Which left me feeling justified in holding back a little. I hadn't discovered the whole truth, and maybe I never would, but I knew who had killed Andy and was a whole lot closer to finding out the rest than I was twenty-four hours before.

Morrell suggested that he fetch us both a cup of coffee after my story had been told. "I could do with stretching my legs," he said. "We'll talk about what it all means when I get back."

I tested my head on the pillow and yawned. The prison doctor had already popped his head round the door a couple of times to scold Morrell for keeping me talking. And, to tell the truth, it had taken a lot out of me. I shut my eyes, knowing that I would sleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Morrell's talk with the District Attorney's office proved successful and I was awakened a little before ten the next morning and informed that I was being released into Secret Service custody. My knee was still too painful to bear any weight, but after Doctor Anderson had subjected me to a final examination, he fixed me up with a pair of elbow crutches.

I was happy to ambulatory again, though my knee still felt as though the jaws of a vise were being closed on it. My street clothes were at the police labs, so Anderson brought me a pair of jeans, a denim shirt and sneakers. According to the doctor, their previous owner would not need them again.

I dressed and practiced walking along the length of the prison hospital corridor as I waited for Morrell to appear. I peered through the observation window of a locked door and saw Black, his face heavily bandaged.

He raised a middle finger to me.

Morrell wasn't with the agents who arrived to escort me to the Miami Field office. He sent word with them that he was attending to another matter and would see me later. The taller of the two was fair-haired and had dark bushy eyebrows. His companion was an inch shorter and swarthy. Neither of them gave me their names and I didn't recognize their faces from the morning in Boca Raton. The agents insisted that they'd take me to their car in a wheelchair.

For the first time in days I found something to smile about. It appeared that the Secret Service hadn't finished pushing me about just yet.

I wasn't destined for the field office as the agents had made a point of announcing in the prison hospital. Morrell, treating my assertion over Angelo's source seriously, had taken over a room at the Best Western overlooking the Marina. The escorting agents took up positions on either side of me, their eyes flicking from side to side, as I slowly made my way through the foyer. You could see in their faces the regret that they hadn't thought of borrowing the jail's wheelchair.

For my part, I tried not to think about the Kennedys or Ronald Reagan, or even the man who had created the Secret Service, Abraham Lincoln.

Morrell, his tie pulled loose and the top buttons of his shirt undone, was on the phone when we reached the room. The bed had been removed and a conference table and chairs substituted. He held two fingers up to let me know he would be through soon. I sat down and rested the crutches against the wall. My chest was tight, and my knee was throbbing and felt as though it had swelled to twice its size. The prison doctor had slipped me a bottle of powerful painkillers with instructions to swallow a couple anytime the pain became unbearable. I thought about it, but figured I could go a while longer.

The agents stayed in the room.

Morrell came off the phone. "Sorry about that. Glad you could join us."

"Not half as much as I am."

"Meet agents Eddie Bosen and John Lofgren."

I shook hands with them. Bosen was the taller one.

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