Chapter 3
loyalty bit from Al really stung. Daniel shot the Pope in broad daylight in front of a thousand spectators. There was very little anyone could say in his defense. The prosecution was less concerned about the events of the shooting, since they were caught on 3-D cam and hardly arguable, but whether or not Daniel had premeditated the murder.
I was the character witness that backfired. My testimony proved that Daniel had been acting strangely, more secretive, before the murder, and though I'd made a case that I thought it had to do with problems at home, the prosecution could care less. For them, his odd behavior was enough.
Most damning of all was the fact that Daniel had hit on me, sexually speaking, the night before. His advances weren't entirely unwanted, but certainly out of character, not to mention a bit rough, for Daniel.
When the defense tried for insanity, I trumped them there as well. I pointed out that Daniel had been cognizant of right and wrong the night before he'd stopped when I said "no" loud enough.
I shook my head. It was true that I was a liability to Daniel's case, but I didn't deserve to be branded disloyal to the force. All I had done was tell the truth. Then, when the Pope excommunicated me, he suggested that, by being attractive to Daniel, I was the seductress and somehow an instigator in the whole mess. The media immediately started calling me Jezebel. That was all the excuse the department needed to gather my walking papers. My infamy was a media nightmare for the force. Even now, a year later, my face never left the newscasts for long. In this era of religiously dominated politics, I'd inspired a strange, if loyal, fan base.
The tubes diverged as traffic detoured around the construction of a ten-story Jesus that would house the main offices of the Lamb of God church. Under the scaffolding, I could see the outline of Christ's features. It struck me how sad his eyes looked, staring out at the tangled skyline of New York. In his hands, a neon sign proudly proclaimed forty thousand served.
"McChrist," I muttered, pointing my car toward the down-ramp. I lost Michael for a second as he entered the service tunnel to the skyway. I quickly turned onto an up-ramp, and began to follow the tube circling the building. With my luck, Michael would hop an express to the hundred and fifty-first level; it would take me months to get up that far. Then, out of the driver's side window of my battered Chevy, I spotted him clearly. He stepped into the walkway and was making his way to Margie's, the local lunch counter favored by cops on this level.
I continued the circle around until I came to a car park across from Margie's. I waved my credit counter in front of the automated lot attendant. As much as that would hurt my pocketbook, I was glad to be on solid ground again. The shaky tubing had made my nerves raw.
When I reached a good spot inside the lot, I pulled out my binoculars. A couple of guys greeted Michael when he came in, but he sat alone at a table by the window. The waitress certainly gave Michael the onceover. I couldn't blame the girl. She didn't seem to treat him like a regular, however. Then, again, it could be her shy flirtation was just part of their weekly routine.
My stomach growled. I reached across the dashboard, and unwrapped a fat-free cupcake. As I bit into it, I tried to pretend it was the food being delivered to Michael's table. After two disgusting bites of the cupcake, I had to give up. I tossed the sorry excuse for a pastry into the backseat, wrapping and all. Frustrated and wholly unsatisfied, I glared at Michael.
I rubbed the dust on the window with my sleeve, squinting at Michael through the smeared glass. I sat up sharply. Someone approached his table. Michael gestured at the empty seat. This guy didn't look much like a cop, although he was certainly wide and tall enough. I might've guessed him to be a soldier, but his coppery red hair was shoulder-length and unruly. Despite the warm weather, he wore a long brown trench coat, the kind under which a person could conceal almost any type of weapon. Beneath the coat, a smooth silk shirt peeked out. The whole ensemble would've made the Klein Fashion Empire green with envy. It was quite trendy-looking, although a bit upscale for a cop's friend.
It was times like this when I seriously missed the LINK. I might have been able to snag the stranger's retina, even at this distance. Then, I'd have a solid lead. Looking around the deserted car park, I sighed. This gig sucked. My stomach growled again and reminded me that there was, at least, decent food inside ait Margie's.
"Screw subtlety," I muttered to myself, and reached for the door handle. "If he asks, I'll tell him I followed him."
Elbowing through the crowded walkway, I made
my way to Margie's pink neon sign. With a grunt, I pushed the glass door open. The smell of potatoes and onions deep-frying in black-market animal fat filled the air. I love greasy spoons. It'd been over a year since I wandered into this particular joint, however. A few eyes checked me out. Over in the corner, Sergeant Dorshak gave me a hard glare, like I had no business in here.