side before returning to her desk and resuming her typing.
Crawford sat at his desk and ate the doughnut slowly, washing down the remnants of it with his sixth cup of coffee. He hoped the doughnut would absorb some of the caffeine in his system, not taking into account how much sugar he had eaten. He opened the Stark case file again and looked at the crime scene photos from both the park and Alison’s house.
In the background, he heard Carmen talking on the phone in Spanish. He recognized a few words and determined that she was probably speaking with Ricardo and not on a business call.
After a few minutes, she said, “Muchas gracias, baby. I’ll see you later.” She pulled a piece of paper off her legal pad, the noise startling Crawford. She threw the piece of paper on his desk. “She’s at the barracks at the junction of the Saw Mill and 9A in Hawthorne. Do you know where that is?”
He grabbed the paper. “I’ll find it.”
“Hey, what do you want me to tell Concannon?” she called after him.
Crawford stopped in his tracks. Good point. He turned slowly. He had used up his “get out of jail free” with Concannon a long time ago and didn’t want to push his luck. “I don’t know.”
She looked at him, her black eyes twinkling. “Get going. I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll give him a lap dance,” she said, laughing. “That ought to throw him off. Hell, it will probably put him in the hospital.” The phone on Crawford’s desk began ringing and she went over and picked it up. “Fiftieth Detective Squad. Montoya.”
Crawford watched her face for some indication of who it might be and whether he should wait. She held up one long, red-lacquered fingernail, indicating that he should wait. Finally, she held the phone out to him. “Alison.”
Chapter 22
I sat in the barracks of the New York State Troopers, in my pajamas and slippers, looking like a sad homeless person who had been picked up on the side of the road. The only difference between me and a sad homeless person was that they probably wouldn’t be handcuffed to the chair on which they were sitting. I sat in the room, alone, watching people go past the window in the door, hoping that I would recognize one of them sooner or later. My stomach growled from hunger, but it was obvious that I wasn’t getting anything to eat in the near future.
I heard a loud voice, not unlike Crawford’s, coming from outside the room and the door burst open suddenly. A short, pudgy man with eyes and coloring similar to Crawford appeared, his long-sleeved polo shirt half-tucked into khaki pants; he was swinging a beat-up leather satchel. He was Crawford after a whirl in a food processor—same features, but lost in the fat of his face. Everything was compressed and rearranged. “Hey,” he said, holding out his hand. “Jimmy Crawford. I’m your lawyer.”
“Hey,” I said back, waving my uncuffed hand. “I can’t shake right now.”
His face turned hard. “They’ve got you cuffed?”
I pointed with my good hand to my cuffed hand, attached to the metal chair on which I sat.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, and exited the room. Moments later, he returned with the state trooper who had pulled me over. The trooper knelt beside me and uncuffed me, without speaking a word. I didn’t think he was so cute anymore. He gave Jimmy a look as he prepared to exit and it wasn’t the “pleased to meet you” look.
“You ever hear of professional courtesy, son?” Jimmy asked.
The trooper stopped and turned to stand over Jimmy, at least a head taller. The scene resembled a terrier squaring off with a Doberman, but my money was on the scrappy ratter, aka my new lawyer. Crawford had told me that his brother was an experienced attorney and quite the legal mind. When I called him with my sanctioned one phone call, he said he would call Jimmy instead of coming himself, given the circumstances of my situation.
The trooper finally left, defeated that he hadn’t even remotely intimidated Jimmy.
Jimmy turned to me. “Asshole.” He held his hand out.
“Thanks.” I held out my hand and shook his. I rubbed my wrist, a little red from the cuff. “Nice to meet you. Although not under these circumstances.”
He sat at the table and pulled a legal pad from his bag. “What happened here?”
I started with the bizarre 911 call, the cop at the house, and