As far as Nance was concerned, it was simply a surveillance job, nothing more or less. The client was paying top aouar in casn. n ne wanted a cimu it was easy. If he wanted to eavesdrop, no problem as long as he was paying.
But Nance had read the newspapers. And he had heard the whispers in the room next door. There was more here than simple surveillance. Broken legs and arms were not being discussed over gin rummy. These guys were deadly, and Gronke had already mentioned calling New Orleans for more help.
Cal Sisson was ready to bolt. He was fresh off probation, and another conviction would send him back for decades. A conviction for conspiracy to commit murder would send him away for life. Nance had convinced him to hold tight for one more day.
The cellular phone rang. It was Sisson. The lawyer just arrived at the hospital. Mark Sway's in Room 943 with his mother and lawyer.
Nance placed the phone on the table and walked into the other room.
"Who was it?" Gronke asked with a Camel in his mouth.
"Cal. Kid's still at the hospital, now with his mother and his lawyer." "Where's the doctor?" "He left an hour ago." Nance walked to the dresser and poured a glass of water.
"Any sign of the feds?" Gronke grunted.
"Yeah. Same two are hanging around the hospital. Doing the same thing we are, I guess. The hospital's keeping two security guards by the door, and another one close by." "You think the kid told them about meeting me this morning?" Gronke asked for the hundredth time that day.
"He told someone. Why else would they suddenly surround his room with security guards?" "Yeah, but the security guards are not fibbies, are they? If he'd told the fibbies, then they'd be sitting in the hall, don't you think?" "Yeah." This conversation had been repeated throughout the day. Who did the kid tell? Why were there suddenly guards by the door? And on and on. Gronke couldn't get enough of it.
Despite his arrogance and street-punk posture, he seemed to be a man of patience. Nance figured it went with the territory. Killers had to be cold-blooded and patient.
Chapter 18
L HEY LEFT THE HOSPITAL IN HER MAZDA RX~7, HIS FIRST ride in a sports car. The seats were leather but the floor was dirty. The car was not new, but it was cool, with a stick shift that she worked like a veteran race car driver. She said she liked to drive fast, which was fine with Mark. They darted through traffic as they left downtown and headed east. It was almost dark. The radio was on but barely audible, some FM station specializing in easy listening.
Ricky was awake when they left. He was staring at cartoons but saying little. A sad little tray of hospital food sat on the table, untouched by either Ricky or Dianne. Mark had not seen his mother eat three bites in two days. He felt sorry for her sitting there on the bed, staring at Ricky, worrying herself to death. The news from Reggie about the job and the raise had made her smile. Then it made her cry.
Mark was sick of the crying and the cold peas and the dark, cramped room, and he felt guilty for leaving but was delighted to be here in this sports car headed, he hoped, for a plate of hot, heavy food •with warm bread. Clint had mentioned inside-out ravioli and spinach lasagna, and for some reason visions of these rich, meaty dishes had stuck in his mind. Maybe there would be a cake and some cookies. But if Momma Love served green Jell-O, he might throw it at her.
He thought of these things as Reggie thought of being tailed. Her eyes went from the traffic to the mirror, and back again. She drove much too fast, zipping between cars and changing lanes, which didn't bother Mark one bit.
"You think Mom and Ricky are safe?" he asked, watching the cars in front.
"Yes. Don't worry about them. The hospital promised to keep guards at the door." She had talked to George Ord, her new pal, and explained her concern about the safety of the Sway family. She did not mention any specific threats, though Ord had asked. The family was getting unwanted attention, she had explained. Lots of rumors and gossip, most of it generated by a frustrated media. Ord had talked to McThune, then called her back and said the FBI would stay close to the room, but out of sight. She thanked him.
Ord and McThune were amused by it. The FBI already had people in the hospital. Now they had been invited.
She suddenly turned to the right at an intersection, and the tires squealed. Mark chuckled, and she laughed as though it was all fun but her stomach was flipping. They were on a smaller street with old homes and large oaks.
"This is my neighborhood," she said. It was certainly nicer than his. They turned again, to another narrower street where the houses were smaller but still two and three stories tall with deep lawns and manicured hedgerows.
"Why do you take your clients home?" he asked.
"I don't know. Most of my clients are children who come from awful homes. I feel sorry for them, I guess. I get attached to them." "Do you feel sorry for me?" "A litde. But you're lucky, Mark, very lucky. You have a mother who's a good woman and who loves you very much." "Yeah, I guess so. What time is it?" "Almost six. Why?" Mark thought a second and counted the hours. "Forty-nine hours ago Jerome Clifford shot himself. I wish we'd simply run away when we saw his car." "Why didn't you?" "I don't know. It was like I just had to do something once I realized what was going on. I couldn't run away. He was about to die, and I just couldn't ignore it. Something kept pulling me to his car. Ricky was crying and begging me to stop, but I just couldn't. This is all my fault." "Maybe, but you can't change it, Mark. It's done." She glanced at her mirror and saw nothing.
"Do you think we're gonna be okay? I mean, Ricky and me and Mom? When this is all over, will things be like they were?" She slowed and turned into a narrow driveway lined with thick, untrimmed hedges. "Ricky will be fine. It might take time, but he'll be all right. Kids are tough, Mark. I see it every day." "What about me?" "Everything will work out, Mark. Just trust me." The Mazda stopped beside a large two-story house with a porch around the front ot it. snruos aim HUWCLS grew to the windows. Ivy covered one end of the porch.
"Is this your house?" he asked, almost in awe.
"My parents bought it fifty-three years ago, the year before I was born. This is where I grew up. My daddy died when I was fifteen, but Momma Love, bless her heart, is still here." "You call her Momma Love?" "Everyone calls her Momma Love. She's almost eighty, and in better shape than me." She pointed to a garage straight ahead, behind the house. "You see those three windows above the garage? That's where I live." Like the house, the garage needed a good coat of paint on the trim. Both were old and handsome, but there were weeds in the flower beds and grass growing in the cracks of the driveway.
They entered through a side door, and the aroma from the kitchen hit Mark hard. He was suddenly starving. A small woman with gray hair in a tight ponytail and dark eyes met them and hugged Reggie.
"Momma Love, meet Mark Sway," Reggie said, waving at him. He and Momma Love were exactly the same height, and she gently hugged him and pecked him on the cheek. He stood stiff, uncertain how to greet a strange eighty-year-old woman.
"Nice to meet you, Mark," she said in his face. Her voice was strong and sounded much like Reggie's. She took his arm and led him to the kitchen table. "Have a seat right here, and I'll get you something to drink." Reggie grinned at him as if to say "Just do as she says because you have no choice." She hung her umbrella on a rack behind the door and laid her briefcase on the floor.