gonzalez's eyebrows lifted. "And the .38?"

"Nothing we've found. But the team upstairs think the woman could have been shot with a .38."

Gonzalez nodded and handed him back the evidence bag. "Get more on Watson. College records. Check out his wife. Get the Governor's staff to give you a list of any organizations they're aware of with a beef with the Governor and find Watson connected to one. It's got to be there."

"Yes sir," said the man. "Should..."

"Yes?"

"Should I check for Smitty, too?" Gonzalez didn't answer. I saw his jaw tighten. Then he looked at me. He'd known I was listening all along. I refused to look embarrassed and lifted my chin.

Tight-lipped, he nodded. "Jones, too."

They got out of my way, and I attended to the business I'd been aiming at, as quickly as I could, so I could return to Watson. Er, Gonzalez, I meant.

As I approached the cluster by the table, Lynn piped up. "Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom," she said.

An alarmed look entered Watson's gorgeous eyes, and other talking around the table ceased. "Didn't you go when we were there before?" he tried to ask quietly enough to not be heard by all of us.

"You were throwing up, remember?" she said. "And it was the men's room."

Watson blinked and I thought he might have blushed if the blood could win out over his general shock and pallor.

The man with the briefcase stood on Lynn's side of the table. He regarded her somewhat sternly, I thought, but his tone was kindly. "I'll take you, Honey," he said.

"No!" Lynn barked at him, more belligerent than scared.

"Lynn. Don't be rude," said Watson. "Mr. Poole is our friend."

"Daddy, you take me," she pleaded.

"I..." Watson looked around at the police surrounding him.

Gonzalez also searched for a solution, and spotted me. "Officer Schwartz!" he said.

"Yes, sir," says I, my heart sinking.

"This policewoman will take her," Gonzalez said.

The child's eyes went as round as saucers, regarding me, and she froze. "No," she whimpered.

I found her obvious terror unnerving. She seemed bratty enough that I had expected more of a tantrum. This wasn't temper; this was... trauma. I froze, too. What the Devil?

Watson immediately looped his bound hands protectively around her. "Listen," he said in a voice more strong and determined than I had heard yet from him, "the last policewoman I left her with tried to shoot her. How can I tell her the police are our friends now?" He scooted with her along the bench seat, toward the attorney.

All the cops standing around looked to Gonzalez for instructions, but he merely frowned in silence.

"I'm taking her to the bathroom," Watson said, getting awkwardly and painfully to his feet. "You can all come along, if you like."

Okay, now let me say here, this kind of assertiveness is not permitted in a suspect. From a cop's perspective, this bordered on mouthing off. Gonzalez's frown became a scowl.

I found myself speaking, hoping to cut him off. "Security told me there's no exit from the bathroom in the lobby," I told him.

After a second of looking at me, Gonzalez nodded once. "We're all taking a little trip, then," he said, his gaze including my own self and four other cops. At Gonzalez's summons, Martin came too.

So an entire entourage escorted a five, no, six-year-old girl to the bathroom. As we passed through the lobby, the assembled camera crews swiveled, scooped up their cords, and swarmed. I saw now Martin's role: he ran interference, promising them an on-the-spot statement. They mostly accepted the deal, realizing, I think, that our suspect was well-guarded and an official statement of some kind would give them more than would hounding us. Still, a half-dozen cameras followed our progress across the airy lobby of the Hotel Bonaventure, and I wondered what they thought when they saw where we were going.

Watson made slow progress, actually. His daughter clung to his hand, which forced both of his hands across the front of his body in an awkward angle. His limp was much worse. I ended up at his side opposite Lynn, and I heard his pained breathing. He lurched into me a couple of times, and I swear, it felt like it would have been the most natural thing in the world to slip my arm under his and give him some support. The effort to not do that had my heart pounding.

We reached the bathrooms, and the girl balked. "Not the men's room!" she cried.

I couldn't believe Watson managed to keep his temper with her. I knew he was in pain, and making an embarrassing display of himself for her, but he reasoned with her as if no one else were there.

"You can go by yourself in the Ladies'," he suggested, though there was an odd tone of apprehension in his voice. He didn't want to let her go, I realized. Geez, there really was a lot of trauma around here.

"You come with me."

"Honey, believe me, it's a lot worse for me to go in the Ladies Room than for you to come in the Men's Room."

One of the guys ducked into the Men's Room to check it out.

"Let's go, Sweetpea," he said, steering her firmly.

The guy popped out, right behind a startled looking hotel patron. "All clear," he said.

"Just pretend it's the Ladies' Room, Honey. You were in here before."

Father and daughter passed through the swinging door, two cops on their heels.

"I can't pretend that," Lynn said, practically. "What are those funny little sinks for?"

The door closed, so the others and I didn't hear Watson's response.

I did spot a few twinkles of mirth in the guys's eyes, though, quickly smothered. The guys love bathroom humor.

So now we had nothing to do but stand around looking at each other, and eye the nearby press of Press. Above us, at the top of the staircase, the Command Post bustled with people. Witnesses from the ballroom trickled down the stairs, released after giving their statements.

A State Trooper trotted down the stairs, aiming for Gonzalez. Our group parted to let him through. The two men exchanged quick introductions, then the Trooper said, "They wanted me to let you know—the security tape and the witnesses agree your suspect exited into the service corridor and was pursued by Alan White, the Governor's head of security. If there were any witnesses to his death it would be the hotel staff; no one else from the ballroom followed, not at first."

"Did they exchange fire?"

"White shot at him. We can't find that your guy returned fire."

Gonzalez glanced at the lawyer, who was listening, but from a polite distance. "Did he shoot at the Governor?" Gonzalez asked.

The Trooper's professional demeanor slipped, allowing him to look uncertain. "We...haven't found a credible witness who says he did...he did fire a couple of shots. They can see him clearly on the security tape. He shot into the ceiling and into a projection booth. The tape didn't catch anything else."

"Okay, thanks," said Gonzalez with an uneasy glance at the bathroom door.

"I'm supposed to ask, do you need us to check for anything in particular?"

"Yeah, find out if anyone saw someone in the projection booth and get a description if they did."

"Right." The Trooper took himself off back upstairs.

Watson and his daughter emerged, closely escorted. Watson must have had a chance to see himself in a mirror, for he had his shirt and tie straightened up and his wild hair calmed down. He looked quite preppy, I thought.

The lawyer frowned at Watson's limp. "Lieutenant," he said, "my client is injured. He needs medical assistance."

I expected Gonzalez to say it could wait, but it was Watson who protested softly, "No, it's okay, really."

I didn't think it was okay, and neither did the lawyer.

"Let's let a doctor decide that, shall we?" he replied archly.

Gonzalez nodded. "If any paramedics are still here, we'll get them down at the office," he said.

Well, well.

We started back across the lobby. This time I didn't get to walk so close to Watson. Before, I hadn't noticed that the black man from the crime scene was sitting on the low wall of a fountain planter watching us.

Lynn saw him. "Daddy! That man there!" She tugged on her father's bound hands. "He was at the car. The lady shot at him!"

Huey Hardimon, the shoeshine guy, waved at Lynn. "Hello, little girl," he said.

Watson gave him a weak smile and an inclination of his head. "I know, Honey. I think he saved your life."

"Can we go talk to him? Is he all right? Where's his leg?"

I looked, and sure enough, Mr. Hardimon's prosthetic was still off, and I didn't see it anywhere. A sturdy wooden cane leaned against the wall, next to him.

Watson stopped, and the crowd of us surged uncertainly around him like a wave breaking and falling back. No, no, no. You do not let a suspect and a witness chat. They'll compare notes and get their stories matching, or something.

"Come along, Mr. Watson," said Gonzalez.

Watson ignored him. "Huey! Are you all right? Your leg..."

Hardimon gave a huge grin. "It don't hurt as much as yours," he called cheerfully.

"That's enough," Gonzalez said, so one of the guys dutifully grasped Watson's bicep. I saw my chance. I ducked around two other guys to get to Watson's other side. I slid my arm under his. Oh, he was just the right height for me. I could feel the others' surprise. Who cared? Let 'em talk.

Watson resisted us pulling him forward, his worried gaze on Hardimon.

Hardimon waved him away, still grinning. "It's a wooden leg! They kept it as ev-vee-dence, can you believe it?"

Watson stumbled forward, wincing. I tried to keep him from landing on his injured leg.

Lynn waved at Hardimon. "Bye!" she said.

"Bye!" He waved back.

The guy on Watson's other side let him go, but Watson made no attempt to shake me off. I had the side of his hurt leg and I was able to be under his stride on that side. I made quite a good crutch, if I say so myself, and I only wished the walk back to the security office was longer.

I helped Watson to his bench seat as everyone arranged themselves around us again. He sat down with a sigh of relief and Lynn clambered up to snuggle at his side. He didn't look at me as I released him, and I really wanted him to at least notice who had been his prop, so I took his glasses out of my pocket. "Here," I said quietly.

It worked. I got that surprised, then grateful look from him. What's more, he put the glasses on and looked more directly at me. I smiled. I looked around. No one had noticed. Good.

Someone brought a paramedic. They moved the table out a little so the guy could work on Watson's leg while he sat there. He slit Watson's trousers to up above the knee, and you could see how badly swollen the knee and leg were, as well as bloody. Lynn watched, wide-eyed.

As everyone was settling in, Mike came in with a good-sized evidence bag in his hand. I knew that kind of I-have-something-important look on his face. He didn't even glance at me; he went straight for Gonzalez. The two of them stepped to the side, and then Gonzalez took Mike into another little office.

They emerged a few minutes later, as the paramedic was getting going with some of those adhesive thingys they use before you put stitches in. Gonzalez approached the table slowly, Mike a discreet few paces behind.

The lawyer faced Gonzalez. "Lieutenant," he said, "if you have the preliminary information you need from my client, I think it's time he gives a full statement, from beginning to end. Shouldn't we be at the station?"

Gonzalez didn't answer right away. He looked at Watson and the little girl. Then he leaned over and said something to one of the "door guards" standing there.

"No, Mr. Poole," Gonzalez said. "We can take his statement here, for now. We can see him at the station tomorrow."

What? Tomorrow?

The door guard, looking a little surprised, reached across the table with a handcuff key. Watson also looked surprised, but then held up his hands for the man to unlock him. The handcuffs fell away and the room fell quiet.

"Mr. Watson, you are a material witness to conspiracy and murder," he said. "You are not to leave L.A., do you understand?"

Stunned, Watson gave a small nod.

"When we're done here, you may go. But we'll need to see you downtown tomorrow. The FBI will have more questions for you by then."

No one said anything. Watson nodded again.

Poole cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, we need to talk."

"Yes, Mr. Poole, we do."

But they didn't talk right then, to my disappointment, so I didn't have a chance to haul Mike to the side. Lt. Gonzalez settled in with a tape recorder and asked Watson to start at the beginning. I was itching with curiosity, and so were most of the other guys, I could tell. Mike joined the silent door guards, still with that slight knowing look on his face. I could find no excuse to drag him outside and question him. I had to settle for glaring at him. He gave me a slight smile.

Soon, though, I was caught up in the story Gene Watson was telling. He spoke in a tired, matter-of-fact way as he described the events of earlier today. His daughter's attention wandered, but the rest of us were riveted. I learned why he was wet; Smitty had thrown him off a stairwell and into one of the fountains. Injured, bruised, wet and panicked, he had dragged himself up and charged out to the van where he saw Smitty shoot at the child. Apparently Jones had been occupied with Hardimon. Watson killed Smitty and Hardimon knocked Jones unconscious. Watson had then taken his daughter to the bathroom, where, I gathered from the girl's comment earlier, he had been sick. Hotel security nabbed him as they came out, and that's where his story met up with what we already knew.

"He said, 'I knew I'd make a killer out of you, Mr. Watson.' It was...the last thing he said," Watson said, frowning.

He'd mentioned that before. I guessed the guy was a bit hung up over that. You know, I've never had to kill anyone, but at least I've had some preparation for it, and have friends who've dealt with it. Watson was just on his way home from his wife's funeral.

Geez, I could've kicked myself. My next thought was 'Hey, that means he's single!' God, I'm hopeless.

Gonzalez asked some clarifying questions, but I could tell he had lost a lot of his skepticism. Poole gave very little advice to his client, and seemed to have few objections to how Gonzalez proceeded, which also told me the questioning had lost its sharp edge. How I wanted to know what had been in Mike's bag!

A commotion at the door to the lobby attracted everyone's attention. Captain Plunkett and co. had returned from wherever they had escorted the Governor to. The commotion was caused by Plunkett being pursued by reporters right to the door of our office. The door opened, admitting some of the men with him, and also admitting a blinding beam from a TV camera. Our training kicked in and we door guards automatically moved to block any view of Watson and his daughter. This put me next to Mike as Captain Plunkett himself finally made his entrance, almost slamming the door on somebody's hand holding a mike.

Plunkett's presence is always hard to ignore. Gonzalez glanced uneasily at him, though he should have had all his attention on his suspect or witness, or whatever Watson was now. For his part, Captain Plunkett surveyed the room, noticing, I am sure, Watson's un-handcuffed state, and glancing over me. I held my breath, but if he still had any beef with my handling of the Governor earlier, I saw no sign of it. He inclined his bald head at Martin. "Detective," he said, summoning the lieutenant for an audience. He swept into the office I had just straightened up, followed by Martin and a couple of others. At least he was getting out of the way of the questioning. Probably what he intended.

In his wake, we all breathed out, fluttered, and re-settled ourselves. The energy in the room called for taking a break. I couldn't haul Mike out to the lobby—not with reporters right on the other side of the door—but I grabbed a chance at a whisper. "What was in the bag?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case," he whispered back, looking down at me from the side, coy.

"So don't discuss, asshole, tell me," I replied. I'm Mike's partner! No fair holding out.

He grinned and gave me a placating nod, telling me he'd spill as soon as he could. Not good enough, darn it. I wanted to know, now. I looked around, frustrated. There were other offices...pretty obvious if we vanished into one, but I wasn't going to get another chance. Already, Poole, who had found the water cooler, was returning, and someone had placed a styrofoam cup of coffee in front of Gonzalez. Lynn, who had jumped up in a burst of childish energy and run from desk to desk collecting Kleenex boxes, obeyed her father's summons back to his side, and in moments we'd all be back to silent door-guarding.

I grabbed Mike's arm and tried to haul him into the nearest small office. He resisted, darn him. I have mentioned that Mike's a big guy? It was like trying to move a six foot pile of rock. Well, there are ways. I adjusted my grip and got his fingers in a painful control hold. He gasped, gave me an outraged look, but rather than make a scene, he followed.

Feeling like a teenager slipping into the janitor's closet for nookie between classes, I pulled him after me and shut the door.

He wrenched his hand away and I let him go. "Patty!"

"What was in the bag? Talk fast."

No arguing. He gave. "In the van there was a portable printing machine for labels like name tags. The tape leaves an imprint, and you could see the last thing it had printed. The name Gene Watson."

I nodded, but must have looked blank. Very suggestive, but not clearly incriminating.

"Also, a cassette tape."

"A tape?"

"A wiretap tape. Smitty's no detective. It must have been unauthorized. We popped it in the van's tape deck. It was a call where Brendan Grant tells him to find an assassin to kill his wife."

"Tells Smitty?"

"Yep."

I'm ashamed to say I wasn't quick on the uptake with this. "Why would Smitty keep such a thing?"

"Blackmail," said Mike, like he had said "Duh."

Oh, wow. Since the tape would incriminate Smitty, too, he must have kept it in case he got caught and he needed the help of the Governor's husband in his defense. I nodded my thanks for the information, and opened the door. I knew everyone had seen what I did, and they would know why, and I didn't really care. But we didn't dare stay away too long.

We re-joined the group, ignoring the meaningful looks the other guys threw our way. We'd let them all know, too, eventually, but not in front of Watson, of course.

The interview didn't last much longer. Gonzalez stood, pocketing the tape recorder, and that served as the signal. Captain Plunkett re-emerged, and Poole pulled out his cell phone and talked earnestly to someone. The door guards milled, and two other guys pulled Mike aside. Poole ended his call, and after a brief word to Watson, followed Gonzalez down the small hallway. Watson looked around, oddly abandoned in the middle of the milling.

I approached. "Did they tell you you can go now?" I asked, smiling.

Watson focused on me, uncertainly. Generally door guards are like background scenery, and you don't expect the wallpaper to talk to you. But, darn it, I was the one who brought the Seven Up and rescued the glasses. You know, the woman?

He pushed his glasses up his nose and gave me a shaky half-smile. "But I can't leave L.A.," he said.

"Do you have somewhere to stay?"

Lynn, I noticed, was following our conversation with interest, now. At least she wasn't glaring at me.

"We'll need to get a hotel," he said, half to his daughter.

"You're in a hotel," I said.

"No!" he replied, almost sounding like Lynn. Then he looked sheepish. My toes curled. It was an adorable look on him. "Uh, some other hotel. Cheaper, for one thing. I don't know how long we'll have to stay here."

Poole returned. "Mr. Watson, please call me this evening and tell me where you are," he said, holding out a business card. Watson took it slowly, as if it were an alien thing. He looked at Poole, and I could see he felt abandoned by his only ally. But Poole was all business as he snapped shut his briefcase. "I don't want you to worry," he said, patting Lynn on the head. "You aren't under arrest, and I don't think you will be. I'll let you know tomorrow morning where we need to be."

"What was in the bag?" Watson asked, still holding the card as if he'd forgotten to put his arm down.

Poole smiled and glanced at me. "We'll talk this evening," he said, and headed briskly for the door to the lobby. I watched with interest. Sure enough, as soon as the door opened, I saw reporters closing in. Someone pulled the door shut behind Poole, quickly. I wondered if the guy would make a statement on TV.

I turned back to Watson. "There's a Comfort Inn not far from the station," I said. Walking distance. "You don't have a car, right?"

"I'll need a rental, I suppose," he said, now looking down at the card.

Might as well go for broke. And take advantage of his somewhat vulnerable situation. "I'm off duty at 4:30. I could give you a lift."

My heart sank as I saw the expression in his eyes. Startled recognition that I was coming on to him, followed by shields and rejection. But before he could say anything, Captain Plunkett lumbered up to our table, and I stepped back to give him room.

"Mr. Watson, I'm Captain Anthony Plunkett." He held out a fleshy hand, and Watson took it automatically. "We're going to escort you out the VIP exit," Plunkett said. "It goes into the parking structure. Do you have a car? No? Well..." and to my eternal gratitude to a friendly Almighty God, Plunkett looked around and saw me. "Sgt. Schwartz will take you in a prowler to where ever you need to go, unless you want to talk to the press?"

"No, no," said Watson. "But..." he glanced from the Captain to me, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he was going to ask for a different escort. "Our luggage...it's still in that van."

"Sorry, Mr. Watson, everything in that van is evidence. You'll just have to go shopping. Schwartz can probably help you with that, too." It was potentially a sexist remark coming from a superior who was a lot more than just potentially sexist, but I didn't care a whit. Shopping! I tried to give Watson a reassuring smile.

"Now I'm going out front to give them all some footage for the six o'clock news. That's when you go. Most of them know about the VIP exit, but they should be lured away when they hear I'm speaking out front. You got that, Schwartz?"

"Yes, sir," I said, trying not to sound too happy.

Plunkett turned away, to arrange to have someone give the press a heads up that he would speak. "I'll be right back," I said to Watson. I didn't look directly at him; I couldn't bear to see suspicion or distaste in his expression.

"Mike," I called through the group, and wound my way to him. "You gotta get another ride to the station." My partner nodded. He'd probably heard Plunkett. Most people do.

I had to pass through the lobby to reach my patrol car. The cameras and reporters were dutifully lining up, looking for the best backdrop, some of them speaking to the camera already. I managed to pass unaccosted and was admitted through the cordon around the van crime scene to my car. I drove around the block to the parking structure, and, on the second level, parked outside the corridor door. No reporters in sight.

The door opened, and there, flanked by two uniforms, stood Gene Watson, glasses, tie, and preppy grey suit, his daughter's hand in his. This ordinary guy who had done and survived extraordinary things today. My heart beat faster.

Watson limped to the car, and, somewhat to my disappointment, got in the back with Lynn. Oh well, I refused to be discouraged.

"Where to?" I asked cheerily.

"Western Union," he said. "I have to get someone to wire me money. My wallet's evidence, too."

"I'm Patty," I said, as we started down the ramp.

"Gene Watson," he said, and I could hear the small smile in his voice. "And this is my daughter Lynn."

It promised to be an interesting evening.

The End.

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