A man in cutoffs had come out of a snack shop and he peered at me as I went past. “Is that guy okay?”
“Call the cops. Get an ambulance,” I snapped.
I knelt beside Billy, angling so he could see me. “It’s me,” I said. “Don’t panic. You’ll be fine. We’ll have help here in a second.”
Billy’s eyes strayed to mine. His face was gray and there was a widening puddle of quite red blood spreading out under him. I took his hand and held it. A crowd was beginning to collect, people running from all directions. I could hear them buzzing at my back.
Somebody handed me a beach towel. “You want to cover him with this?”
I grabbed the towel. I let go of him long enough to unbutton his shirt, opening it so I could see what I was dealing with. There was a hole in his belly. He must have been shot from behind, because what I was looking at was an exit wound, ragged, welling with blood. The slug must have severed the abdominal aorta. A coil of his lower intestine was visible, gray and glistening, bulging through the hole. I could feel my hands start to shake, but I kept my expression neutral. He was watching me, trying to read my face. I made a pad of the towel, pressing it against the wound to staunch the flow of blood.
He groaned, breathing rapidly. He had one hand resting on his chest and his fingers fluttered. I took his hand again, squeezing hard.
He tilted his head. “Where’s … my leg? I can’t feel nothin’ down there.”
I glanced down at his right knee. The pantleg looked like it had caught on a nail. Blood and bone seemed to blossom through the tear.
“Don’t sweat it. They can fix that. You’ll be fine,” I said. I didn’t mention the blood soaking through the towel. I thought he probably knew about that.
“I’m gut-shot.”
“I know. Relax. It’s not bad. The ambulance is on its way.”
The hand I held was icy, his fingers pale. There were questions I should have asked, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. You don’t intrude on someone’s dying with a bullshit interrogation like you’re some kind of pro. This was just me and him and nothing else entered into it.
I studied his face, sending love through my eyes, willing him to live. His hair looked curlier than I remembered it. With my free hand, I moved it away from his forehead. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
“I’m goin’ … I can feel myself goin’out …“He clutched my hand convulsively, bucking against a surge of pain.
“Take it easy. You’ll be fine.”
He began to hyperventilate and then his struggle subsided. I could see the life drain away, see it all fade—color, energy, awareness, pain. Death comes in a gathering cloud that settles like a veil. Billy Polo sighed, his gaze still pinned on my face. His hand relaxed in mine, but I held on.
Chapter 24
I sat on the curb near the snack shop and stared at the asphalt. The proprietor had brought me a can of Coke and I held the cold metal against my temple. I felt sick, but there wasn’t anything wrong with me. Lieutenant Feldman had appeared and he was hunkered over Billy’s body, talking to the lab guys, who were bagging his hands. The ambulance had backed around and waited with its doors open, as if to shield the body from the public view. Two black-and-whites were parked nearby, radios providing a squawking counterpoint to the murmurs of the gathering crowd. Violent death is a spectator sport and I could hear them trading comments about the way the final quarter had been played. They weren’t being cruel, just curious. Maybe it was good for them to see how grotesque homicide really is.
The beat officers, Gutierrez and Pettigrew, had arrived within minutes of Billy’s demise and they’d radioed for the CSI unit. The two of them would probably drive over to the trailer park to break the news to Coral and Lovella. I felt I should ride along, but I couldn’t bring myself to volunteer yet. I’d go, but for the moment, I was having trouble coping with the fact of Billy’s death. It had happened so fast. It was so irrevocable. 1 found it hard to accept that we couldn’t rewind the tape and play the last fifteen minutes differently. I would arrive earlier. I would warn him off and he could walk away unharmed. He’d tell me his theory and then I’d buy him the beer I’d promised him that first night at the Hub.
Feldman appeared. I found myself staring at his pantlegs, unable to look up. He lit a cigarette and came down to my level, perching on the curb. I hugged my knees, feeling numb. I barely know the man, but what I’ve seen of him I’ve always liked. He looks like a cross between a Jew and an Indian-a large flat face, high cheekbones, a big hooked nose. He’s a big man, probably forty-five, with a cop haircut, cop clothes, a deep rumbling voice. “You want to bring me up to speed on this?” he said.
It was the act of opening my mouth to speak that brought the tears. I held myself in check, willing them back. I shook my head, struggling with the nearly overwhelming rush of regret. He handed me a handkerchief and I pressed it to my eyes, then folded it, addressing my remarks to the oblong of white cotton. There was an “F” embroidered in one corner with a thread coming loose.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“That’s okay. Take your time.”
“He was such a screw-up,” I said. “I guess that’s what gets me. He thought he was so smart and so tough.”
I paused. “I guess you never know which people will affect your life,” I said.
“He never said who shot him?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t ask. I didn’t want the last minutes of his life taken up with that stuff. I’m sorry.”
“Well, he might not have said anyway. What was the setup?”
I started talking, saying anything that came to mind. He let me ramble till I finally took control of myself and began to lay it out systematically. After hundreds of reports, I know the drill. I cited chapter and verse while he nodded, making notes in a battered black notebook.
When I finished, he tucked his ballpoint pen away and shoved the notebook back into the inside pocket of his suitcoat. He got up and I rose with him, automatically.
“What next?” I asked.
“Actually, I got Daggett’s file sitting on my desk,” he said. “Robb told me you tagged it a homicide and I thought I’d take a look. We had a double killing, one of those execution-style shootings, up on the Bluffs late yesterday and we’ve had to put a lot of manpower on that one, so I haven’t had a chance as yet. It’d help if you came down to the station and talked to Lieutenant Dolan yourself.”
“Let me see Billy’s sister first,” I said. “This is the second brother she’s lost in the whole Daggett mess.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance she’s the one who plugged him?”
I shook my head. “I thought she might connect to Daggett’s death, but I can’t picture her involved in this. Unless I’m missing something big. For one thing, he wouldn’t have to meet her out in public like this. It was someone at the funeral, I’m almost sure.”
“Make a list and we’ll take it from there,” he said.
I nodded. “I can also stop by the office and make some copies of my file reports. And Lovella may know more than she’s told us so far.” It felt good, turning everything over to him. He could have it all. Essie and Lovella and the Smiths.
Pettigrew approached, holding a small plastic Zip-loc bag by one corner. In it were three empty brass casings. “We found these over by that pickup truck. We’re sealing off the whole parking lot until the guys have a chance to go over it.”
I said, “You might check the trash bins. That’s where I found the skirt and shoes after Daggett was killed.”
Feldman nodded, then gave the shells a cursory look. “Thirty-twos,” he remarked.
I felt a cold arrow shoot up my spine. My mouth went dry. “My thirty-two was stolen from my car a few days ago,” I said. “Gutierrez took the report.”
“A lot of thirty-twos around, but we’ll keep that in mind,” Feldman said to me, and then to Pettigrew, “Let’s hustle these folk out of here. And be polite.”
Pettigrew moved away and Feldman turned to study me. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, wishing I could sit down again, afraid once I did I’d be stuck.
“Anything you want to add before I let you go?”