4:10 pm

But they didn't talk right then, to my disappointment, so I didn't have a chance to haul Mike to the side. Lt. Gonzalez settled in with a tape recorder and asked Watson to start at the beginning. I was itching with curiosity, and so were most of the other guys, I could tell. Mike joined the silent door guards, still with that knowing look on his face. I could find no excuse to drag him outside and question him. I had to settle for glaring at him. He gave me a slight smile.

Soon, though, I was caught up in the story Gene Watson was telling. He spoke in a tired, matter-of-fact way as he described the events of earlier today. His daughter's attention wandered, but the rest of us were riveted. I learned why he was wet; Smitty had thrown him off a stairwell and into one of the fountains. Injured, bruised, wet and panicked, he had dragged himself up and charged out to the van where he saw Smitty shoot at the child. Apparently Jones had been occupied with Hardimon. Watson killed Smitty and Hardimon knocked Jones unconscious. Watson had then taken his daughter to the bathroom, where, I gathered from the girl's comment earlier, he had been sick. Hotel security nabbed him as they came out, and that's where his story met up with what we already knew.

"He said, 'I knew I'd make a killer out of you, Mr. Watson.' It was . . . the last thing he said," Watson said, frowning.

He'd mentioned that before. I guessed the guy was a bit hung up over that. You know, I've never had to kill anyone, but at least I've had some preparation for it, and have friends who've dealt with it. Watson was just on his way home from his wife's funeral.

Geez, I could've kicked myself. My next thought was 'Hey, that means he's single!' God, I'm hopeless.

Gonzalez asked some clarifying questions, but I could tell he had lost a lot of his skepticism. Poole gave very little advice to his client, and seemed to have few objections to how Gonzalez proceeded, which also told me the questioning had lost its sharp edge. How I wanted to know what had been in Mike's bag!

A commotion at the door to the lobby attracted everyone's attention. Captain Plunkett and co. had returned from wherever they had escorted the Governor to. The commotion was caused by Plunkett being pursued by reporters right to the door of our office. The door opened, admitting some of the men with him, and also admitting a blinding beam from a TV camera. Our training kicked in and we door guards automatically moved to block any view of Watson and his daughter. This put me next to Mike as Captain Plunkett himself finally made his entrance, almost slamming the door on somebody's hand holding a mike.

Plunkett's presence is always hard to ignore. Gonzalez glanced uneasily at him, though he should have had all his attention on his suspect or witness, or whatever Watson was now. For his part, Captain Plunkett surveyed the room, noticing, I am sure, Watson's un-handcuffed state, and glancing over me. I held my breath, but if he still had any beef with my handling of the Governor earlier, I saw no sign of it. He inclined his bald head at Martin. "Detective" he said, summoning the lieutenant for an audience. He swept into the office I had just straightened up, followed by Martin and a couple of others. At least he was getting out of the way of the questioning. Probably what he intended.

In his wake, we all breathed out, fluttered, and re-settled ourselves. The energy in the room called for taking a break. I couldn't haul Mike out to the lobby - not with reporters right on the other side of the door - but I grabbed a chance at a whisper. "What was in the bag?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the case," he whispered back, looking down at me from the side, coy.

"So don't discuss, asshole, tell me," I replied. I'm Mike's partner! No fair holding out.

He grinned and gave me a placating nod, telling me he'd spill as soon as he could. Not good enough, darn it. I wanted to know, now. I looked around, frustrated. There were other offices . . . pretty obvious if we vanished into one, but I wasn't going to get another chance. Already, Poole, who had found the water cooler, was returning, and someone had placed a styrofoam cup of coffee in front of Gonzalez. Lynn, who had jumped up in a burst of childish energy and run from desk to desk collecting Kleenex boxes, obeyed her father's summons back to his side, and in moments we'd all be back to silent door-guarding.

I grabbed Mike's arm and tried to haul him into the nearest small office. He resisted, darn it. I have mentioned that Mike's a big guy? It was like trying to move a six foot pile of rock. Well, there are ways. I adjusted my grip and got his fingers in a painful control hold. He gasped, gave me an outraged look, but rather than make a scene, he followed.

Feeling like a teenager slipping into the janitor's closet for nookie between classes, I pulled him after me and shut the door. He wrenched his hand away and I let him go.

"Patty!"

"What was in the bag? Talk fast."

No arguing. He gave. "In the van there was a portable printing machine for labels like name tags. The tape leaves an imprint, and you could see the last thing it had printed. The name Gene Watson."

I nodded, but must have looked blank. Very suggestive, but not clearly incriminating.

"Also, a cassette tape."

"A tape?"

"A wiretap tape. Smitty's no detective. It must have been unauthorized. We popped it in the van's tape deck. It was a call where Brendan Grant tells him to find an assassin to kill his wife."

"Tells Smitty?"

"Yep."

I'm ashamed to say I wasn't quick on the uptake with this. "Why would Smitty keep such a thing?"

"Blackmail," said Mike, like he had said "Duh."