Chapter 30

Mitch was covered in black mud. He'd finally hooked up a hose to the spigot at the back of the station and just started hosing down the interior of the car. The floorboards were full of dark water, but he'd exposed the area of the back seat where the bullet from the trunk had penetrated. Hosing down the back of the front seat had found an entry hole, which had led him to the exit hole in the front of the seat. He hosed off the dash and saw immediately that there was a hole in the front of the radio.

He'd had to go home to get the tools, but he finally got the radio out and was unscrewing the last of the screws that held the cover on. He had to pry the cover off, because the whole thing was warped, but when he was finished, there it was ... a bright copper slug, misshapen, but recognizable as a .45 caliber bullet. He looked at it dubiously. It was pretty mangled and he'd have to pry it out of the guts of the radio to recover it, which might damage it even more. He didn't want to do that.

He wrote the whole radio up as a piece of evidence and took it in the station to put in the lockable closet that was the Pembroke PD evidence locker.

Then he went back outside to get the laptop he'd found jammed under the front seat.

Kris stepped off the elevator as Lola pulled his arm. She had her arm looped through his and had been holding on to him tightly ever since they'd gotten out of the car. He'd finally convinced her that what needed to happen first was the trip to the publisher's. She scoffed when he said he needed to sell the book because he was probably broke. She reminded him he was a bestselling author and was probably rich. He said that maybe they could check with the bank ... when he figured out what bank he dealt with. He knew that he hadn't received any bank statements in his forwarded mail. That probably meant he got electronic statements online. It would take a while to figure that out. He needed to talk to his publisher before they did that anyway.

Now she made it very clear that she felt possessive about him. Her large, soft breast-so different from Lulu's-was pressed firmly into his arm as she walked beside him. He found it interesting that the feel of that soft flesh didn't excite him. Her conversation with the receptionist seemed to carry a vicious undercurrent, when she announced who he was and that he'd brought another bestseller with him. The receptionist rolled her eyes, but made a call.

He didn't remember the short, bald man who came hurrying out of an office nearby, but the man knew him. That he knew Lola, too, was obvious.

"You FOUND him!"

"Yes, I did," said Lola, obviously ready to claim having done something she didn't do at all.

Then there was tension as the man berated Kris for failing to report on schedule. Kris explained that there'd been an accident, that he'd been in the hospital, and that he'd also had amnesia.

"You mean you didn't write the book?" That seemed to be a disaster and Kris saw beads of sweat pop out on the man's brow.

"I wrote A book," he said. "I couldn't remember what I was supposed to be writing, and I couldn't remember this place, so I couldn't call for advice. I wrote something while I was there, though, while they were trying to figure out who I was." He pulled the manuscript out of the plastic bag that had been all he'd had to transport it in. "It's a romance novel."

"A romance novel?" The publisher looked confused. "You don't write romance."

"I did this time," said Kris. "It's an adult romance novel."

"Oh my, oh my," moaned the man. "I gave you a substantial advance. I can't take my boss a romance novel to show for it. You HAVE to finish the book you started for us!"

"I've got that," said Kris. "They got my car out of the river just before I came back here. I don't remember writing it, but maybe I can use the notes in it to finish it. I've already started another book based on my whole experience. There are a lot of unanswered questions, but I think I can spin it into a good mystery. At some point during this whole thing, I was shot at."

"Shot at?" The publisher was incredulous.

Kris pointed to his head. "Got hit right here. I wasn't just fooling around, trying to avoid you."

The man looked at the manuscript in his hands and back up at Kris. "What's the main idea of this one?" he asked.

Kris told him and saw the interest build as he talked.

"OK, I'll read it," said the man. "Meanwhile, you keep working on the original book. I'll tell my boss that you had this accident, but that you're recovered now and working on it. If this is any good, it may help. I'll try to call you this afternoon."

"OK," said Kris. He felt helpless. The Kangaroo Pounder book didn't light up in his mind like the plot for the romance novel had. All he could do was try, but he decided not to say that.

At one-thirty in the afternoon, two crime scene specialists from the FBI district office in New York City packed their tools and equipment into a van to go to Pembroke, Connecticut to process a car. That was all they knew, except that the car had bullet holes in it. It was unusual, but a field agent was going with them. Neither of them knew the man, and neither was particularly interested in getting to know him. They assigned him to the jump seat in the back and told him to brief them on the way.

Kris couldn't get rid of Lola. He knew now why his memory of her was not positive. She was a conniving, clinging, whining woman. She had a lovely ass, but that was about all that was attractive about her. It wasn't that she was physically ugly. Not by a long shot. But her personality overshadowed her outward appearance. He was quite sure there was no way in the world he'd asked this woman to marry him, but that was all she wanted to talk about. She'd been telling him about the plans they'd made. So far, she said, they'd agreed to rent a hall big enough to hold five hundred guests. She said lots of famous people would want to come, since he was a famous author. At the same time, she was very vague about exactly which jewelry store on Fifth Avenue was sizing the rings they'd chosen. She said she'd take care of all that and that he didn't need to worry himself about it.

The other thing she seemed comsumed with was getting him in bed. She said the worst part of his being gone was that she almost couldn't stand not being able to make love with him. At the same time, she didn't seem very turned on at all. It was almost like getting him in bed would win her a bet or something. He continued to resist. Thinking of Lulu made it easy.

They were interrupted, thankfully, by the phone ringing. It was his publisher, who had read the romance novel and was ecstatic.

"Of course the original book is still on," he said. "But I convinced my boss to take this romance novel and the rights to that other book you were talking about, to make up for your lack of progress on the original book. I just wanted you to know."

"How much do I get for the romance novel?" asked Kris.

"We'll negotiate that later," said the man. "I need to get it edited first, and then we'll give it to the test readers. I should have something on that in a week or so."

Lola almost drove him crazy then. She was almost bouncing around when she found out the romance novel had sold. Then she'd wanted him to tell her all about the character in the novel that had been based on her. He was hard pressed to do that, since none of them had been based on her. Most of them had been based on Lulu.

In the end, the only way he could get her to leave was to explain that he had to start working on the original story, which he'd gotten the advance for, and that he couldn't work with her there. She'd resisted.

"But honey, I'm your ... what do they call it ... muse. Yes! You've always said I was your muse! I've always been here before, when you were writing a book."

"I thought I didn't tell you I was an author," he said.

She blinked. "You didn't tell me you were a best SELLING author," she corrected him. "You just said you wrote for journals of some kind."

"And I needed a muse for that?" He looked skeptical.

"Oh all RIGHT!" she snapped. "I'll just go check on our wedding rings. What's your size again?"

Mitch was driving around, looking for something to do, when the radio crackled to life.

"Pembroke Two, this is Chief Whittaker, come in."

Mitch picked up the handset. "What's up, Dabney?" He was surprised when Dabney didn't curse at him for calling him by his first name.

"Return to station immediately, do you copy?"

Something in Dabney's voice ... some undercurrent of excitement ... caused Mitch to play it straight.

"Be there in ten," he said.

"Over and out," came the voice on the radio.

He saw the van parked at the station and glanced at the tag. Official U.S. Government. Interesting. The first person he saw when he walked in was a woman he'd never seen before. She was getting a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee machine on one wall. There was a man who looked impatient, standing ten feet from her, and another man talking to Dabney. Dabney was obviously excited, based on the fact that he was holding his gut in and looked flushed. Mitch stared at the man he was talking to. He was tall, athletic, and black. Mitch tried to think of any other time he'd seen a black man in the station and couldn't. He thought of Jess, for some reason.

Dabney saw him come in.

"Officer Connel," he said officiously. "This is Special Agent Jefferson, of the FBI. They're here to examine the car you recovered from the river."

Mitch's eyebrows went up. Harper hadn't called him back. What was going on? He felt his stomach lurch. If the FBI was interested in Farmingham, this could get ugly. He almost snorted as he thought about how pissed off Lulu was going to be if these people arrested Kris.

"Car's out back," he said. "I'll get the key."

An hour later, Mitch still didn't know what was going on. Jefferson wouldn't tell him anything. He now knew that the other two were crime scene technicians. They'd gone over the car just like he had. When he'd explained about the radio, the man had frowned and demanded to see it. All he'd said was that Mitch had done the right thing by leaving the bullet embedded in the radio. They'd collected paint scrapings off the front right fender. It was obvious this was about what Kris had remembered and that Mitch had told Harper about.

"So how come you guys are involved, instead of NYPD?" Mitch had asked the closed-mouth FBI man. "Where's Detective Harper?"

"He's not on the case anymore," said Jefferson, who then ignored Mitch.

That lasted another half hour, before the male crime scene tech announced that they'd done all they could at this location.

"So, what do you think?" asked Jefferson.

"There's enough left on the bullet that we should be able to work with it. One side looks usable. The paint transfer is the right color, both ways, but will have to be confirmed in the lab. I'd say it looks pretty good." Jefferson turned to Mitch.

"I need to talk to Kristoff Farmingham."

Mitch bit off the reply that came to mind immediately, which was "Well la-de-fucking-da." Instead he looked at his watch and said, "I have an idea of where he probably is."

Mitch took a roundabout route to Lulu's house. Partly to check and see if Butch's car was parked at the rental, which it wasn't, and partly because the agent in the passenger's seat was impatient, and apparently an asshole, just like Mitch had heard most feds were. When they pulled into Lulu's driveway, and Kris' car wasn't there, Mitch didn't say anything. He also didn't warn Jefferson what Lulu was like. He figured it would serve the son of a bitch right if he got a little surprise.

Lulu's reaction to his knock on the door wasn't what Mitch had expected. He heard the thumping of feet, as if she were running, and she had a look of consternation on her face when she saw who was at the door. Her eyes only glanced at Jefferson and then pinned onto Mitch's eyes.

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