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“Dan, stop being so damn stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn. I’m being practical.”
“There’s nothing practical about getting yourself killed.”
“That wasn’t exactly my plan.”
“And yet I found you bleeding on the front porch.”
He drew in his breath. And even that hurt.
The last blow from the killer UPS guy must’ve pushed him into unconsciousness. The attacker had been a pro—not a single blow left a visible mark, and he didn’t make much noise, either. He delivered his message without attracting attention. He was lucky the man stopped short of the killing blow—because he had the distinct impression the man could have killed him, just as quickly and just as quietly. His partners upstairs didn’t hear a thing. Maria found him on her way back from a run.
He stretched across the sofa in the living room while she hovered protectively overhead. “I appreciate your concern, Maria, but I’ve got this covered.”
“You’ve got what covered? Your grave? You haven’t even been to the doctor.”
“Don’t need one. I checked myself out. I’m okay.”
“You’ve been spitting up blood.”
How did she know that? He wondered if he could make an end run around her and get out the door before she stopped him. Probably not, given his current condition. “It stopped. I’m healing.”
“Internal hemorrhaging won’t stop itself.”
“I don’t have—”
“You have no idea what you have. Your brain could be bleeding for all we know.”
He leaned forward and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Maria, stop. I truly appreciate your concern. But I’m okay, and we don’t have time to mess around. Our trial date is rapidly approaching and we still don’t have anything resembling a defense. Garrett worked hard to set up this interview and if we don’t do it now there’s no telling when or if we’ll be able to do it later.”
“The whole point of the attack was to get you to quit this case.”
He struggled to his feet. “I won’t do that.”
She blocked his path to the door. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“Don't you have an appointment with your jury consultant?”
“Canceled. I’ll talk to him later. I’m coming with.”
“It’s not necessary.” But then again, he probably shouldn’t drive. At the moment, he could barely walk. “You’ve got work to do. And this guy looks like major skeeze.”
“All the more reason I should be there.”
“Exactly why you should not be there.”
“Oh stop. I’m coming. Get used to it.” She grabbed the keys to the Jag and led the way out the door. “Last time you dragged me to a strip joint, for heaven’s sake. This can’t possibly be any worse.”
* * *
As it turned out, she was wrong.
Dan tried to give Charlie Quint his usual comprehensive once-over, but it wasn’t working. There was simply too much to drink in. He couldn’t absorb it all without staring. He didn’t like being in this tiny motel room with this man, and he could tell Maria liked it even less. She kept a significant distance between the interview subject and herself, as if at any moment he might throw up on her Dolce & Gabbanas.
“You wanna know about the syringe, right?”
“Right.” Mousy little guy. Comb-over of next-to-nothing. Egg-shaped head. Bronx accent. Mid-fifties. Soiled shirt—mustard, if he wasn’t mistaken. Barely covered a pot belly. Holes in his tattered sneakers. “You were going through Ossie’s trash?”
Quint shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
“You talk about it like it’s a profession.”
“It’s how I survive.”
What series of unfortunate events could possibly lead someone to a life like this? Quint was a former custodial worker who’d lost his job, lost his family, and ended up in St. Pete, rummaging through people’s trash for food, clothing, and the occasional object he might be able to sell at a pawn shop for a few pennies.
Maria spoke. “You can support yourself like this?”
“For three years now. Best job I ever had.”
She rolled her eyes. “This is not a job.”
“Says you, with your snazzy too-tight designer jeans and your law degree. I didn’t have the cash to go to law school. And I got tired of pushing a broom around.”
“You dig through garbage.”
He gave Maria a surreptitious signal. She needed to tone down the hostility. They wanted him to talk, not throw them out of the room.
“More people are doing this than you might imagine. This is a tough world, especially on the homeless, and there are a lot of us these days. I don’t normally have a nice place like this.”
Maria hid a gagging face.
“You do what you gotta do. I got a routine. I hit the residential areas in the morning. As it turns out, wealthy neighborhoods are the worst, not the best. They never throw out good stuff. More action in the middle-class and lower-class areas.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“I hit businesses in the afternoons. Restaurants at night, when they start throwing out ridiculous amounts of food. It’s a full day, but I’ve never been one to shy away from hard work.”
“I can see that,” Maria said, without a detectible trace of sarcasm.
“I tried panhandling. Wasn’t good at it. Didn’t like the hobo life. Too dangerous.”
“At least you’re not on welfare.”
“I have been. Maxed out. Didn’t like it much. Case workers are so snooty. They call themselves ‘employment advisors’ now. Give me a break.”
“So how did you happen to be in Ossie’s trash?”
“That’s been a good neighborhood for me.” Dan watched Maria pace awkwardly as Quint spoke. He didn’t mind being on the opposite side of the bed, but Maria wasn’t coming anywhere close. She wouldn’t even take the chair. She just stood, occasionally moving from one side of the room to the other. No doubt her Fitbit approved. “Those foster homes get all kinds of weird crap. Sometimes valuable. Found a whole baggie full of coke in the trash once.”
“Why would anyone throw that away?”
“Because they’re high. I wouldn’t know from experience—I can’t afford bad habits like that—but I assume when people are tripping they don’t always use the best judgment.”
Probably a safe assumption. “And you never get any complaints?”
“Oh, sometimes. You know, every neighborhood has some old lady who spends her day looking out the window, hoping she can catch someone violating the neighborhood association code or something. But there’s nothing they can do about me. Once that trash barrel is placed on the street, the law says it’s no longer yours. You have no right of privacy and no claim of ownership. Which means I can take whatever I find.”
He couldn’t argue. Despite not attending law school, Quint did more or less understand the relevant property law. “And that’s when you found the syringe?”
“Exactly. Over the years, I’ve developed a talent for knowing what’s valuable. A second sense, you might call it.”
He wouldn’t. “Why would you keep a syringe? I wouldn’t think you’d want to go anywhere near that.”
“You’d be wrong. All kinds of possibilities there. Might indicate other drug paraphernalia is about, or the drugs themselves. Might still be something yummy in the syringe. For that matter, the syringe itself is of some value. Junkies are always looking for clean needles. Hard to get good supplies without attracting attention. They reuse syringes out of desperation—and you know how that ends.”
Maria looked like she was about to vomit. “If you sell syringes to addicts, you could spread all kinds of diseases.”
“They’re junkies. They’re killing themselves anyway.”
Oh, well, that makes it okay. “Drug paraphernalia means lucrative items for resale.”
“Or cop money.”
“Wait, what?”
“A syringe in the trash means drug users. You give that info to the local cops, you get paid. Usually ten bucks for a solid tip.”
“You squeal to the cops for money?”
“I report a possible crime. Ain’t that what good citizens are supposed to do?”
Maria tapped the toe of her shoe against the threadbare carpet. He could tell her patience was reaching its limit. “Is that what you were doing when you found the syringe in the trash outside the foster home where Ossie was living?”
“Yup. I thought someone in there was a druggie. I had no idea he was a murderer.”
Dan raised his arm—and it hurt. He had to remind himself. No sudden movements. Moving sent shivers of pain radiating through his body. “Ossie isn’t guilty. He didn’t kill anyone.”
“That’s not what the cops told me. They said he must’ve shot that theater guy up with something, maybe to kill him, maybe to paralyze him so he could cremate the body.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. Why would he kill Harrison Coleman at the theater—and then bring the syringe home, only to throw it away where someone could find it?”
“Just because I don’t know all the whys and wherefores doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Crooks aren’t always geniuses. They get scared, panicky.”
“You don’t have any reason to believe that syringe was tossed into the trash by Ossie, right?”
“They tell me he lived there.”
“But anyone could’ve done it. Lots of kids lived there. For that matter, a passing stranger could’ve thrown a syringe into the trash bin.”
Quint looked as if he were about to say something—then stopped himself. “I think I’ve said enough. Maybe you should go now.”
“You can’t withhold information from the defense.”
“I can do any damn thing I want. Maybe the cops have to talk to you, but I don’t. Get out.”
This conversation was finished. He pushed himself to his feet—slowly—so the pain was intense but not excruciating. “If you think of anything else important, please give me a call.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
No, he didn’t expect it would. “But if something important—”
“Everything’s important,” Quint said quietly. “If you know the story behind it.”