be here any moment.”
“I’m okay by myself.”
“This is a crime scene. Who’s to say someone’s not coming back, or someone could be hiding outside. I’ll wait with you.”
A few moments passed, and then they heard sirens. “Okay,” Decker said. “You wait here and direct Hamilton police to guard the house. No one in or out until you’ve talked to a detective. Don’t tell him or her too much. Just that I’ll call later on. Then you all stand guard until Forensics comes out. If you get lip from the detective—someone tries to throw around weight—you stand your position. If someone gets nasty, tell him your last name is Baccus. That should shut the person up. When SID comes, you take them to the crime scene. And then once that’s taken care of, you give Hamilton PD the case—temporarily. I’ll call later and let them know what’s going on and why we were there.”
“What are you doing now?”
“I’m going to the hospital. If Jaylene becomes conscious and sentient, I’m going to want to talk to her. Unless you want me to stay and help you out?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks for the trust.” She looked at Decker with pleading eyes. Her nails were clicking a mile a minute. “That poor woman. Will she make it?”
“I don’t know, Lennie, and that’s the truth.”
Tears formed in her orbs. She wiped them with her finger. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“Just …”
“Don’t apologize for normal emotions. When it stops getting to you, that’s when you need to worry.”
THE WAITING ROOM in the ER was furnished with orange plastic chairs and a ceiling-mounted TV that had settled on CNN news. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, and volunteers went back and forth between two doors, looking very busy with white coats and clipboards. Triage was located behind glass windows with phones constantly ringing. It took a while before Decker made contact with someone who knew about Jaylene Boch’s welfare. ER docs were generally young, and the one who came up to Decker appeared to be in his late thirties, slim build with bags under his brown eyes. His name tag said Dr. John Nesmith.
“You probably found her just in time,” he remarked.
“She’ll pull through?” Decker asked.
“No guarantees, but I think so. She’s sleeping, but even if she were awake, it’d be useless for you to talk to her. She was barely conscious when she was brought in. She didn’t even know her name. But that’s par for the course with extreme dehydration.”
“Could I try to talk to her? Her son’s missing, and there was a lot of blood in her house.”
“She’s sedated, Detective. And if she can’t remember her name, she won’t be able to tell you anything. Stop by tomorrow. Twenty-four hours could make a big difference.”
Decker knew that Nesmith was right, but it didn’t make it any easier to accept. “Could someone call me if she’s up and alert later in the day?”
“Up, yes. Alert?” Nesmith shrugged. “But sure. Give me a number.”
Decker gave the man his card. “We might place someone on her.”
“You mean for her protection? She wasn’t killed the first time.”
“Until we know what’s going on, it’s better to err on the side of caution. Any objection?”
“Not from me, but you’ll probably have to run this by hospital security.”
“Thank you. I’ll come by tomorrow.”
As soon as he left the building, he called up McAdams. “Where are you?”
“At Crane Street, in a pissing contest with Hamilton Police over jurisdiction. Since it is in their city, we don’t have much of a case. On the other hand, if they want our information, it would behoove them to cooperate. I’m trying to impress them with my impeccable logic, but I’m getting mixed results.”
“How long have you been there?”
“Maybe an hour. Detectives and techs from Forensics are all over the place.”
“Who are the detectives?”
“Randal Smitz and Wendell Tran. Do you know them?”
“No.”
“They seem competent. Kevin’s here as well. They’re less proprietary than the uniforms. Radar has a call into Baccus’s office to help smooth the way, but he hasn’t called back. Are you still at the hospital?”
“Yes. Jaylene Boch will probably pull through, but I couldn’t talk to her because she’s heavily sedated. Is SID from Hamilton there?”
“Yep.”
“They’ve got a bigger department and more manpower, so that’s okay. Ask them to take numerous blood samples around the room. It could be Neil’s crime scene as well as Joseph Boch’s. Is anyone canvassing the neighborhood?”
“Hamilton is on it, but Kevin put a couple of our own officers with them. The police know what they’re doing. Judging by the city’s crime statistics, it’s not their first rodeo.”
“What have you told them about Brady Neil?”
“Just that his murder brought you to the house. They pressed for details. I told them I didn’t know the full story yet and that you’d fill them in.”
“Perfect answer. That means they’ll talk to me.”
“That’s my motto, boss. Always leave them asking for more.”
SENIOR INVESTIGATOR WENDELL Tran spoke with a broad southern accent. He was born in Louisiana, the son of a Vietnamese shrimp fisherman, and had come to the Hamilton Police Department about ten years prior. How he got here was anyone’s guess. He was thirty-eight and average height with black, straight hair and brown eyes. He and Decker were doing the five-minute small-talk thing on the rotted front porch outside the house, sizing each other up before getting down to the case. Inside, Forensics was collecting and dusting, but the house was so disorderly it was hard to know what was normal and what might have been tossed.
“How do people live like this?” Tran asked.
“She’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then I reckon her son isn’t much of a housekeeper.” Tran pronounced I as Ah. He shook his head and looked Decker in the eye. “You want to tell me your connection?”
“We found a body dumped in our jurisdiction yesterday morning. He was identified as Brady Neil. He lived in Hamilton with his mom, Jennifer Neil. He and Joseph Boch—a.k.a. Boxer—worked together
