Free The Kill Clause by Gregg Hurwitz Page A

with Beltway brass, or sycophantic bureaucrats from other government agencies. Much to the chagrin of the street deputies, one of the marshals out of Florida was a former professional clown. Tannino, on the other hand, had logged plenty of trigger time in his distinguished career, so he was respected from bottom to top in the district office and elsewhere.
    He wore a focused expression, running a hand through his coiffed salt-and-pepper hair as Freed filled him in.
    Miller squeezed Tim’s shoulder. “We need to get you a paramedic?”
    Tim shook his head. The aftermath of the adrenaline kick had left his mouth dry and sour. The area smelled of sweat and cordite.
    One of the police officers crouched over Tim and flipped open his black notebook. He started to talk, but Tim cut him off. “I have no statement.”
    Tannino stepped in hard, his knee brushing against the cop so he had to stand to regain his balance. “Get out of here,” he said. “You know better than that.”
    “Just doing my job, Marshal.”
    “Do it elsewhere.”
    The cop retreated inside the hotel room.
    “How are you doing?” Tannino asked. He was looking Hill Street hip in his Harvey Woods sport coat, polyester slacks, and Nunn Bush wingtips.
    “Okay.” Tim unholstered his Smith & Wesson, double-checked that the wheel was empty save the six casings, and handed it over to Tannino, not wanting to make him ask for it. The weapon was no longer his; it was federal evidence.
    “We’ll get you a fresh one soon.”
    “I’d appreciate that.”
    “Let’s get you out of this mess. The media monkeys are banging the bars, and the scene’s gonna heat up.”
    “Thanks, Marshal. I fired si—”
    The marshal held up his hand. “Not now, not here. Nothing oral, ever. You know the game. You’ll make one statement one time, and it’ll be in writing. You did your job and did it well—now let’s jump thehoops and make sure you’re protected.” He offered his hand and pulled Tim up off the wall. “Let’s go.”
     
    •The room was small and painfully bright. Tim shifted on the examination table, and the stiff paper beneath him crinkled. Bear and the other ART members had also been cleared to County USC Hospital and set up in separate rooms to simmer down.
    A polite knock on the door, then Marshal Tannino stepped in. “Rackley. You left quite a trail back there.” He cocked his head, regarding Tim with his dark brown eyes. “The doctor told me you refused sedatives. Why’s that?”
    “I don’t need to be sedated.”
    “You’re not upset?”
    “Not about this.”
    “You’ve been through this before. With the Rangers, too.”
    “Yeah. Yeah, I have. I’d like to say just a few times.”
    “There’s an Employee Assistance Intervention Team coming out. They’re available to talk to you, the other guys, your wife, whatever you want.”
    “The Hug Squad, huh? I might take a pass.”
    “You can do that. But you might want to consider it.”
    “To be honest, Marshal, this doesn’t bother me very much. I had little choice. I abided by regulations. They tried to kill me. I shot them justly.” Tim moistened his lips. “There are other things I need to tend to. Things closer to home.”
    “I wanted to talk to you about that, too. Your daughter. There’s that guy who specializes in this kind of stuff—that high-profile shrink over at UCLA….”
    “William Rayner.”
    “He’s expensive, but I’m sure I could get admin to spring for—”
    “We’re gonna feel our way through this one on our own, thanks.”
    “Okay.” Tannino clicked his teeth a few times, watching Tim with concern. “How are you two doing with that stuff?”
    Tim pursed his lips, then unpursed them. “I don’t know.”
    Tannino cleared his throat, studied the floor. “Yeah. I’d imagine that’s just about right.”
    “Is there any way…?”
    “What, son?”
    “Is there any way we could have one of our guys look into my daughter’s case? The sheriff’s