Murdock said, “One time we booked a big lesbo looked just like Kris Kristofferson. I’m not kidding, we’re talking major facial hair. And mean as a bobcat.”
“Resisting with violence, two counts,” Salazar recalled. “On top of the murder.”
“Manslaughter,” John Murdock cut in. “Actually, woman-slaughter, if there is such a thing. Jesus, what a mess. I can’t even think about it, so close to lunch.”
“Involved a fire hose,” Salazar said.
“I said enough,” Murdock protested. “Anyhow, I think she’s still in the annex. The one who looks like Kristofferson. I think she runs the drama group.”
Salazar said, “You like the theater, Miss Marks?”
“Sure,” Christina said, “but mainly I like television. You guys ever been on TV? Maybe you’ve heard of the Reynaldo Flemm show.”
“Yeah,” Joe Salazar said, excitedly. “One time I saw him get his ass pounded by a bunch of Teamsters. In slow motion, too.”
“That asshole,” Murdock muttered.
“We finally agree,” Christina said. “Unfortunately, he happens to be my boss. We’re in town taping a big story.”
The two detectives glanced at one another, trying to decide on a plan without saying it. Salazar stalled by lighting up another Camel.
Lying in bed listening, Mick Stranahan figured they’d back off now, just to be safe. Neither of these jokers wanted to see his own face on prime-time TV.
Murdock said, “So tell us what happened.” Salazar stood in the empty corner, resting his fat head against the wall.
Christina said, “You’ve got photographic memories, or maybe you’d prefer to take some notes?” Murdock motioned to his partner, who angrily stubbed out his cigarette and dug a worn spiral notebook from his jacket.
She began with what she had seen from the wheelhouse of Joey’s shrimp boat—the tall man toting a machine gun on the jet scooter. She told the detectives about how Stranahan had battened down the stilt house, and how the man had started shooting into the corners. She told them how Stranahan had been wounded in the shoulder, and how he had fired back with a shotgun until he passed out. She told them she had heard a splash outside, then a terrible cry; ten, maybe fifteen minutes later she’d heard somebody rev up the jet ski, but she was too scared to go to a window. Only when the engine was a faint whine in the distance did she peer through the bullet holes in the front door to see if the gunman had gone. She told the detectives how she had half-carried Stranahan down the stairs to where his skiff was docked, and how she had hand-cranked the outboard by herself. She told them how he had groggily pointed across the bay and said there was a big hospital on the mainland, and by the time they got to Mercy there was so much blood in the bottom of the skiff that she was bailing with a coffee mug.
After Christina had finished, Detective John Murdock said, “That’s quite a story. I bet Argosy magazine would go for a story like that.”
Joe Salazar leafed through his notebook and said, “I think I missed something, lady. I think I missed the part where you explained why you’re at Stranahan’s house in the first place. Maybe you could repeat it.”
Murdock said, “Yeah, I missed that, too.”
“I’d be happy to tell you why I was there,” Christina said. “Mr. Flemm wanted Mr. Stranahan to be interviewed for an upcoming broadcast, but Mr. Stranahan declined. I went to his house in the hopes of changing his mind.”
“I’ll bet,” Salazar said.
“Joe, be nice,” said his partner. “Tell me, Miss Marks, why’d you want to interview some dweeb P.I.? I mean, he’s nobody. Hasn’t been with the State Attorney for years.”
From his phony coma Stranahan wondered how far Christina Marks would go. Not too far, he hoped.
“The interview involved a story we were working on, and that’s all I can say.”
Murdock said, “Gee, I hope it didn’t concern a murder.”
“I really can’t—”
“Because murder is our main concern. Me and Joe.”
Christina Marks said, “I’ve cooperated as much as I can.”
“And you’ve been an absolute peach about it,” said Murdock. “Fact, I almost forgot why we came in the first place.”