Chapter Six

Framed

I

The girl nervously paced in the lobby of the Grand Hotel. She held a slender leather portfolio protectively in front of her like it was a shield. With pink-streaked golden hair that tumbled down to her knees, a slender small-breasted figure and a short pale green flowered diaphanous dress she looked more like a lost fairy than a real life girl. She stopped her pacing for a moment to check her watch, then continued her pacing for a few minutes longer. Again she checked her watch. Not believing that so little time had passed since she had last checked it she pulled if off her wrist and gave it a shake.

Finally with a sigh she gave up her worried pacing, and headed for the sunken bar in the center of the hotel's huge atrium under the five story waterfall.

"I'll have a Brandy Alexander," she said to the bartender in a soft Irish accent.

"Looks like you're waiting for someone," he commented as he handed her the drink and collected the money for it.

She nodded slightly with a small smile that made the bartender wonder if she was really the 23 her driver's license said she was, "Yes, well, I'm not really waiting for him, well, I guess I am, it's just that he doesn't know I'm waiting for him."

"Oh?"

"Yes, well, you see I know he's going to be here, but he doesn't know that I'm going to be here."

"So it's a surprise."

She nodded harder, "Yes, it's going to be a big surprise." A grin appeared on her face only to quickly disappear under a cloud of worry.

"Is it going to be pleasant surprise?"

"Well, no, well, yes, well, maybe, you see I think he'll be happy to see me at first."

"But then?"

She brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder with a hand that slightly trembled. For the first time the bartender noticed a yellowing bruise at the point where her jaw met under her right ear. "It's always hard when you have to break up with someone," she explained.

"Is that where you got the bruise?"

She nodded. "He didn't mean to. He's very nice man, you know. He's very sweet most of the time. And he's so handsome. Even for a guy his age, he's awfully well built, and he's so sexy."

"But . . . "

"Well, you see, he was drinking. He's got this bad leg that sometimes hurts a lot, and well, we got to arguing. 'bout nothing really, 'cept I was wondering if he was going to really divorce his wife, and well, he got mad, you know," she explained in a rush of words.

"If you ask me, you're better off without the guy," the bartender suggested.

"Maybe, except, you know, when a guy pays for your place and gives you an allowance as big as what he's giving me, well, it's kind of hard to say no to all that."

"But still if a guy roughs you up . . . "

"He doesn't do it all the time. Only when he gets to drinking and that's only when he's hurting really bad."

"But it sounds like you finally got the courage to break it off with him."

"Yeah," she said, the grin lightening up her face like a ray of sunshine. "I found a new guy. He's so cute, and best of all he's single. He doesn't have much money, but he says he loves me."

She glanced down at her watch, "Do you have the time? I don't think my watch is working."

The bartender checked his own watch, "You have right time, it's 3:30. That's a nice watch," he said, admiring the band of pink mother of pearl flowers and yellow citrine.

"Yeah, my new boyfriend made it for me," she said happily. "Oh, there he is," she said spotting a man heading into the hotel's restaurant that opened out into the atrium.

The bartender, turned around to see a tall grey haired man pause at the hotel's entrance before going in. "Say isn't that Britt Reid, the guy who owns the Daily Sentinel?"

"Uh huh," she said as she gathered up the leather portfolio and slid off the barstool.

The bartender shook his head as he watched the girl hurry over to the restaurant, nearly skipping as she went.

II

Britt felt himself drift out of sleep. Digging himself deeper into the covers, he held on to the delicious dream of the soft form pressed to his, the way the curves of breasts and hips felt under his hands, the wine and sweet cherry taste of the lips that pressed so hungrily to his, the way the red hair brushed against his naked skin. Still half in the dream he was again aroused, remembering how hands expertly caressed his body bringing pleasure again and again.

His brows knitted in confusion as he started to drift awake again. Red hair, hair the color of an Irish setter in the fall, or was it blonde hair, streaked in pink? Still didn't make any sense. Should be blonde, yes, but strawberry blonde, red-gold with threads of silver intermixed. He shook his head, regretting it immediately as pain shot from the nape of his neck and settled like an evil troll over his eyebrows. He groaned. Nothing felt right. He blearily opened one eye to see that he was in a hotel room. That's not right, he thought, should be at home.

He raised his left arm to look at his watch, 11 o'clock. What the hell? A tiny slit of light seeping through the drapes was the only clue that he had that it was eleven A.M., not PM. Somewhere along the way he had lost almost half a day. Again he shook his head trying to clear it. It didn't help. It only made his head hurt worse. My God, it was real, he suddenly realized, as he ran his fingers over the deep scratches on his chest, it wasn't a dream. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as if he could reawaken in his own home and in his own bed.

Casey, he whispered half -aloud as he pulled himself up. How is she going to take this?

He groped for a lamp on the wall above the bedside table and turned it on. Even though he expected it, the brightness of the light stabbed into his aching brain like a knife. For a moment he could only stare aghast at the chaotic mess in the room. It looked like a hurricane had struck. Torn clothing and a shredded bedspread were strewn all over the floor, along with overturned chairs and a fallen floor lamp. Dark stains were splattered over the clothing and the floor. Britt pulled himself shakily out of the bed and carefully examined the stain on a piece of the bedspread. His stomach lurched when he realized it was blood.

It was everywhere including the sheets of the bed he had been lying on, and to his horror on his hands and body. He knew that there was no way the scratches across his chest could have bled enough to have caused the amount of splattering he saw around him. Realizing that since it didn't come from him, it must have come from someone else, he started frantically searching the room, throwing up the scattered clothing and bedclothes. There had to be a body or something to account for all that blood.

There was nothing. Britt didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. He sat back down on the bed, trying to think. It was a set up, of that he was sure. A frame, with him as the patsy, but if that was true, there should be a body. There wasn't. Why? It didn't make sense. For a frame to work he'd have to be found with a dead body, but there wasn't one.

Britt shook his head. He didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on, but he did know that he couldn't be found in this room. He had to get out of there and fast. Unfortunately his all of clothing was torn and bloodstained. There was no way he could get through the lobby unnoticed, he would have to call home and get someone out to the hotel with a change of clothes for him.

He heard the rap on the door just as he reached for the phone.

"Security," came a man's voice just before the door opened.

III

"C'mon, Reid, let's go over it one more time," Detective Morrisey said tiredly. He knew Reid wasn't going to say anything different from what he had said several times before. But you never know, he thought, sometimes when someone gets tired enough, or in the publisher's case, angry enough, little inconsistencies start showing up. Inconsistencies that could make or break a case.

"As I've told you before Detective, I have no idea what happened. I woke up in the hotel room, stark naked, with a blazing headache and blood all over the place. I swear I didn't hurt anyone."

"So you don't remember the girl that you went up to the room with?"

Reid closed his eyes for a moment, trying to keep his temper. "I remember the girl," he said slowly as if he was talking to the village idiot, "She approached me in the restaurant. She said she had some important information to show me. She had a leather portfolio with her."

"But she didn't show you what was in them?" Morrisey asked.

"No, she didn't. She said she wanted to talk about it where it was more private."

"And then what?"

"I paid the waitress, got up from the table and followed the girl up to her hotel room."

"And then?"

"We had something to drink and . . . "

"And?"

"And then everything gets really foggy."

"Foggy," Morrisey pounced on the word, "What do you mean 'foggy'? Foggy sounds like you remember something."

"I don't remember anything," Reid insisted through clenched teeth.

"Yes, you do, you remember something. It might be foggy, but you remember something."

"I don't remember. All I remember is being with the girl in the hotel room, I think, I don't know. I don't know if I was dreaming things or if it really happened."

"Okay, so it was like a dream. Tell me about it."

Reid shook his head, "No, I don't know. I don't remember."

"So you're trying to expect us to believe that somebody drugged you, murdered the girl and set you up for a frame up?"

"It has to be."

"If that's the case, why wasn't a body left?"

"I don't know, but if I killed the girl, where's her body?"

"You tell me."

"I don't know," Reid hissed.

Morrisey tossed a manila folder in front of Reid, "Take a look at this stuff. This is what was found in the portfolio. They're receipts for an apartment uptown and credit card receipts in your name."

The publisher looked through them, "They may be in my name, but I didn't pay these. Somebody else did it in my name. It wasn't me. I swear that I've never heard of this 'Christy Isaacs' before."

"She told the bartender at the Grand Hotel that she knew you really well. She told him that you had been paying for her apartment, and for her upkeep because she was your lover. She said she was going to give you the heave ho because she was tired of you roughing her up all the time."

"I don't know the girl," the publisher insisted, saying each word slowly, his anger starting to seep out.

Morrisey leaned over the publisher, glaring into the man's pale blue eyes. The D.A. had insisted that they only give Reid a towel to cover his nakedness with the idea that the man might feel more vulnerable. Big mistake. If Reid had been an underweight accountant type or grossly overweight, it might have worked. However if anyone felt uncomfortable it was Morrisey. The publisher was a big man, well muscled with a deeply tanned scarred hide. The detective had the feeling that Reid could kill him with his bare hands if he had the mind to.

It was more than Reid's physical power that gave Morrisey pause. He could work around that. He had come across men much larger than Reid before. Even Reid's power in the community didn't phase him. Perversely, he relished the idea of bringing somebody in Reid's privileged position down a peg or two.

What bothered him, what made him want to look away were Reid's ice blue eyes that seemed to change color even while you were looking into them. They were the kind of eyes that seemed to examine a person's soul down to the tiniest detail. They were the eyes of a man who did not back down. Morrisey forced himself to look into those disturbing eyes. He was not going to be the one to back down. Not this time.

"You know what I think?" Morrisey said, continuing his attack, "I think you had this little chick in your back pocket the whole time. I think you were keeping her on the side for whenever you felt like a midday snack or when the old ball and chain didn't feel like putting up with you. I think a guy like you needs to knock women around like the Isaacs girl once in a while, just to prove you still had the cajones to rule the roost. But little Christy suddenly found herself a young rooster who could not only satisfy her better than you, also didn't rough her up whenever he had a bad day.

"So she met you at the restaurant to give you the news. 'Course you acted like it wasn't a big deal, so for old times sake you took her up to the hotel room for a roll in the hay. So when did you decide to off her? Was it when she gave you the kiss off? Did you take her up to the room, planning to murder her then? Or was it after you had finished screwing her, and decided that if you couldn't have her, nobody would? Or was it after she showed you this?" Morrisey said he tossed down his ace in the hole.

The publisher stared aghast at the picture in front of him. It was an ultrasound of a fetus.

"Did she tell you that it was yours and that she was going to sue for support? Were you afraid of what would happen if your wife found out?"

Reid shook his head. " I have never cheated on my wife. I have never met that girl. I have never had sex with her," he insisted angrily as he rose to his feet.

Sensing his partner behind him reaching for his gun, Morrisey moved between Weston and the publisher. He wanted to make sure that his young partner wouldn't make the mistake of overreacting and shooting their prime suspect; especially if it turned out the man was innocent.

However, he couldn't risk losing the head of steam Reid was building. Anger was what he aiming for. In anger there is truth. "I think you're a freaking liar," Morrisey growled, "I think you murdered that girl after you screwed her brains out. Then to cover for it, you had some buddies of yours pick up the body and then you made it look like it was part of a frame up. I think you're a god damn liar and a cold-blooded murderer."

"I did not kill that girl," Reid gritted, his voice shaking in barely suppressed rage.

"Then tell me what happened to her."

"I don't know."

"Liar. You do know."

"No, I don't."

"Yes you do. You saw something. You know something. You said everything's foggy. Tell me what it is," the detective insisted. "If you didn't kill the girl, if you want to me to believe you, tell me. I don't care whether or not you remember it clearly, just tell me what you remember."

The detective could see the muscle in Reid's jaw twitch as the wheels started turning in his brain. Morrisey pressed, "You've spent all your life observing and reporting. You're a trained observer. I'd believe your half-formed impressions more than somebody else's positive declarations. Tell me, Reid."

Reid's blue eyes narrowed in thought. I'm getting somewhere, Morrisey thought, tough old bastard's thinking it out. Tough, an old bastard . . . scarred . . . The idea that Morrisey had been playing with ever since his last encounter with Reid and his family came to the forefront.

"Why don't you go get yourself some coffee?" he said to his partner.

"But . . . "

"And get me some while you're at it, too."

"I can't leave you alone with the prisoner. That's not proper procedure," Weston protested. We could get into a hell of a lot of trouble."

"Just do it," Morrisey snapped, keeping his eyes locked on Reid's, "If nobody's knows. It didn't happen."

Weston looked between the older detective and the publisher. "Okay," he finally said, realizing that Morrisey needed to have a few minutes alone with the suspect. Sometimes there were things done or said during questioning that shouldn't be witnessed.

Morrisey waited until he heard the door lock behind him. He pressed the recorder button to off. This was going to be off the record.

"This has to do with the Green Hornet, doesn't it? Whoever set this up knows that you're the Green Hornet. Don't they?" Morrisey demanded, hoping that he could get Reid to trust him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Reid replied through clenched teeth.

"Look, Reid, I've been watching you and your whole family ever since last Christmas. I have a damn good idea that you're the Green Hornet. Especially after that run in with Hakenkrueze. The Green Hornet has a knock down, drag out fight with a guy who thinks he's some kind of Aryan superman and then I see you the next day looking like you went six rounds with the World Champ. And you tell me you slipped on some ice? C'mon Reid, a guy like you don't slip on ice, and you sure as hell wouldn't fall on your face. There's only one way you could've gotten those bruises, and that was in a fight. A big one. Like one with Hakenkrueze. As the Green Hornet." Morrisey could see the wheels continuing to turn in Reid's head.

"Do you think your case is so weak you have to accuse me of being the Green Hornet?" Reid asked suspiciously.

Damn, Morrisey thought, Wrong answer. "No, Reid, that's not it. All I want is the truth. I want to find out what happened to that girl. Don't you realize if you tell me what happened we can get whoever is behind this? If this girl is dead, don't you want the people who did it punished?" he said, hoping to appeal to the publisher's sense of justice.

"If you believe I am the Green Hornet, why haven't you pursued it?" Reid asked.

"I have been pursuing it, but on my own time. I'm keeping it on the QT until I'm sure of my facts. I don't believe in making any kind of accusations until I'm sure of what I got. I'm not even sure if the Green Hornet is a crook or at least not yet. Some of the stuff I've been looking it is making me wonder about that," Morrisey admitted. "Tell me what you remember and I'll see what I can do for you." For good or bad, Morrisey could see that Reid was starting to cool off. Problem was Reid was smart and very sharp. Too sharp to make any mistake he could take advantage of.

"Okay, Morrisey, Let's go over this just for the sake of argument," Reid began reasonably, "Let's just say I tell you who it is, or who I think I recognize as one of the people who was in that room with that girl and me. You bring in this person who may wind up confessing to what happened, unlikely if you ask me, but anyway maybe you put on enough pressure and this person talks. Let's say that person also has evidence that proves that I am the Green Hornet. You wind up solving this case and as an extra bonus, get the Green Hornet. Lucky you. And where the hell do you think that leaves me and my family?

"I'll tell you. For beginners forget the Sentinel. I've been through it once already. The Sentinel will be toast. Its reputation, something I've spent nearly my entire life establishing will go directly into the dumpster. People wouldn't even want to line their birdcages with it, never buying and reading it. So my people will wind up on the streets.

"They're the lucky ones," Reid continued as he paced the room, "It's my family who will suffer the worse. I have faith they'll make do with whatever resources they're left with if we lose the Sentinel, but you have to realize the Green Hornet has a lot of enemies. Hakenkrueze is just one of the latest, but like him they all want revenge. Now they all can't take it out on the Hornet, especially since I'm sure at that point he'd be in prison. So who do you think is left?" Reid demanded, looking the detective in the eye.

Morrisey lowered his eyes, imagining the bleak future Reid was outlining.

Reid wasn't through. "And what about the Green Hornet? Like I said, he has a lot of enemies, and most of them are in prison. Where they wound up because of him. Do you remember that prison riot back in Santa Fe, New Mexico? I do. It wasn't pretty. There were very few pictures from it we could publish in the paper. Not without sickening people at their dinner tables. The people who were under protective custody were the first to go. Horribly. The Green Hornet wouldn't survive more than a day in prison and it would be a very bad way to die.

"So you want me to tell you who I might have recognized in that room? Why? Even if this case does go to court and I get convicted, and I damn well promise you I'll fight tooth and nail the entire time of the trial, I'll be sent to prison as Britt Reid. And that's a damn sight better than going there as the Green Hornet, I can tell you that. I probably won't last there very long, but if I do get killed, it'll be a shiv in the back, and that'll be a hell of a lot better than what the Green Hornet would get."

Morrisey chewed the inside of his lip. "So you aren't going to tell me," he said with a tired sigh.

Reid nodded. "That's right. I can't."

"Then you're screwed."

"I know."

A quick rap on the door broke the tension between the two men. "Detective Morrisey," the guard said as he entered the interrogation room, "Mr. Reid's lawyer is here."

Morrisey saw ex-D.A. Frank Scanlon standing behind the guard. "Mr. Scanlon, you're going to represent Mr. Reid?" he asked.

"Yes, just because I've been representing the State for most of my career doesn't mean I can't do defense," Scanlon said as he took the detective's hand in greeting. Scanlon frowned noticing that Reid wore nothing but a towel around his waist. "Why wasn't my client provided with decent clothing?" he demanded.

"It was the D.A.'s idea," Morrisey answered.

"I see," Scanlon responded. "I will, of course, protest this untoward treatment of my client. I want Mr. Reid provided with a clean change of clothing and a chance to take a shower before our interview."

IV

Frank sat across from Britt at a scarred wooden table, the same one he had sat at many times before while questioning suspects during the years he was the D.A. Although it had always been his biggest fear that Britt would be caught as the Green Hornet, he never expected to find himself defending Britt against a murder accusation. Not after all these years.

Despite himself, he was shocked at the publisher's appearance. Britt had been given a chance to shower, and shave and was now dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit. However, he looked ten years older than his real age. His face was lined with exhaustion and there was a worrying grey cast beneath the publisher's normally deep tan. Frank was uncomfortably reminded of Britt's father. Many years ago, Henry Reid had been convicted for a murder that he had not committed and had died soon afterwards. Frank threw off the dread with a subconscious shiver. He'd do everything in his power to stop history from repeating itself.

Although the publisher's hands were currently still, Scanlon noticed red welts where he had been worrying the manacles around his wrists. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Fine," Britt said bitterly, "Considering I've been poked and prodded and groped in places my own doctor wouldn't touch. It was like my entire body was a crime scene. There were so many pictures taken of me that they could fill an album. I wouldn't be surprised if they wind up in some tabloid like the Clarion. Crawford would have a field day with them."

Frank shook his head tiredly with a sigh. "What happened?" he asked.

The publisher closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly with one hand as the other one trailed along bound by the manacles that slowed his movement as if they weighed tons instead of a few pounds.

"I've read Morrisey's report, but I want to hear about it in your own words," Scanlon explained.

"The girl, she said her name was Christy Isaacs, came to my table in the restaurant. She said she had some important information for me and didn't want to talk about it in public," Britt began.

"What did she look like?"

"Young, pretty. She was about five five, one ten, maybe a bit less, early to mid twenties at the most. Big blue eyes, small breasts, slender figure, spoke with a slight Irish accent, hair down to her knees." A brief uplift of the corner of his mouth appeared. "A natural blonde, except for dark pink streaks on the upper layers of her hair. She looked like one of those street kids near the university. Sweet, but not too smart."

Scanlon checked the description on his sheet of paper. It matched what the bartender had given. "Did you see any marks, say bruises or cuts or anything else?"

Britt nodded, looking less tired. The investigator inside him overcoming his weariness. "Yes, there was a bruise on her right jaw, right under her ear." He showed the position, again one hand enslaved to the other. "There was also a bruise on her upper right arm, a big one, probably made when someone grabbed her," he continued.

Scanlon rubbed his own jaw in thought. "You usually lead with your right when you fight, don't you?" he asked.

Britt nodded, "Most of the time. Kato used to give me hell for it, he said I should try to vary my technique more, but . . . " He shrugged instead of finishing his sentence.

"If it works, why change it," Scanlon finished for him.

Britt nodded.

Scanlon tapped the table for a few moments in thought. "So whoever hit the girl was probably left-handed."

"That's my guess."

"Anything else distinctive about the girl? Anything about what she was wearing? Jewelry, necklaces, anything like that?"

"She kept on fiddling with her watch like she was nervous, or worried about the time," Britt replied. " It was a handmade job with pink mother of pearl flowers and yellow faceted stones, probably yellow crystal or citrine."

Frank checked the listing of what was found at the crime scene. No watch. No body either.

"What happened after you met the girl in the restaurant?"

"Like I said, she didn't want to talk in the restaurant. She said she had a room in the hotel and wanted to talk there."

"Rooms at the Grand are expensive, do you think she could've afforded one?" Frank asked.

Britt shrugged. "Not at first thought, no, but some of these kids who go around in rags are very rich, or at least their parents are."

"Do you think she was?"

"Hard to tell," Britt admitted.

Frank checked his paper again. "The hotel said it was paid for by a credit card. In your name. Are you missing any?"

Britt shook his head. "Nope."

"Have any idea where she might've gotten one in your name?"

"Might have been issued in my name under false pretenses," Britt suggested.

"That would take a lot of preplanning to do that."

"Sure would," Britt agreed.

Frank continued, "So you went up to the room with the girl. What happened then?"

"We sat at one of those small tables you see in hotel rooms and went over the papers the girl had."

"Did she have the papers in anything?"

"Yes, it was a brown leather portfolio, slender with a zipper. I don't remember seeing any brand names, you know, like Gucci or whatever."

Frank checked the evidence list again. A portfolio was listed matching Britt's description. And the bartender's. "Do you remember what was on those papers?"

"Looked like your normal conspiracy type stuff. You know, the evil government is hiding secrets about a crash landing in Roswell, Area 51. That kind of stuff. It might be okay for the Clarion but not for the Sentinel."

"Did you tell her that?"

"As gently as I could, yes."

"And then?"

"She got a little weepy, but I tried to be as easy on her as I could," Britt explained.

"So you're saying that what you were shown was nothing like what the police found in it."

"That's right, especially the ultrasound."

"Morrisey showed you that?"

Britt nodded.

Frank studied Britt for a few moments. He'd known the publisher long enough to recognize when something was bothering him. "So the girl was getting weepy, what did you do about it?"

Britt hesitated.

"Britt, I need you to be as honest with me as you can be. Remember I am going to have to defend you. The more information I have the better. Did you try to comfort her?"

"Well, yes. She reminded me of Danielle a bit. Well, not physically, it's just that she seemed to be so young and vulnerable."

"What did you do?"

"I held her in my arms. She was crying, you know, and that's usually the way to stop a woman crying." Again there was slight wry lift of the corner of his mouth. "At least that's the theory, but damned if I've ever seen it work."

"So you held her in your arms . . . " Frank checked Morrisey's statement. There was nothing in it about Britt hugging the girl. "Then what?"

Again Britt hesitated.

"Britt . . . "

"I don't know."

"Britt . . . "

The publisher sighed. "I was starting to feel dizzy, light headed . . . "

The ex-D.A. frowned. "Did you eat or drink anything while you were with this girl?"

"We had some drinks while we were going over the papers."

"Did the two of you have the same thing?"

Britt nodded, "She had some cans of Diet Coke and a bucket of ice."

"Did you drink from the can or did she pour it into glasses?"

"Into glasses."

"From the same can?"

"No, she poured her own, and then poured mine from another can and gave that can to me."

Frank made a note to ask about glasses and cans of soda and to make sure that if found that they were tested for drug residues. He also noted that some blood had already been drawn from Britt and made another note to make sure that it was tested for drugs and for the results to be given to him.

"So there's a possibility you might have been drugged."

"Not a possibility. A surety," Britt answered.

"So you were hugging the girl, and you were feeling light headed. Then what happened?" He could see Britt was hesitating again. The publisher was definitely avoiding something. Something he had told the detective he didn't remember. "We've been friends a long time, Britt," he reminded him, "Now's not the time to start getting secretive with me, especially since your life is literally in my hands."

Britt sighed, avoiding Scanlon's eyes. "She started to take off my clothes."

"She what?"

"She started to take off my clothes," Britt said in a tight voice. He frowned, trying to capture a memory. "I think something must have gotten spilled on my clothes. Maybe my drink . . . "

"And you didn't resist?"

Britt shook his head. "No, I didn't. I felt like I wasn't in control of my actions. I was aware of what was happening but I couldn't do anything about it."

"So she took off your clothes, and did she take off hers as well?"

"Yes," Britt said through clenched teeth.

"Then what happened?"

"Do I have to paint you a picture?" Britt bit out.

"So you had sex?"

"Yes."

"And afterwards?"

Britt shook his head. "I'm not sure. I don't know if what I remember is real or some kind of terrible fantasy. I was nearly totally out of it by then."

"What do you remember?"

"Someone else came into the room and starting arguing with the girl. I think they were behind schedule or something. I remember a bright light moving around just beyond my field of vision. It might have been on a video camera. I couldn't see the cameraman though."

"What did this person who was arguing with the girl look like?"

Britt shook his head again. "I'm not sure, Frank. I mean it. I might be totally off base with this," he warned.

"You recognized this person?"

Britt pressed a hand against his chest. Frank could see the angry tip of a nasty scratch showing above the vee of the jumpsuit's neckline.

"I think it was Shannon de la Culebra."

"You sure?"

"No, I'm not sure. That's my whole point. I don't know if it was really her or not."

"Okay, so she argued with the girl, then what happened?"

"Then she came over where I was on the bed . . . "

"Shannon . . . "

"Or somebody resembling her . . . "

"And?"

"I remember her smiling at me. She was very pleased with herself. She took off her clothes, climbed onto the bed and straddled me."

Frank's eyebrows rose. "Now you said that you couldn't control your movements, but you were still able too . . . "

"Yes."

"So you had sex with her, too."

"No, she had sex with me. There's a difference."

But not one that most people would swallow, Scanlon thought. He continued, "I take it that's when you got those scratches."

"Yes."

Frank sighed and grimaced. "And do you remember her saying or doing something that was significant?"

"Other than screaming and moaning in pleasure?" Britt gritted.

Frank rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"She leaned down and whispered in my ear that she knew who I was and that this time she had me right where she wanted me. Then she scratched my chest. Slowly."

Frank winced at the thought. Those scratches looked damned deep. "What do you think she meant by that?"

"She had a run in with the Green Hornet, remember?"

"I do, but . . . " Frank said, not quite understanding.

"That time the Green Hornet got away before she could get any further than the waistband."

"But you think she recognized your scars."

"That's what her husband and Crawford of the Clarion were harping on during the Rivers show when I appeared on it last fall."

"So if she recognized the scars, she probably thinks she now knows who the Green Hornet is."

"Not think, knows," Britt pointed out.

"Did anything else happen? Anything that might explain why there's blood but no body."

Britt shrugged. "By the time Shannon got through with me, I was pretty much out of it. I might have heard some more arguing, maybe some screaming, but I can't be sure."

"But nothing to explain what happened to the girl?"

"Nothing."

Frank checked his notes and ran over the statements he had from the bartender, the hotel personnel and the results of Morrisey's interrogation. Not much to go on. Only hope is the results of the drug screen when they come back. "Okay," he finally said, "You said you were drugged." He raised his hand when Britt started to say something. "I believe you, but we're going to have prove that. Anyway, do you think the drug was something that could have caused you to hurt the girl?"

"Oh, Frank," Britt said, disgustedly shaking his head. "You know me better than that. I'm not a killer, especially of young women. The only time I've ever harmed anyone was in self defense."

"I know that, but could you have been given some kind of hallucinogen that made you think you were fighting something or someone else? Someone you had to kill in self defense?"

Britt shook his head. "That wouldn't explain why there's no body."

"Maybe Shannon had it taken it way."

"Why?"

Frank shrugged. "Damned if I know. Another possibility could be that the girl escaped."

"Then why didn't anybody see her? If she's still alive why hasn't she tried to contact the police?"

"Could be she's in no shape to go to the police. There was a lot of blood there. It had to come from somewhere." Frank suggested.

"Have any Jane Doe's shown up at any of the hospitals or anyone that might fit the girl's description?" Britt asked.

Frank made a note. "I don't have any information about that yet. That might be a good place to start. I'll have my people look into that."

"So what are my chances?" Britt asked.

"Under most circumstances I think I could get you out in a few hours on your own recognizance. After all there's no body and you do have a lot of ties here. Family, business, things that usually are considered when setting up bail."

"But . . . "

"Circumstances aren't normal. The judge who's been assigned to your case is Gayle Harding. She's called 'No Bail' Gayle for good reason. She's a damn tough judge and hates to be accused of playing favorites. Your position in the community is going to work against you in this case. Just to prove she's above influence, she's going to make sure you don't get off easily. She's already stated this is not going to turn out to be another O.J. trial or like that Binion Case in Las Vegas. She's going to make sure you stay behind bars for the duration. And she's not going to allow any kind of leeway when it comes to the funny stuff either Like that time you were framed years ago. Slugging the D.A. and running off is not going to go over real well."

A wry smile appeared briefly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Of course that's not saying that the current D.A. doesn't need to be slugged."

Frank frowned sternly at Britt. "That attitude doesn't help you a whole hell of a lot either. You've gone out of your way to make Chong's life hell. Now he has you where he wants you."

"C'mon, Frank, you know as well as I he's a pompous bastard. The guy goes on about how his parents emigrated to the states without a penny in their pockets and made it big through hard work and thrift. Hell, he doesn't want to mention that his old man skipped China ahead of an anti-corruption sweep in Hong Kong and that he had gold coins sewn inside his coat when he left. Chong's Harvard education was paid with money earned from extortion and loan sharking."

"Now, Britt, you never proved that."

"Only because the Green Hornet couldn't find enough evidence for the D.A. then, meaning you, to go to court with."

"That was a long time ago, Britt," Frank reminded him.

"Yeah," Britt agreed, "If I hadn't had the bright idea to go after Jackson, I would've found the proof about Old Man Chong and not be where I am today," he said bitterly. "So I take it, that I have a snowball's chance in hell of getting out of here any time soon," he concluded.

Frank nodded. "I'm afraid so. But don't worry. I'm building the best defense team possible and I'm looking into some detective agencies as well. I'll have you out of here soon, and I'll have you out as an innocent man," he said hopefully. "Maybe it's a good idea that you're behind bars anyway," he added as he rose to his feet."

Britt frowned. "Why?"

"I've heard that Anthony Hakenkrueze is still alive."

"Impossible, the Green Hornet saw him get run over by a train."

"Hakenkrueze didn't get run over by the train, at least not all of him. He's mostly in one piece, except for his left arm, that is. Word's on the street that he's after the Green Hornet for revenge. Maybe he'll lose interest or give up by the time you're out of jail."

"There's a problem there, Frank."

"What?"

"Remember the reports about the Green Hornet being spotted at a big gangland battle?"

"Yeah."

"I was at Archer's charity ball that night."

"Then who?"

"Guess. I want you to make sure John and Lee keep the black car under wraps. No point in two Reids being in jail. Or worse," Britt added meaningfully.