The Night Shift(66)
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’m a lawyer and I can help him now.”
Keller offers a compassionate smile. This young man has been through a lot.
Chris adds, “They let him go for insufficient evidence. Even now, the only evidence they have is an anonymous tip and a knife conveniently found in his locker after his release. My brother may have been a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He never would’ve left a murder weapon in his own locker.”
They also have Vince’s fingerprint placing him at the scene, but Keller doesn’t say that. And Chris is right, the case against his brother has some holes. One of Keller’s instructors at Quantico always said that MOM is the key to any criminal investigation—motive, opportunity, and means. Atticus has questioned the “opportunity” since there’s evidence that Vince Whitaker was home at ten when the video store closed and that his father had the car that night. For Keller, though, it’s the “motive” that’s troubling her. Why kill all of the employees?
“You have any idea where he is?” she asks.
Chris hesitates. “I don’t know where he is currently.”
Keller notes the careful wording, holds his gaze. “But you have an idea?”
Chris searches her face, as if trying to read what she knows.
“I’m not feeling so well. The concussion and all.”
“Chris…”
“I think I need to rest, Agent Keller.”
Keller considers pushing him, but decides against it. He saved a young girl last night and just learned his mother was murdered. Some of her colleagues at the Bureau would’ve pushed, would’ve scolded her for allowing compassion to interfere with an interrogation. But Keller doesn’t see things that way. She’s learned that the best way to get someone to open up, and for her to sleep at night, is to follow her instincts. If a reluctant witness or suspect trusts her now, they’re more likely to confide in her later.
“If you do learn his whereabouts, I trust you’ll let me know.” She hands him a business card.
Chris doesn’t respond. He puts his head back like he’s not feeling well.
Before she leaves the hospital room, she says, “I’m sorry for your loss, Chris. I am.”
On her way to the car, her phone rings. The caller ID says UCPO, so she thinks it’s Atticus with an update on his research into Joe Arpeggio.
“Agent Keller, it’s Joe.”
Speak of the devil.
“Hi, Joe.” She tries to sound friendly, nonchalant, but she wonders whether Katie McKenzie’s mother has called him.
“I just got word that Rusty Whitaker wants a deal. Says he’s got information we’ll be interested in. Hal thought you should be there.” A proffer. A night in the clink can do wonders.
“That was fast.”
“They want us there now. Can you make it?”
“On my way.”
CHAPTER 59
CHRIS
Chris needs to get out of there.
Beyond the visits from his boss and the FBI, the medical staff won’t leave him alone. They’re constantly coming in and poking and prodding him, giving him periodic neuro tests to make sure he doesn’t have a brain bleed or his mental state isn’t deteriorating. Chris presses the doctor on whether he really needs to stay the night, and after some browbeating the guy begrudgingly says he can give Chris an AMA discharge. He makes clear, probably for legal reasons, that AMA stands for Against Medical Advice.
After signing the forms, Chris finds his clothes in a plastic bag in the closet, then rips off the backless blue gown, and gets dressed.
He’s still hazy. Maybe this isn’t the best idea in the world, but he feels some inner force, some instinct, maybe, pushing him to flee.
It’s ironic because his dreary apartment isn’t much better than the hospital. Clare is already in the process of ghosting him, so he can’t go to her place. Henry told him to stay away from the office. And soon, the media will be swarming his parents’ house, seeking a peek at Vince Whitaker’s kid brother, who’s been assigned to defend another accused mass killer. On top of that, he has no money since his wallet isn’t in his effects. The guy who clocked him on the head probably has it.
You know what he needs? He needs a drink. A stiff drink. He beats back a depressing thought: Like father, like son.
He considers going to Corky’s. That’s too visible. No, there’s only one option. Somewhere no self-respecting reporter or law-enforcement agent would venture. Somewhere they’ll let him run a tab.
On his way out, he bumps into Julia, who’s holding a vase of flowers she must’ve picked up in the hospital gift shop.
“They’ve released you?” she asks, giving him the once-over, concern on her face.
“Yeah.”
Julia narrows her eyes, skeptical. “Chris, are you sure you should—”
“Can you give me a ride?”
Julia purses her lips, deciding what to do. She nods.
Soon, she’s parked in front of a dreary establishment on the outskirts of the county known as Clyde’s Bar, neither of them having spoken during the drive.
Julia examines the dismal exterior, trash bags piled at the curb out front. “You sure it’s safe to go in there? I hear that place is bad news.”