Chapter Nine
A/N: No, I'm not gone, just holiday busy.
This chapter is for Vanillafluffy. Merry Christmas!


What Mike meant to say, of course, was damn, if a guy like Smitty intended to make you do something, he'd have every escape blocked and he'd bully you with thirty years of practice at intimidation. If this guy Watson managed to escape Smitty and even turn the tables on him, then he has some huge ones between the legs. That's what Mike meant to say.

Mike went back outside to the crime scene, and I followed another officer back through the door. The man with the briefcase stood beside Watson's table, looking proprietary. Attorney, I guessed.

Gonzalez stood and approached the guy I was following, so I couldn't really get by. Rather than stand by Watson, I had intended to go check the office where the Governor had been, straighten anything that needed fixing, and let the hotel security know they could have the room back.

"What have you got?" Gonzalez asked in a low voice, glancing back to check that he was out of Watson's hearing. I stopped and tried to blend in with the scenery.

"His story checks, Lieutenant," the guy said. "He has a residence in Santa Maria, his employer confirmed him, and the only record he's got is in San Diego where he parked a rental illegally outside the Medical Center. They can't find that he's ever been involved with politics, and he doesn't seem to have any connection to the Governor."

"That's crazy," said Gonzalez. "They've got to look harder."

"They found this outside by a trash can," the man said, handing him an evidence bag with a crumpled business card inside. Gonzalez took it and read the writing on both sides. He raised his bushy eyebrows. "Sir," the guy went on, "even without ballistics, they can tell the shots in the van probably came from the gun Smitty had on him. His was the only .44 out there. Watson's gun was a detective special and Jones had a 9mm."

Gonzalez looked at him for a moment. "Any shots from the 9mm?"

"Yes sir. In the shoe-shine guy's fake leg."

Again Gonzalez's eyebrows lifted. "And the .38?"

"Nothing we've found. But the team upstairs think the woman could have been shot with a .38."

Gonzalez nodded and handed him back the evidence bag. "Get more on Watson. College records. Check out his wife. Get the Governor's staff to give you a list of any organizations they're aware of with a beef with the Governor and find Watson connected to one. It's got to be there."

"Yes sir," said the man. "Should I …"

"Yes?"

"Should I check for Smitty, too?"

Gonzalez didn't answer. I saw his jaw tighten. Then he looked at me. He'd known I was listening all along. I refused to look embarrassed and lifted my chin. Tight-lipped, he nodded. "Jones, too."

They got out of my way, and I attended to the business I'd been aiming at, as quickly as I could, so I could return to Watson. Er, Gonzalez, I meant.

As I approached the cluster by the table, Lynn piped up. "Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom," she said.

An alarmed look entered Watson's gorgeous eyes, and other talking around the table ceased. "Didn't you go when we were there before?" he tried to ask quietly enough to not be heard by all of us.

"You were throwing up, remember?" she said. "And it was the men's room."

Watson blinked and I thought he might have blushed if the blood could win out over his general shock and pallor.

The man with the briefcase stood on Lynn's side of the table. He regarded her somewhat sternly, I thought, but his tone was kindly. "I'll take you, Honey," he said.

"No!" Lynn barked at him, more belligerent than scared.

"Lynn. Don't be rude," said Watson. "Mr. Poole is our friend."

"Daddy, you take me," she pleaded.

"I …" Watson looked around at the police surrounding him.

Gonzalez also searched for a solution, and spotted me. "Officer Schwartz!" he said.

"Yes, sir," says I, my heart sinking.

"This policewoman will take her," Gonzalez said.

The child's eyes went as round as saucers, regarding me, and she froze. "No," she whimpered.

I found her obvious terror unnerving. She seemed bratty enough that I had expected more of a tantrum. This wasn't temper; this was … trauma. I froze, too. What the heck?

Watson looped his bound hands protectively around her. "Listen," he said in a voice more strong and determined than I had heard yet from him, "the last policewoman I left her with tried to shoot her. How can I tell her the police are our friends now?" He scooted with her along the bench seat, toward the attorney.

Ooh, good point. All the cops standing around looked to Gonzalez for instructions, but he merely frowned in silence.

"I'm taking her to the bathroom," Watson said, getting awkwardly and painfully to his feet. "You can all come along, if you like."

Okay, now let me say here, this kind of assertiveness is not permitted in a suspect. From a cop's perspective, this bordered on mouthing off. Gonzalez's frown became a scowl.

I found myself speaking, hoping to intervene. "Security told me there's no exit from the bathroom in the lobby," I told him.

After a second of looking at me, Gonzalez nodded once. "We're all taking a little trip, then," he said, his gaze including my own self and four other cops. At Gonzalez's summons, Martin came too. The attorney - Poole? - also followed, maybe to make sure no questioning of Watson took place without him.

So an entire entourage escorted a five, no, six-year-old girl to the bathroom. As we passed through the lobby, the assembled camera crews swiveled, scooped up their cords, and swarmed. I saw now Martin's role: he ran interference, promising them an on-the-spot statement. They mostly accepted the deal, realizing, I think, that our suspect was well-guarded and an official statement of some kind would give them more than would hounding us. Still, a half-dozen cameras followed our progress across the airy lobby of the Hotel Bonaventure, and I wondered what they thought when they saw where we were going.

Watson made slow progress. His daughter clung to his hand, which forced both of his hands across the front of his body in an awkward angle. His limp was much worse. I ended up at his side opposite Lynn, and I heard his pained breathing. He lurched into me a couple of times, and I swear, it would have been the most natural thing in the world to slip my arm under his and give him some support. The effort to not do that had my heart pounding.

We reached the bathrooms, and the girl balked. "Not the men's room!" she cried.

I couldn't believe Watson managed to keep his temper with her. I knew he was in pain, and making an embarrassing display of himself for her, but he reasoned with her as if no one else were there.

"You can go by yourself in the Ladies'," he suggested, though there was an odd tone of apprehension in his voice. He didn't want to let her go, I realized. Geez, there really was a lot of trauma around here.

"You come with me," she begged.

"I'll wait right here for when you come out."

The girl didn't answer for a moment, but then she sort of whispered, "What if they take you away?"

Watson caressed her head. "Honey, believe me, it's a lot worse for me to go in the Ladies Room than for you to come in the Men's Room," he said gently. "Let's go in the Men's."

One of the guys ducked into the Men's Room to check it out.

"Let's go, Sweetpea," he said, steering her firmly.

The guy popped out, right behind a startled looking hotel patron. "All clear," he said.

"Just pretend it's the Ladies' Room, Honey. You were in here before."

Father and daughter passed through the swinging door, two cops on their heels.

"I can't pretend that," Lynn said, practically. "What are those funny little sinks for?"

The door closed, so the others and I didn't hear Watson's response.