Worst Case - James Patterson [47]
Back down at the security desk, we got the cell number for Hastings’s neighbor in the adjoining suite. We called and arranged to meet the first-year law student, Kenny Gruber, outside the gym, where he was playing basketball.
“Wheelchair or not, Dan was superpopular,” Gruber said between chugs of his Red Bull. “He had more friends than anyone I know. He tossed incredible parties. Did you speak to Galina?”
“Who’s that?” Emily said.
“His girlfriend, Galina Nesser. My God, is she hot. A Russian goddess. And a physics major. See what I mean about Dan being a unique dude? I mean, how does a guy in a wheelchair score a quality piece of ass like that?”
“A-hem,” Emily coughed exaggeratedly.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am. Forgot my manners there,” Gruber said. “You want to know more about Dan, you should talk to Galina.”
“‘Ma’am’?” Emily said as we headed for the nearest campus exit. “Do I look like a ma’am to you?”
“Of course not,” I said. “You look like a quality piece of—”
I sidestepped as Agent Parker punched me in the arm.
“What was that for?” I said, rubbing it. “I was merely going to say you look like a quality peace officer. Jeez, what did you think I was going to say?”
Chapter 54
FRANCIS X. MOONEY cursed under his breath as his taxi crested the 115th Street rise on Lenox Avenue. Down the low valley toward 125th Street and back up again on the other side, it was nothing but bumper-to-bumper red brake lights for another fifteen blocks.
He stuffed a twenty through the greasy partition’s slot and popped the door latch. He was running unbelievably late. He’d have to hoof it.
He broke into a run as he hit the sidewalk. Christ, what a day, he thought as sweat began to pour down his face. He had so many balls in the air, he could hardly keep count.
He got to 137th Street without a minute to spare. He was headed to the apartment of the death-row inmate Reginald Franklin’s mother. Even with all his plans and all his incredibly important work, his conscience wouldn’t let him forget the doomed man.
Off Lenox Avenue, down from the Harlem Hospital Center, he entered the battered front door of a narrow three-story brick tenement. The barking started the second he stepped through the open inner door and into a rancid-smelling stairwell.
No wonder Kurt from New York Heart had been reluctant to follow up on the case, he thought, listening to the unbelievably loud barks. No matter. Dogs or no dogs, someone’s life was at stake here.
The door to Mrs. Franklin’s second-floor apartment cracked open when Francis X. made the landing. He froze as an enormous dog lunged out of the apartment. It looked like a monster. It was a Presa Canario, the same breed of unbelievably vicious dog that had mauled a woman to death in San Francisco. It had a brindled coat and had to weigh close to 150 pounds.
Francis X. started breathing again only when he saw that there was a taut chain around its neck. It was being clutched by a wiry old black woman.
“I’m from New York Heart, ma’am,” Francis said quickly. “The lawyer advocacy group? I’m here about your son, Reggie. I’d like to try to help him get a stay of execution. Could you please put up your pet, ma’am?”
“You got any ID, white boy?” she said between the earsplitting barks.
Francis showed her his card from the social services agency. The dog snapped for it, almost swallowing it along with Francis’s hand.
“Okay, okay. Just a second,” the old woman finally said.
Was it him, or did the old African American woman have a smirk on her face?
“You said you was coming, too, right? Must have forgot. Sit tight till I get Chester back in the closet.”
The door shut and opened again. The sound of Chester going absolutely batshit came from the rear of the apartment.
“C’mon in, I guess,” she said, waving impatiently. “Close the damn door behind you. What did you say about Reggie?”
He followed her into the living room. Judge Judy was on the TV. The woman lay down on a couch and put up her feet. She didn’t lower the volume.
“Well? What you want?”
“I heard about Reginald’s latest denial, and I’ve