
Imperfect
Contract
A Sophia Burgess
and Ray Stone Mystery
Gregg E. Brickman
This is a work of fiction. Resemblance to any person, place, or event is entirely coincidental.
Other Kindle and CreateSpace Works
Illegally Dead
Cover Design and Art by Victoria Landis
Copyright © 2011 Gregg E. Brickman
All rights reserved.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story is a work of my imagination, though I've made every effort to present accurate, true-to-life details.
I want to thank my friends and family for their ongoing support and patience. Special thanks go to my husband, Steve, and to my son, Benjamin, for putting up with my morbid imagination; to my readers and critics, Innette Sarduy, Dirk Wyle, Jennifer Samuels, and Jeri Sutton; and to my Mystery Maven pals, Chris Jackson, Diane Warner, and Janice Parrish.
Thanks to John and Nancy Bernhardt for the realty information, to Sergeant Tony Pustizzi of the Coral Springs Police Department for police procedures, and to Abbegail Eason, RN of the University of Miami Organ Procurement Agency for organ donation practices and guidelines. They were all most helpful in sharing their time and their knowledge.
Mistakes, if any, are all mine. I hope you enjoy the story.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Preview of Imperfect Murder
About the Author
For my husband, Steve
Imperfect Contract
Barry Hutchinson's hold on life was tenuous. The South Florida Sun-Sentinel said bullets hit him in the head, chest, and stomach and fractured his left leg beyond repair. I heard the gunshot wound splattered a bit of his brain across the Hutchinson Realty sign painted on the picture window of his office. The surgeons said he would never recover, so they amputated his leg to stop the bleeding and shorten his time in surgery.
The incident happened in mid-April. On Thursday, May 10, the doctors pronounced Hutchinson's bodily functions stable and ordered him transferred from critical care.
Almost everyone looked the other way when a respiratory therapist, a nurse, and nursing assistant rolled him through the Five Northeast doors at the end of the hall. By everyone, I mean a couple of visitors, the petite Hispanic lady from housekeeping---sorry, environmental services---the doddering priest from the local parish, and the patient's twenty-eight year old son, Jamel Hutchinson. His wife of thirty-years, Amelia, didn't look away, and neither did I.
I've been a staff nurse since graduating from the local community college four years ago. I like being an RN. It's a second career for me. I used to be a cop. That makes me sound old, but I'm not. I'm in my early thirties.
Mr. Hutchinson was my patient. The doctors decided he wouldn't awaken from his coma, wasn't benefiting from intensive care, and might live several years if he received proper care. I knew the truth. The HMO demanded his transfer to a less expensive area of the hospital.
I touched my patient's hand. "Mr. Hutchinson, we'll get you comfortable in a minute." I hurried to his new room.
There hadn't been time to prepare for his arrival. Connie Kuhn had called in and switched her shift to nights, leaving us short-staffed. Connie worked hard and was an excellent nurse, but she was a perfectionist and didn't trust anyone to help with her patients. She dragged herself in, often late, and left frustrated. I think she escaped to the night shift when possible. They worked hard on nights, but there were fewer interruptions.
The private room was the minimum one-hundred square feet, so I pushed the bed and bedside table to one side. I washed my hands and folded back the bed linens before helping the team squeeze the stretcher into the room.
Hutchinson wasn't a big man, but he was dead weight. At five-three, I stood on the tall side of short stature and weighed 115 pounds if I avoided my own cooking. The nursing aide wasn't any bigger.
I recruited a male RN to help with the transfer. We positioned ourselves two to a side and grabbed the draw sheet.
"Ready?" I asked.
Everyone muttered.
I continued. "On three. One. Two. Three." We lifted him off the stretcher and onto his new bed. I settled my patient in bed, took his temperature, pulse, respirations, and blood pressure. After confirming his vital signs hadn't changed much during transport, I attached his various tubes and wires, then listened to his heart and lungs.
Before going after Mrs. Hutchinson, I glanced around the room, making sure things were in order. A flowered border print accented the freshly painted, light blue walls, and the white vinyl floor's cornflower blue edging extended through the door into the hall. Mr. Hutchinson and his machinery seemed incongruous in the cheery room.
"I'll be Mr. Hutchinson's nurse today," I said, guiding his wife into the room. "My name is Sophia Burgess."
"You can call him Barry. No one calls him mister. I'm Amelia."
I touched the telemetry transmitter pinned to his patient gown, "He's on telemetry. We'll monitor his heart rate from the nurses' station." I pointed to the ventilator. "Respiratory Therapy will be in several times a day to attend to the ventilator. All of the nurses can work with it, too."
"I worked as an LPN in the Emergency Department here."
"Yes, ma'am. But moving a patient from ICU to a general floor can be stressful for the family. I want you to know we'll attend to his needs."
I uncovered the feeding tube implanted in his stomach. The tubing extended to an electronic pump delivering concentrated liquid feeding. "We'll feed him through his gastrostomy tube."
As Amelia listened, I reviewed the rest of his care. I finished by pointing to his dressings. "The neurosurgeon ordered daily dressing changes for his head wound. I'll be in later to take care of that. His other wounds have almost healed. We'll take care of his stump dressing when we do his bath."
The strong odors of illness assailed me. Soon the floral scent of the antiseptic cleaning solution used by housekeeping would disappear under the stench of body secretions and growing bacteria. I planned to order air freshener for the room.
"Sophia, you don't remember me, do you?" She had been looking at me rather than at the things I talked about.
Amelia Hutchinson was a matron of medium height. Dressed in dark slacks, matching tunic and printed over-blouse, she appeared professional. Her heavy gold jewelry was appropriate for the outfit and looked stunning against her rich brown skin. I guessed her to be sixty. Dark brown curls framed her round face, and designer frames held corrective lenses.
"No, I don't remember you."
"A few years ago, before I got my realtor's license, I knew you from the emergency room. You brought drunks in to sleep it off and Baker Act patients for the Psychiatric unit. I remember you were a rookie."
"Okay. . ." I still didn't remember her.
"I was thinner. It turns out working with Barry was stressful, and I ate a lot more and didn't get as much exercise either. And, I had longer hair and tied it in a sort of bun." She made motions with her hands to show me the hairdo.
"I remember." I didn't, but I had work to do and needed to get to it.
"Why did you leave the police force?"
"I was shot during a routine traffic stop." I touched my belly and my right hip. "I decided there were safer professions."
"Barry was shot, too."
"Poor man. I saw it in the paper, and the nurse downstairs reminded me when she called with his transfer report. Have they caught the guy who did it yet?"
"No. Detective Stone believes someone was paid to kill my husband. It doesn't make sense to me. Why would someone want to gun down Barry? Personally, I don't think Stone's working very hard to solve the case. It's been three weeks, and he doesn't seem to have a clue."
Detective Ray Stone. Damn, I thought. I still had feelings for my former fiancé and didn't need him hanging around. Maybe I should move home to North Dakota. It's beautiful in Bismarck in the spring---wild flowers and fresh, green growth. He'd never show up there, not in my wildest dreams. I wanted to run and cry. Instead, I said, "Detective Stone. He's a good man. He'll get to the bottom of the case if anyone can."
"You know him?"
"Yes," I said, "I knew him when I was on the police force. It's a small department. Everyone knows everyone." I walked to the other side of Hutchinson's bed and took his hand in mine. Amelia settled into the upholstered armchair intended for the patient's use. He wouldn't need it any time soon. "Barry, I hope you're comfortable. My name is Sophia. I'll take good care of you."
"What are you talking to him for? My old man's a vegetable." The bitter sounding male voice came from the doorway.
I saw Jamel Hutchinson standing in the room's foyer. He hugged the wall as if afraid to come closer. He looked old to dress like a teenager. Huge jeans hung on his slim frame, and a tee shirt almost covered the crotch of his pants---somewhere near his knees. His baseball cap, worn backwards, covered his eyebrows.
I took a few steps toward him, extending my hand. "My name is Sophia. I'm your father's nurse today. I talk to him because we think hearing is the last sense to leave a person, either when they are going under anesthesia or when they are in a coma."
"Oh," he said, ignoring my hand and leaning closer to the door.
Wanting to escape perhaps? Though his clothes looked clean enough, the smell of perspiration was overbearing. I resolved only to exhale while I finished the conversation.
After a long pause, Jamel said, "I feel stupid talking to someone who's in a coma."
"Mr. Hutchinson." I decided to take the high road. "Perhaps getting close to your father and talking with him some will help both of you deal with the situation?"
"My name's Jamel. My old man is the mister."
"Okay, Jamel." I thought Junior would be more appropriate. "If you'd like, I'll stand with you while you get closer. Sometimes the tubes and wires are frightening to family members."
"I don't want to get closer. What I want is for him to finish dying so we can get on with our lives."
He stomped down the hall, never glancing back. I didn't think he looked once at his father while he was in the room---or at his mother either. I'd gotten off to a bad start with the young man.
"Amelia, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to drive him away," I said, facing her.
"Don't worry about it." She didn't appear concerned. "Jamel's been like that since the shooting. He's so angry, has been for a long time, even before Barry was shot."
"It must be hard for you."
"I'm used to it." Her gaze darted around the room before meeting mine. "He's almost twenty-eight years old. He lives at home and has yet to finish his first two years of college. He says he wants to major in business, but I think he's interested in finding an easier path." She sounded defeated.
"For instance?" It was none of my business, but my natural inquisitiveness was surfacing. Jamel's behavior was inappropriate for a man his age.
She glanced away and rubbed her nose. "He was in trouble with the police. The whole thing was a huge misunderstanding. He was cleared, but not until we spent several thousands of dollars on his defense."
"Amelia, forgive me. I shouldn't ask such personal questions." I made a show of checking the time. I had a few hours left on my shift and needed to get to it. My right leg was already aching, and I doubted I would have a chance to sit, except to gulp a few bites of lunch. It would be throbbing by the end of my twelve-hour shift. "Anything I can get you?"
"No, dear. I don't mind you asking questions. As I said before, I don't think Detective Stone is on track. I'd like for someone with a personal interest to get involved."
"I don't think I should," I said, wondering is she was casting a net to pull me in.
"Please, give it some thought. It would be a relief to believe someone was trying to solve this case."
"I'll think about it." I left the room thinking about Amelia, Jamel, and poor, almost dead, Barry Hutchinson. This whole thing was pulling a stressed family further apart. The sooner it was resolved, the better it would be for everyone concerned.
I was hungry. I glanced at my watch and knew why. The cafeteria had closed ten minutes ago. I grabbed Hutchinson's medical record, dropped it on the top of my computer cart, and pushed it to the nursing lounge where I poured a cup of old coffee. Someone had brought in donuts, and there were a couple left. I'd satisfy my curiosity and my hunger at the same time.
I cleared an area on the table by brushing the remnants of someone else's lunch into the trash while thinking that health care workers can be such pigs. I selected the strawberry jelly donut and sat.
The surgeon's operative report made interesting reading. The entry wounds into Hutchinson's body were on his left side. More accurately, halfway between his left side and his back. One bullet entered behind the left ear and exited over the right eye. The newspaper account reported the slug went through the plate glass window and struck the adjacent wall. A second one passed through his chest. It entered behind his triceps and exited through the left lung. He was lucky---maybe unlucky---it didn't get his heart. The next bullet had a different angle and exited through his abdomen, ripping through the bowel on its path from the body, filling the peritoneal cavity with fecal material. Consequently, Hutchinson had suffered a raging peritonitis. He was unlucky enough to have survived the infection in his abdomen.
Lastly, it appeared he was shot several times in the left thigh, hence the amputation. The orthopedic note and the x-rays confirmed there was no hope of saving the limb. The bone splintered and shattered on impact. Most of Hutchinson's blood loss was through his leg wounds. Paramedics arrived on the scene and put a tourniquet on the leg before he exsanguinated. I thought that bleeding to death would have relieved both the patient and his family of their suffering.
I sat, drinking my bitter coffee and nibbling on the donut. Nurses can think about almost anything, blood and guts included, and still want to eat. It goes with the territory. I remember losing my appetite once. It was four years ago, soon after I finished school. I'd helped move a post-operative patient off a stretcher and onto his bed. Blood stained the sheets, so I peeked underneath. Much to my chagrin, his abdominal wound had opened and the contents of his abdomen spilled out. When I got to the cafeteria, they were serving a stewed-beef concoction that looked like liver. I lost it. That was the only time.
I drew the bullet entry and exit sites on nurses' stationery---a paper towel---noting the measurements supplied by the surgeons. I studied my array of colored lines, deducing there were several shooters or the shooter was moving at the time, perhaps with an automatic weapon. This is South Florida where machine guns and gangland style slayings are common. But why would someone want to shoot a respectable real estate broker?
The critical care nurses noted Hutchinson's wife, Amelia, had spent every day of the last three weeks at his bedside. From the comments about her comings and goings, I wondered if she was showing houses for the business. For instance, during the day on Saturdays and Sundays, there was always a comment that no family was at the bedside. The comment that the wife was present appeared in the evening charting. I needed to ask Amelia who was running the agency.
Curious, I reread the nursing entries from critical care. The staff commented on the son's visit twice, both times with his mother. While he may have been there many times and no one bothered to make mention, I doubted it. I thought he would have been more comfortable with the circumstances if he visited frequently.
Questions ran through my mind. Ray would have answers for them by now. He was an excellent detective even if he was a lousy fiancé. What the heck, I could do a little poking around myself. After all, Amelia did ask me to take an interest.
While eating the last bite of the pastry, I reached for the remaining one. It was the firm cake variety. I tapped the donut against the side of the box to remove the excess powdered sugar. I'd have to diet for a week after this lunchtime menu.
I hadn't had time to extract all of the clinical information from the record. Pouring the last of the stale coffee, I resolved to spend a few more minutes reviewing the chart. I didn't expect to get another chance to sit for the rest of my shift. My right leg throbbed with little shooting pains radiating into my knee and hip socket.
When I finished, I cleared everyone's garbage off the white mica tabletop and wiped it with a damp paper towel. The next time I wanted to use it, it would be dirty again.
I checked on Hutchinson and my other patients. Most had visitors and were doing fine. Hutchinson was alone.
I took advantage of the opportunity to bathe him and change his dressings. The fetid odor was coming from his head wound. I cleaned it with saline and redressed it, being careful to use good sterile technique. Hospitals are full of pathogens, bacteria that make people sick, and I didn't want to add fuel to the already raging infection. I hung his intravenous antibiotic, connected the short tubing to the IV pump, and keyed a detailed narrative into the chart. As I saved my entry, Amelia reappeared.
"Hi, Amelia." I nodded in her direction. She smiled and settled into the chair.
"I see you've done his dressing. How does it look?"
"Not good to me. I'm writing about it now. His neurosurgeon makes rounds before dinner so I'll talk to him about it then. I think the wound is infected."
"That started a few days ago in the ICU."
I darkened the computer screen and perched on the edge of the straight-back chair next to Amelia. "Amelia, are you trying to keep up with the realty business while he's here?"
"As best I can. He kept the finances pretty much to himself, I'm afraid, though he did put my name on everything. He just never gave me the details. I'm figuring it out. We have a secretary and another agent. We're getting by." She stared at her hands as she talked. "And, customers are still coming in. We're in a strip mall in the middle of several new housing developments. We get a lot of walk-in traffic shopping for resales."
"How are you set for the future?" I asked.
"It's not good. I always thought the agency was doing well. The escrow accounts are in order---thank God for that---but the checking account is almost empty. We need to close some deals to make payroll."
"Is there anyone to help you?" I felt sorry for her. Her world was falling apart.
"I'm getting some help from a broker friend of Barry's, but he has limited time. I'm going to have to close the agency and work for someone else. I always thought I'd retire when I reached sixty---that was my plan. Barry's friend Mike from Michael Wiley Realty offered me a job and offered to take over our outstanding contracts. That's what I'll have to do." She stared out the window, then her gaze shifted to her husband. "The problem is Barry would disapprove if I sold out to Mike. It's true they're friends, but they're also fierce competitors. Each one tried to get the upper hand. Mike has been more successful over the last couple of years."
I let her talk for a few minutes before excusing myself. I was behind with my other patients and needed to hurry to get off duty on time. In my opinion, Hutchinson would never run the agency again. I thought that Amelia should cut her losses, close the place, and get a job. I wondered about life insurance, and I wondered about motives.
Maybe I'd talk to Detective Ray Stone after all.
The next morning I pulled out of the quiet cul-de-sac where I live onto the main drive preoccupied with thoughts about Ray. I'd done my best to remove him from my system and my mind, but I was ambivalent. We had a history together that started when I was a police officer and continued in fits and starts over the years. We'd gotten together to discuss one of his cases a few times since then, and the attraction remained.
I sat at a traffic light, waiting for a left-hand turn arrow, and remembering. A creep shot me during a routine traffic stop eight years ago. During the several months in the hospital and rehab, I discovered a desire to be a nurse. After I healed---all except for the problem with my right leg---I enrolled in nursing school.
Since I worked at Coral Bay Medical Center, my friends on the force asked for information on a regular basis, and I stayed in touch with my former profession. People's life problems, not just their physical ones, continued to energize me, and I welcomed the opportunity to stay involved.
The result was my special talents were useful. I had been a patrol officer most of the time and like other female cops in a small department, I did undercover work for Vice. Being a nurse and a former sworn officer gave me special understanding of some situations and access to people and information not available to an officer who doesn't know the health care system---where to look or whom to ask.
When I arrived on the unit, my friends, Connie Kuhn and Vanessa Vanderbilt, met me in the nurses' lounge.
Connie greeted me with a tight smile and said, "I'm glad you're here. I want to give report and get home before Darrell leaves for work. I spent the night caring for Hutchinson, and I'm tired." She fidgeted in her chair.
I grabbed a cup of fresh coffee and sat across the table from them. The blend smelled rich and strong---Connie had brought it in from Starbucks. It tasted winey and had a snap. I savored my first sip.
"Sophia, you're assigned Hutchinson," Connie said. "With him and the other patients, you're going to have a rough day." Connie was middle-aged and matronly beyond her years. She had two grown children, nurse Susan and college freshman Wayne. Though she wasn't overweight, she seemed to have settled into her hips. Her grown-out-perm hairdo hung in ragged curls around her ears and down her neck. To top it off, she wore uniforms that looked like tents, or maybe like nun's habits without the overlay. But I liked her---usually.
I sipped the coffee and looked at Connie and Vanessa over the rim of my cup. "I had him yesterday. I know about his problems."
"Seems to me he got what he deserved." Vanessa picked her handheld computer off the crumb-covered table and tapped the small screen to open the ventilator settings. Vanessa is the respiratory therapist on our unit and is responsible for managing the breathing treatments for all our patients. She's had the same assignment for a long time, and we've become friends. We shop together and sometimes take in dinner or a movie.
"My God, Vanessa, why would you say that?" I felt my jaw drop. My shock must have been apparent.
"I have a thing about realtors. They seem to be such operators. I don't know how they can live with themselves. The way they jerk people around, I'm surprised more of them aren't shot." Vanessa settled into her chair and glared at me.
She was tall. Anyone over five-six seems tall to me. I estimated her at five-ten or five-eleven, and she was thin. She carried herself with grace. Shoulder length honey-blond hair and bright blue eyes set off her fine features.
"I hope Amelia doesn't notice your attitude. She was a nurse. You won't put anything over on her."
"Amelia and I get along. I keep my feelings to myself. If it were a problem, I'd call another therapist to come upstairs and take care of him. But a patient is a patient, so why not?" She held out her device so I could review the ventilator data. She knew I liked to know everything about my patients. "He's stable, and he's triggering the ventilator, though he can't breathe on his own for more than a few minutes."
"His doctors are trying to wean him?" I was surprised. The critical care nurse told me the pulmonologist believed Hutchinson would never get off the vent.
"No, I took him off for a few minutes yesterday. I wanted to see how he would do." She flipped to the next screen of the chart.
I raised an eyebrow and stared at her, but she avoided my gaze. We'd been friends and co-workers a long time. She'd managed to get rid of an abusive husband and was starting to get her life on track. She lived in a shelter until her ex left town, then she rented a small apartment. Over the years, she squirreled away enough money for a healthy down payment on a townhouse and was in the process of making a purchase.
"I don't think you should take Hutchinson as your patient again," I said. "Play safe. Don't aggravate yourself." Her actions concerned me. Typically, a patient was given trial periods off the ventilator under a physician's direct order. If something happened when he was off the vent without an order, Vanessa would be responsible.
"You're right. Of course, you're always right." Vanessa's voice hardened.
She left the unit, and Connie finished giving report. I dumped the rest of my morning coffee in the sink and went into Hutchinson's room. Amelia sat at his bedside.
"Morning, Amelia. Hope you had a restful night."
"Thanks. I did. I went home earlier than usual and slept most of the night. It gives me peace that Barry has improved enough to be out of critical care."
Interesting, I thought. She must have known we moved him because the doctors and the HMO didn't think he'd get better, and they didn't want to waste resources. The plan was to get him discharged from the hospital and into long-term care, with or without his ventilator.
With Amelia watching, I assessed her husband and measured his vitals. There was no change from the previous day. I stood in the room while I made an entry in the record. From her pensive expression, I assumed she wanted to talk. When I finished charting, I pulled a chair next to her.
"What's on your mind, Amelia?" I touched the older woman's hand. It felt cool and dry.
She was dressed in layers again, though today she was more casual in loose knit slacks and matching tunic and sweater. There were embroidered appliqués of sailfish on all of the pieces. You see the style on the early bird dinner crowd.
"I asked Barry for a divorce---before they shot him."
"I didn't know." I studied her, trying to understand why she was telling me. "You seem attentive to him."
"I had a change of heart. We didn't get along at home for a long time, though we did okay working together. I decided to be a realtor because I thought we'd see more of each other and maybe get along better. He was one of those men who did whatever he wanted. Sometimes he wouldn't come home until late. He never called and told me he wasn't coming home, and he went drinking with his friends. I sat and waited and cried and worried. He'd get home, and I'd be glad he hadn't been killed in an accident or something. I'd be mad at him for what he put me through, and I'd scream and yell at him."
"Doesn't sound wonderful."
As pools of tears filled her lower lids, I tried to understand why a woman would tolerate that behavior.
"It wasn't good," she said. "After I asked him to find another place to live, that I wanted a divorce, he stayed out even more. At work, he ignored me or treated me like hired help. I missed him, wished he were home. I realized I loved him."
"Did you tell him?"
"Not at first. A few days before he was hurt, I told him I loved him and asked him if we could try again." She streaked her mascara as she rubbed at the tears.
"What did he say?" I took a tissue from the tiny box on the overbed table and handed it to her. She made a bigger mess of her face before putting the tissue in my outstretched hand. I dabbed, cleaned, and repaired her makeup with some success. Then I focused on her eyes, wanting her to answer the question.
"He didn't say anything. He patted me on the head, as if to tell me to be a good little woman, and turned around and left. When he did come home, he had been drinking. As always, he denied it."
"And?"
"He repeated things that had been said before. He knew someday I'd ask for a divorce, and he was ready. He was tired of my screaming. That was why he never came home. I told him my yelling was because he wasn't around. He had it backwards."
"Did anything get settled?" In nursing school, we learned that patients and families confide the intimate details of their lives while they're in the hospital. It's true. People tell nurses things they wouldn't tell their best friends. Being in the hospital increases their vulnerability and their need to talk.
"Not really, but he came home on time the next few nights. Then he was shot." She squirmed in her chair. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I guess I feel guilty. Now, look at the position I'm in---no husband, no agency, and no money. I don't know what I'm going to do." Amelia continued talking. She mentioned the business, her son, and her daughter who died at a young age.
When she relaxed into her chair, I went about my work. It stuck in my mind that the picture Amelia painted didn't seem complete. Maybe she changed her mind because she was afraid to be alone, maybe because she didn't have money of her own, but I didn't think she loved him. How could she after the years of neglect and emotional abuse? I wondered if Hutchinson got himself a girlfriend. If so, would she come to see him? I'd keep my eye out for strangers.
I spent most of my day discharging patients, which is often the state of affairs on Fridays. Near dinnertime, the charge nurse suggested I give report to another nurse and leave early. I didn't argue. I was off for the weekend.
I hurried home, showered, pulled on a pair of stretch jeans that fit low on my hips and exposed my belly button ring, added a spaghetti-strapped tank top, and headed for the mall. Being small-boned and nearly flat-chested, I can wear youthful styled clothes without having bra straps show. Bras to me have always been optional equipment.
I lived and worked in a Fort Lauderdale suburb with about 115,000 residents that's located in the northwest corner of Broward County. It's bordered on the west by the Sawgrass Expressway and the Everglades. The toll road is also part of the northern border since the road takes a big curve to the east. Fort Lauderdale beach and the Atlantic Ocean are twelve or thirteen miles due east.
Long time residents have told me the city was once cozy---a small town where everyone knew everyone. Now, to get to the mall, I had to drive by houses ranging in price from under two-hundred grand to a million. And, there are so many apartments. It's as if the city planners---if there were any---threw a handful of colored marbles over a map of the city and let them drop. Yellow attracted yuppies, rich folks built by the green ones, businesses and multi-family units got the main roads, and middle class and low-income folks staked their territories near the multicolored marbles landing in between.
I passed a huge high school. The school system is excellent. Parents from the nicer neighborhoods demanded a lot of involvement and rewarded the schools by donating time and money. The portable classrooms next to the main building reminded me of small, square warehouses lined up to store the city's burgeoning youth population. I stopped for the traffic light. Several tough looking kids leaned against the fence, cigarettes drooping from their lips. The high schools had gang problems---bored, thrill-seeking rich kids rather than the ghetto gangs common to inner city areas.
I was hungry and wanted a serving of the sesame chicken at the Chinese place in the mall's food court. Then, I'd shop for a new swimming suit to wear to Fort Lauderdale beach tomorrow. Connie and Vanessa had the day off, too, and we planned to spend the morning in the sun. We work twelve-hour shifts and enjoy four days off a week.
While waiting in line, I accepted a bite of chicken a young Asian woman offered to passersby. It was a golden brownish-red color and coated with a thick, sweet sauce. After I swallowed the morsel, I stood there sucking on the toothpick that had absorbed the flavor. My mouth watered.
I selected a table for two outside the Barney's and in view of the huge circular fish tank---my favorite spot in the mall---and arranged my two dollar, ninety-nine cent special and a large container of iced tea.
One evening a few months earlier, Ray and I noticed a large puffer stuck in the coral. The inflated fish couldn't extricate himself from the crevice. Ray, a humanitarian when it came to animals, spent twenty minutes finding someone to rescue the fish. Later, we watched a couple of klutzes poke the fish's eye out with a stick while attempting to free him. I thought the fish would die, but it swam the perimeter of the tank, seeing the world through the thick glass with his remaining eye.
I munched my dinner and watched the puffer make periodic passes in front of me. Smaller fish darted in and out between the coral. I was engrossed.
"Sophi, it's nice to find you here checking on our fish," Ray said, coming up behind me. He's the only person in the world who ever got away with calling me Sophi. The use of the name made him recognizable---even without the familiar rumble of his bass voice, his soft southern accent, or his reference to the fish.
"Ray, I was wondering if we did the poor thing a favor. Do you think he might have relaxed and gotten out with his eyeball intact?" I met his gaze then looked away, avoiding his probing blue eyes. His navy blue Dockers rode low on his narrow hips and his blue and red-striped golf shirt skimmed his thick chest. A Craftsman cordless drill/driver label was visible through the Sears' bag he carried.
"Maybe. I never thought the clowns would blind him. That wasn't my plan."
"Yes, I know." I conceded the point.
"Are you going to offer me a seat?" He pulled out the vacant chair and dropped his long frame onto it.
"No. I'm done. You're welcome to the table." I picked up my tray and pushed my chair back with my feet.
"Sophi, wait. You don't need to rush off."
"Why not? I figure it's my turn. No?" I stood up.
"Please relax. I was meaning to call you."
"Sure you were." For something to do, some place to look, I took a sip of the dregs of my tea. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him snitch a piece of chicken off my plate. "I think they have more." I pointed to the food stand.
"I'd rather eat yours." He licked his fingers, helped himself to one of my napkins, and cleaned his upper lip. He was meticulous about keeping his mustache and goatee clean. His hair is dark brown and he's well tanned, outdoorsy. He's handsome in a tough-guy sort of way.
I avoided his eyes. "Ray, what is it you want?" The smell of his Nautica drifted toward me. I remembered why I loved it. I tried to block out the aroma.
"I was planning to ask you to get some information on a case I'm working."
"Hutchinson?"
"How did you know?"
"His wife talked to me about the case." I told him about Hutchinson and his family. There was a release on Hutchinson's chart allowing the police to review it without a subpoena, so I knew I could talk to Ray. It didn't seem to me Amelia thought there was anything to hide.
"What is your impression of the kid?" Ray asked.
Now I knew why he was going to call me. He wanted to pick my brain, again, and take advantage of my working with the crime victims and their families. I wanted to take advantage of what he knew, too.
"Jamel? He's a real pickle. My first impression was he looked old for a teenager, then I found out he's a twenty-eight year old goofball. Amelia revealed he had trouble in the past, but it was a mistake, and the charges were dropped."
"He started himself a nice little rap sheet," Ray said. "He has one conviction for possession. The judge gave him probation. He's had a couple more arrests, also for narcotics, but no other convictions."
"Intent to sell?"
"They thought so at the time but couldn't prove it. We think he's still dealing, but we can't prove that either. He was running with a gang a few years back, doesn't hang with them anymore. The word on the street is he's moved on to a tougher crowd." Ray took another piece of my chicken. I pushed my plate in his direction.
"Here, I'm finished with it."
"Don't you want to share?" He had an annoying smile, ringing with self-satisfaction and sex appeal.
"No," I snapped.
"Sophi, lighten up."
"Stick with the business at hand, would you? I'm not enjoying this." I pushed my chair back and stood.
"Are you willing to help on the case?" He was all business.
"I guess. What is it you want me to do?"
"Keep an eye on things at work."
"You want me to be a snitch?"
"No, you're a friend of mine who's in the right place at the right time."
"Okay, okay." Sure, I thought, a friend when it's convenient. I headed in the direction of Barney's.
"Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned and found him standing closer than I realized. I nearly pushed my nose into his chest. Again, the smell of the Nautica. I backed away about three feet.
"Why not? I'm can't get rid of you until you're finished with this conversation."
"You're perceptive." He guided me toward the line of customers waiting to buy coffee.
Barney's had a window opening onto the food court as well as an entrance into the store. I pointed, indicating there were fewer customers waiting at the inside counter. While we waited, I scooped a bag of chocolate-raspberry flavored coffee and had the beans ground. I'd take it into work on Monday. It was my turn to supply the good stuff.
Ray, the southern gentleman, ordered the coffee and even paid for my purchase. At least I got some benefit from the encounter. We left the store, and Ray guided me to a bench in the corridor. It was a quiet night in the mall, and it was obvious he wanted a quiet place to chat.
"Ray, I came here for dinner and to shop for a swimming suit. The mall closes in thirty minutes."
"How about I come with you to get the suit, then we can talk for a few minutes outside?"
"I guess." I resigned myself to his company. As we walked through the wide corridor separating the two rows of stores, it felt like old times. He walked with his arm resting on my shoulder. I felt his firm muscles against my skin. I headed toward a department store. "Ray, why don't you wait here? I'll try to hurry."
"No rush. I'll tag along."
Ray liked to shop with me, and he had great taste. He possessed a knack for picking the perfect thing off the rack.
"Fine. It'll speed me up."
Ray and I trekked through the racks to the swimwear department and stood side-by-side sorting through the suits. He selected three, French cut and black with various parts missing. I grabbed the one with the most fabric and headed for the dressing room. It fit like a glove. When I came out dressed in my jeans, he had a disappointed expression. I suspected he wanted me to model the suit for him.
In the parking lot, we leaned against my Mini Cooper, finishing our conversation. I scanned the lot and didn't see his 1992 Dodge Viper.
"Where did you park?" I asked. I wanted to know if he had spotted my car and come looking for me or had followed me to the mall. I thought it was the latter.
"Over there." He pointed to a 2009 Honda S2000. It was red and would have been my choice.
"Nice. Where's the Viper?"
"Totaled. Some jerk plowed into it when it was parked."
A flicker of anger crossed his face. He had loved the car. "I see you recovered from the loss." I pointed to the S2000. "Ray, what do you think about the case? What's going on? Amelia thinks you're not aggressive."
"We recovered several nine millimeter shells. We'll ID the weapon or weapons when we get our hands on them."
"I think you're looking for one shooter, one weapon, an automatic or semi-automatic."
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
I dug into my purse, extracting the paper towel with my scribbling from earlier in the day. I pointed to my sketch. "Based on the entry and exit wounds the doctor mentioned in his operative report, I'd bet it was one guy who made an arc like this." I demonstrated the motion, using my left arm for the automatic rifle.
He took the drawing, studied it, and slipped it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks. I'd like to discuss this with the Medical Examiner if you don't mind." He paused a moment, maybe waiting for me to object. "My notion is it was a hit. There is no evidence he associated with people who are in the habit of personally blowing away business associates, so I figure it was a contract."
"Contract? Sounds a bit far fetched to me." I stepped away from the car and faced him. "He's a small time realtor, and from what his wife said, he hasn't been doing a big business. He doesn't appear to have been a big player in anything."
"That remains to be seen. In truth, we haven't uncovered much. Passersby and paramedics trampled the outside part of the crime scene. The realty office is a couple doors away from a bar, but no one saw anything. They managed to come out and gawk and destroy the evidence though. We dug bullets out of the walls and netted several cartridges off the street. We figure the rest of the spent rounds landed in the vehicle."
"Pretty thin. What else?" I gestured with my hands, encouraging him to continue.
"Amelia Hutchinson hasn't been helpful. Her neighbors claim they heard the couple fighting and say Barry came and went at all hours of the day and night. It's been going on for as long as they remember. Amelia says they reconciled and are in love. Doesn't jibe."
I considered his comments. "I think the truth is she thinks she's in love, and he doesn't---didn't give a damn. Being alone scared her. She figured she was better off with him, rather than plunging ahead into unknown territory."
Ray raised an eyebrow. I repeated Amelia's comments about her marital problems and my opinion that Hutchinson emotionally neglected and abused her for years.
"See what else you can get out of her." He tapped his fingers on the roof of my Mini. "Interested in stopping by Patty's for a beer?" He checked his watch. "It's early."
"No, I think not." Patty's Pub was an Irish bar located a couple blocks from the police station. In the past, I frequented the place, stopping by to chat with old friends from the force. Lately, I've stayed away to avoid Ray.
"Suit yourself." He stepped back and smiled.
"Oh well," I said, opening the car door. "I'll give you a call when I have something to report." I hopped into the car, thinking the damned man deliberately pushed my buttons. "Thanks for the coffee." When I entered the perimeter road circling the mall, I glanced at him in my rearview mirror. He stood in the same spot. "Don't get involved, Sophia," I said.
On Saturday morning, I pulled myself from sleep. I was sticky, bathed in perspiration. Despite the open windows, it was too warm to sleep without air conditioning. I felt drugged, though I hadn't been, and annoyed. Disquieting, vague images of Ray back in my life had filled my fitful sleep. I remembered a vivid image of my house with a placard in front of it.
I petted Sunshine, my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. His silky long ears and perpetual puppy face reminded me of Lady from Lady and the Tramp. His sole purpose in life was to sit on a pillow and look pretty, and he did that very well. He was also good at lap sitting, chasing and sometimes catching small lizards, and tracking up my tile floors. Sunshine slept on my pillow and liked to cuddle in the morning. So did I, but he didn't reciprocate. Ray had laughed when he heard Sunshine's name. It's a wimp name for a male dog, but I wanted a bit of sunshine in my life, and he fit the bill.
After I gave Sunshine his morning rub and snuggle, I felt better. I padded into the kitchen to start my coffee brewing and feed him. That's another thing he did well---eat.
A shower and a cup of coffee and I'd be en route to the beach. I peered out the back window. It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny. Vanessa and Connie were driving to Fort Lauderdale beach together. Vanessa liked to get an early swim, and Connie agreed to go with her. I'd meet them later at the usual place.
Sunshine tracked the floor with mud when he came in through his doggy door, and after cleaning the mess, I took off for the ocean, running into a tangle of cross-town traffic. I took the Sawgrass Expressway to Interstate 595 cross-town, zipping around Port Everglades, along the causeway over the Intracoastal, and onto the beach. It was an enjoyable ride past specialty shops, fancy eateries, and expensive beach homes.
By the time I reached the ocean, I was annoyed again. Traffic crawled on A1A, and it took a while to find a parking space. The parking lot south of Fifth Street was full, but I was lucky enough to pull into a space after a lady left with her minivan full of preteens. Connie, Vanessa, and I always meet in front of the lifeguard stand south of the Fifth Street traffic light.
I walked the couple of blocks to our meeting spot while carrying my beach chair and my gear. A low, white concrete wall separated the beach from the boardwalk. Mature palms line the beach, growing through holes in the sidewalk and out of the sand on the ocean side of the wall. Today a steady breeze bent the trees toward the mainland. I found the girls near the stand relaxing amidst an ocean of sunbathers, blankets, umbrellas, coolers, and beach chairs.
"What kept you?" Connie called when she saw me trudging across the sand. Connie wore one of those old-fashioned swimsuits, a plaid one-piece with a frumpy pleated skirt. It was a good choice for her bottom-heavy shape. It covered the top of her thighs and added fluff to her flat chest.
"The day didn't start in my favor," I whined, positioning my chair in the sand. I told them about Sunshine's mess and the traffic. They didn't need to know I dreamed about Ray Stone, again. "It's May. You'd think traffic would lighten up." I spun in a circle and waved my arms. "Look at this place. It's not even noon yet. I couldn't find a parking space, and it's wall-to-wall people." Sunbathers bordered the elevator-sized patch of sand Connie and Vanessa had staked out. "It's like a holiday weekend."
"Locals my dear, all locals." Vanessa rolled over onto her back and sat. The pale blue scarf covering her tied-up, blond hair matched her bikini and her eyes. She's one of the few middle-aged women I know who can and does wear a bikini. She looked terrific. I couldn't see a single stretch mark, blemish, or wrinkle.
I slipped off the tee shirt I wore over my suit. "Nice suit," Connie said.
I admired the shoreline and took a big breath of salty air. The waves were two, maybe three feet and broke into a thick froth. From where I stood, about thirty feet from the water's edge, the water appeared cleaner than usual with a minimum of seaweed.
"Girl, you'd be a knockout in a bikini." Vanessa smoothed her towel and prepared to lie on her stomach.
"But . . ." I pointed at my bosom. "I have trouble keeping the top in place when I go in the water. It's okay for sunning but bad for swimming."
Connie laughed. "I can relate."
"Yeah, Vanessa. We can't all be built like you." I plopped into my beach chair---the kind with the six-inch legs---stretched out, and extracted a bottle of sunscreen from my tote. "Anybody need any?"
"No dear," Vanessa said, "we did that an hour ago."
"Oh, well," I sassed, spreading a thin layer of lotion on my legs and arms and Olay moisturizer with sunscreen on my face. "Vanessa, how is the townhouse purchase going? When do you close?"
"It's f'd up. I'm so frustrated. That damn SOB realtor didn't do his job. Then he got himself shot!"
"Whoa, Barry Hutchinson was handling your home purchase?" I glanced at Connie. It didn't appear to be new to her.
"That's what I meant. I'm surprised more of them don't end up murdered. The way they jerk you around."
I popped the top of a Diet Coke and held it out to Connie. I handed a regular Coke to Vanessa and took one for myself. "What's going on with it?"
"I'm not sure. I need to call Amelia and see what's happening. Barry promised he'd get financing at a reasonable rate. The place is cheap enough. I saved enough for a decent down payment, but I need to keep my monthly outlay low. Before Craig left town, he cleaned out everything. I couldn't stop him because I was afraid if I tried, he'd carry out his threats, so I stayed in the shelter and let him screw me over. "
"So?" I prodded. The house purchase had dragged on for months already.
"I visited the mortgage broker Barry recommended. Barry wrote the deal so it looked like I put more money up front. The broker said it was no problem. He'd get it placed. Then he asked for co-signers."
"Why?" Connie asked. She reclined on her chaise lounge with her eyes closed and her soda balanced on her midriff.
"Like I advised Barry when I saw him the first time, my credit stinks. Craig ran off without paying the credit cards or the IRS. He left me stuck with everything, and it's in my name. When we first married, we put some things in his name and some in mine. I wanted to make sure I could get credit on my own. Now the only credit I have is bad."
"Are you not getting the mortgage or what?" I was confused. How could the realtor tell her she'd have no trouble? For that matter, how could the broker tell her she'd get a favorable rate with lousy credit?
"I don't have anyone to cosign, and I can't raise more cash---on paper I've put down twenty-five percent. The broker said I can get a no-qualifying, no-verification mortgage---B & C paper. It's for people with substandard credit. The problem is the rate will be higher. I agreed."
"Seems to me with all the mortgage issues and bank problems, that sort of thing wouldn't happen anymore. Besides, shouldn't you wait and get a house after you're out of the credit jam?" Connie asked. A practical person, she didn't charge more than she could pay off at the end of the month. She admitted big debts gave her a feeling of loss of control.
"Connie, I'll never be out of the credit jam. Besides, the payments, even with the higher rate, are lower than what I pay for rent. I figure I'll always have rent. I might as well buy and have something in the end. I have no kids and no family except my mother and aunt. Craig turned out to be an asshole. I don't want to be alone and homeless, too."
I wanted to tell Vanessa she would find someone else, have a good life---all of the reassuring crap---but something made me keep quiet. She seemed frazzled. The whole scenario was getting to her. Instead, I said, "What did Amelia say?"
"I ran into her in the cafeteria about a week after Barry was shot. She said she'd check with the mortgage guy and call me. She hasn't. She's just like her husband."
"Van, give her a break. Her husband is critically ill, and her kid is useless. She's getting back to work. She told me yesterday . . . no, the day before . . . she was attending to clients and had several deals to close."
"Did she mention me?" Vanessa sat up, looking at me with her back to the ocean.
"No. We weren't talking specifics. She's working weekends. Why don't you give her a call?" I pulled my cell phone from my tote and offered it to her.
"You sure?" she said, talking it out of my hand. "No conversation with Amelia is short."
"Don't worry about it. I'm a big spender." I laughed.
She dialed the number without looking it up or calling information.
"Besides, I have free weekends and nights. Talk as long as you like." I was curious---nosey---and wanted to hear the conversation.
I leaned back in the chair. It was eleven, and the sun was high in the sky. I shifted my weight and raised my right hip and thigh to get the full benefit of the penetrating heat. The twelve hours days were hard on my leg, and despite hours of physical therapy, I couldn't control the limp when I was tired.
"Amelia, Vanessa . . . No, I haven't heard anything from Scot Randall Mortgage . . . I've been dealing with Jack Randall." Vanessa stood and walked a few steps closer to the water, but the breeze brought her conversation to me. "Barry said the deal was a go. You told me it was on track, that my agreement was with the seller, not with Barry. Now, you say the contract is no good . . . No, Barry didn't tell me the contract wasn't valid until everyone had signed the changes." She paced. "Don't tell me that." Vanessa's voice was sharp. "Fix it." Her face contorted, and she looked like she wanted to slam the phone into its cradle---if there were one. She snapped the cover closed and faced us.
"What's the deal?" I asked, sensing she was on the verge of tears.
"Damn it. It's so frustrating. The bitch said the contract isn't valid. Barry never took it back to the sellers after we amended it. They may not approve. They're tired of waiting and are about to lose their deal on the new house they want."
"You said you had a contract."
"I thought I did. Barry called it a contract. Amelia said I did, now she says it's just an offer and isn't a contract until both parties sign the changes."
"Makes sense to me," Connie said. "Didn't you know?"
"Who's side are you on anyway?" Vanessa snapped.
Connie frowned, looking hurt. "Your side."
"I never bought anything big before. Craig and I rented, and my parents never talked contracts and mortgages when I was around. Barry should have explained it was an offer. And why did he go and send me to a mortgage company if the contract wasn't good? And, for that matter, why did Jack Randall even agree to talk to me if I didn't have a valid contract to buy the friggin' place?"
I said, "Vanessa, I don't know. You'll have to work on it with Amelia---or let it fall through and get your deposit back. There is a glut of other houses on the market. Get another realtor. Start over."
"You don't understand." Tear rolled down Vanessa's face. "I gave notice on my apartment. I have to move out by the end of the month."
"Two weeks," I said.
"Yes, I know." Vanessa handed me back my cell phone and walked toward the water's edge. She seemed lost in thought.
For all her cool demeanor, Vanessa didn't handle stress well. Who could blame her? She'd had a tough life.
"Vanessa shouldn't help with Hutchinson's care." Connie glanced in my direction. "That kind of patient is depressing. Hopeless."
"I agree with you. Besides, she has some definite feelings about the man."
"I don't know why they're keeping him alive. I mean, what kind of life will he have?"
"For one thing, he isn't dead. He has a lot of activity on his EEG, he has reflexes, and there's an outside chance he'll awaken."
"Sure." Connie squinted into the sun, pausing. "I can't remember the last coma patient who woke up."
"Remember the guy who was in the room at the end of the hall last summer. He came to."
"That's one. He wasn't as bad off as Hutchinson. His brains weren't scattered across a picture window either."
"But he did have a lot of damage, and he left the hospital." I raised a finger, punctuating my words.
"He'll never work again. His poor wife didn't know what she was going to do with him. He was childlike."
"I remember." I took a sip of Coke. It was warm and flat. I drank it anyway. Like my coffee, I'll drink Coke in whatever condition. I'm caffeine addicted.
"Most of the ones who are discharged go to a nursing home or vent care facility and die a slow, miserable death."
"Connie, we can't do anything about that. It's not our decision."
She pointed at herself and snapped, "I didn't say we could."
"Sorry."
"That doesn't make it right. I feel so bad for them and for their families. They're helpless and out of control. Look at Amelia Hutchinson, would you? She sits there all day, every day. Her life is ticking away. She leaves and runs around to show houses. She hurries to a closing, then she's back. I talked to Janie from the ICU. She said that's what has been going on since the first day. And, there are people like Vanessa who don't care. She's worried about her own thing. I know she could extend her lease. There was a big vacancy sign in front of her complex this morning," she said, her hands shaping a huge square to illustrate the size of the billboard.
"I'm going to ask her when she gets out of the water," I said.
"I wouldn't if I were you."
"Why?"
"She and I had the same conversation this morning. I pointed out the vacancy sign, and she exploded. She's not dealing with having her expectations blocked. She's been like that since the last time Craig beat her."
"Poor girl. Guess all we can do is support her." I saw Vanessa bobbing in the waves. She hadn't gone out far. I couldn't see her face, but her body posture seemed relaxed. The oceanic hydrotherapy was good for her. Maybe we could bottle it and make a fortune.
Connie and I sat in silence. When Vanessa returned, I went for a swim. We planned to stay for a couple of hours, and I wanted to get in my swim and have time to dry off before driving home.
The surf was bathwater warm. I swam out until I couldn't touch the bottom then swam parallel to the beach for fifty yards. The waves pushed my saltwater buoyant body into shore. It took a few minutes to find the girls in the crowd. The strong current had taken me an additional fifty yards south.
I approached our patch of sand and saw Vanessa and Connie engrossed in conversation. They were both talking at once, and neither smiled. While hurrying through the clutter of beach paraphernalia and sun worshipers, one child stopped me in my tracks and pointed at the castle she was building. It was round with a center turret, a deep moat, and a road to the eye-goggle drawbridge. Good for a preschooler.
"What's the trouble?" I asked when I was within hearing range.
Connie looked at me but spoke to Vanessa. "Van, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I don't think you should take care of Hutchinson. What if something happens to him on your shift? It'd be bad for you. We can't be the only ones who know you hate him."
"Connie, what do you think I do, go around pissing and moaning to everyone? I don't talk about my financial problems at the hospital. It's private business. Besides, how can I not take care of him? I work on the unit."
Uninvited, I stuck in my opinion. "Ask to be reassigned. You can say you need a break from the heavy-duty vent cases. People do it all the time. Can you relieve on another unit for vacation or something?" I agreed with Connie's point. If people knew she had a problem with Hutchinson, they might consider her a suspect if the would-be killer struck again. I thought she'd be better off avoiding the whole thing.
Vanessa glowered at Connie and me then at her watch, smiled, and said, "I'd love to continue this conversation. Really, I would, but I have to be at work by three."
"I didn't know you were working today," I said.
"The supervisor called this morning. I can use the overtime, and I need to take it when it's available. It's only until eleven. It's an easy eight." Sand blew in my direction as she shook each fold of her blanket into place.
I packed my things, standing to avoid getting a face full of grit. Connie followed suit, and soon we were walking toward the low curvy wall. We stopped at the shower, rinsed off our feet and sandals, and parted company.
They went north. I walked south, thinking the morning's conversations raised more questions than they answered. I planned to investigate.
The traffic heading west was more reasonable, and I was home in less than forty-five minutes, leaving plenty of time before evening to check out the neighborhood where Hutchinson's shooting occurred. I showered and pulled on a dressy pair of black shorts, pale peach tank top, and black sandals, then spent a few minutes in the yard inspecting the tiny fruit on my orange tree while Sunshine took care of business. The dog jumped into his crate on command and accepted his reward.
In a few minutes, I was back on the Sawgrass Expressway, and even though my shoulder-length black hair is thick, the wind dried it by the time I exited the highway. I drove through the SunPass lane, then closed the sunroof and rolled up my windows while driving. At the first red light, I brushed out my hair and applied lipstick.
Hutchinson Realty occupied the last storefront on the north end of the strip mall, adjacent to a dress shop, and Michael Wiley Realty occupied the last storefront on the south. His neighbor was an auto insurance company. Cozy, I thought. To better observe both agencies, I backed into a space halfway between them---in front of the 7-Eleven and the bar Ray had mentioned. I sat there for the better part of an hour, counting nine people entering Wiley's and two going into Hutchinson's, one of whom was Amelia. Several of Wiley's nine looked into the Hutchinson windows first before moving on. Amelia was right about the walk-in traffic.
After Amelia left in her Seville with an elderly couple, locking the door behind her, I walked over and stood in front of the agency. The walk-in clients bypassed Hutchinson Realty for a reason. Even to the casual observer, it was obvious something had happened. The broken windowpane was gone, but half the lettering was missing, too. The remaining original pane read inson on top and alty below. Through the new window, I saw the bullet hole in the wall. Someone had scrubbed the sidewalk in front of the store, leaving a faint stain where Hutchinson's blood had penetrated the porous concrete. It would take a load of bleach to get it out.
The lights were on, and a computer screen glowed on a desk in the back. A small handwritten note taped to the inside of the glass read, "I'll be back by three. Please wait. Amelia." You had to give the woman credit. She was trying.
The furniture inside the office appeared new. Several plants---it was hard to tell from outside if they were real or not---provided privacy in an otherwise open environment. The prerequisite Best Salesman in the World plaque hung on a side wall with a couple of individual ones. I couldn't remember any real estate office that didn't have the top salesman in the world.
I glanced at my watch. If Amelia was good to her word, she'd be back in a few minutes. I noted a couple of properties for sale from a poster in the window and headed to the competition for a look around.
The scene at Wiley's was different. When I stepped into the chilly interior, a prim receptionist with a welcoming smile greeted me. She asked a couple of quick questions, checked potential client on a registration form, and handed it to me. I filled it out, being honest about everything except for the fact I wasn't in the market for a house.
She reviewed the form when I handed it to her and offered me the option of waiting for one of the salespeople. One would be free in a few minutes.
The placard on the high reception counter announced her name in bold print.
"Yes, Sharon, I can wait." From the spacious reception area, I couldn't see individual desks. Workstations with modular furniture, deco art freestanding dividers, and live palms and hanging plants with lights glowing over them subdivided the space.
The effect was a maze, but it was welcoming. I'm claustrophobic by nature, but it didn't create discomfort. I found the Flamingo pink and teal accents worked better than usual, though I'd have carpeted the floor instead of using the rough-hewn tiles. I stood with my back to the receptionist reading the super-salesman plaque. "How many agents work in this office, Sharon?"
"Mr. Wiley employs twenty full and part-time people, but not all of them work out of this site. We have eight here today and another eight at the Westin office."
"Big operation?"
"We're competitive with the bigger agencies." She delivered the prepared answer with practiced familiarity.
"That's nice to know. I was hoping to have a lot of individual attention though." I lowered my voice. "Do you happen to know anything about the agency down there?" I pointed to the north.
"Hutchinson Realty?"
"I went there first, but the door was locked."
She dropped her voice to a whisper, "I think you're better off dealing with us." She repeated the newspaper version of the drive-by shooting while I nodded in feigned amazement.
I leaned closer to her. "Terrible. Did anyone here see it happen?"
"No, it was late in the day, and I'd gone home. There were a couple of agents in the back. They said they didn't know it happened until they heard the sirens."
"It's scary. Right in the middle of town." I found it interesting she hadn't mentioned Hutchinson was a nice man, or it was a terrible shame.
"Nobody thinks Mr. Hutchinson will come back to work, and his wife asked Mike, Mr. Wiley, for help. She's not a broker, and that's going to be a problem if the mister can't work anymore."
"I'll deal here then." I sat on an upholstered side chair and slid it around to continue my conversation with Sharon. The telephone kept ringing, however, and there was no further opportunity to question her.
The real estate agent who was next in line for new clients greeted me, and I spent the next forty-five minutes talking about property.
Claiming interest in moving in the near future and implying I needed to settle on area and price, I accepted an appointment to see a variety of properties on Thursday. I'd be off from work, and Art Meyer didn't mind taking me on a fishing expedition during the week when business was slow.
Art Meyer was an older man with experience in the South Florida market. And, best of all, our initial conversation suggested he loved to talk.
On Monday morning, I volunteered to take Barry Hutchinson as part of my patient caseload. I was involved in his problems, and I hoped to get more information. The original nurse designated to provide his care said she appreciated being relieved of the responsibility of caring for another heavy-duty patient.
The shuffling of assignments, which occurred because of my unexplained generosity, took a few extra minutes. Jamel stood at his father's bedside, but Amelia hadn't arrived. In my crepe-soled shoes, I pushed my computer cart into the doorway without making any noise and observed him. I pretended to review the chart on screen so Jamel wouldn't think I was spying.
He stared at his father. I had the sense he had just arrived and was getting acclimated to the scene---gruesome for the uninitiated.
A dressing still covered most of Hutchinson's head, exposing one eye, one cheek, and his mouth. From where Jamel stood, the stench was intense. Cultures confirmed a severe infection---a number of virulent organisms thrived in the wounds.
A translucent plastic tube connected the ventilator to an opening, called a tracheostomy, in his throat. Every time the ventilator cycled like a huge bellows, Hutchinson's chest moved. Tall poles supporting pumps delivering the intravenous solutions stood to one side, and long, thin plastic tubes led to the side of his neck. Another pole held a pump controlling the delivery of a nutritional supplement into his stomach.
A tangle of wires sticking out of the neck of his gown connected to a telemetry transmitter sending information about his heart to a monitor screen in the nurses' station where a technician watched his status. Tubing containing cloudy, dark amber urine emerged from under the sheets and connected to the bag hanging on the frame of the bed. There were more dressings under the sheets.
Jamel touched the IV lines, first one, then each in turn. He fingered the breathing tube. He disconnected it from the opening on his father's throat, reconnected it, and stepped back. My urge was to intervene, but since I was close and knew Hutchinson was in no real danger, I continued watching.
Jamel uncovered one of his father's hands and held it between his own. He talked softly, and I knew from the tone he was crying, but I couldn't make out the words. I felt like I was invading his privacy, so I made a noise and entered the room.
"Good morning, Jamel," I said when he looked at me. "It's nice to see you here."
"Ma sent me. She said the old man won't make it out alive." He pulled up the tail of his big, sloppy shirt and dried his eyes. He continued to clutch his father's fingers with the other hand. "I called the doc, but she didn't call back."
I inched closer to Jamel and put a hand on his arm. "There is a good possibility your mother is right. However, people can and do recover some function and leave the hospital. Don't give up on him until it's over." When he didn't say anything, I continued. "Why did you disconnect his breathing tube?"
"A tall lady did it the other day. She said she wanted to see him breathe. I wanted to give him a chance." His voice sounded sincere. He stared at his father as he talked, so I couldn't see his eyes.
Jamel moved a step away from me, removing my hand from his arm. "You said he hears me?"
"He might, yes."
"Good. I told him some stuff."
"That's good to do. You can tell him about everyday things too. Talk to him about the usual things."
"We don't talk. Haven't for a long time. He don't approve of me." Jamel seemed to pull back into his shell, but still he held onto his father's fingers.
I moved to the other side of the bed and began the treatments that couldn't wait. After watching Jamel with the tubing, I was uncomfortable leaving him alone in the room, so I took my time. "Jamel, I'm going to clean him. Would you like to help me?" I filled a basin with water.
"No. I have to go to work."
"Where do you work?"
"Car wash on Sample Road. I'm a student." He fidgeted with his baggy shirt and seemed to look past me.
I didn't hear Ray come into the room. When I heard Ray's voice, I happened to be looking at Jamel. He grimaced and released his father's hand. His expression became insolent, like a teenager with attitude.
"Listen, Jamel, I've been trying to get a hold of you. You haven't returned my calls. Don't you get your messages?" Ray said.
"I've been busy," Jamel responded, his voice flat.
"Sophi, is there someplace I can talk to him?"
"The room next door is empty." I pointed left.
Jamel didn't move. He glared at Ray and said, "I was leaving to go to work."
"You're going to be late. Either you'll be a little late because we're having a conversation here, or you'll be a lot late because I'm interviewing you at the station. You pick." Ray scowled at Jamel, and his cheeks seemed to tug at the edges of his chin whiskers.
Jamel shuffled past Ray. I saw him turn left and disappear into the adjacent room. Ray followed him and closed the door without looking back. I'd have to find out later what went on. Meanwhile, I attended to Hutchinson's needs before seeing my other patients. I left the room knowing I needn't worry about the safety of my patient.
A couple of hours later Ray appeared. I was catching up on my charting and watching the phones for the charge nurse.
"Hi, Sophi."
"Hello." The phone rang. "Five Northeast, Sophia Burgess." I took my time handling the call, finding the right nurse to speak with the doctor who'd called, and checking lab work on the computer.
Ray waited. There were no little twitches at the edges of his beard, so I assumed he was no longer angry. Wrong.
"You got a minute for me now?" His voice had an edge.
"What can I do for you, sir?" I used my best sitting-at-the-charge-nurse's-place voice. He made me mad, coming into my patient's room, not warning me, not saying hello, and taking two hours to come back.
"We need to talk. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?"
I looked at my watch. "Maybe." I relented. "Sure. The charge nurse will be back in about five minutes. You can wait for me in the cafeteria if you want."
"Don't be long."
"Hey, Ray, I'll do what I can."
It took me ten minutes to get to the cafeteria. When I joined him at a booth in the corner of the room, he had finished his beverage and was nibbling a Danish pastry. I sat and sipped my coffee. It was steaming hot. He must have made a second trip to the machine to get mine.
"What do you want?" I asked. The coffee had a bitter aftertaste, but it was otherwise fresh and drinkable.
"Anything new?"
"That's what I want to know. What's the deal with Jamel?"
"He's a piece of work." He frowned.
"I read a passage in a book describing a young African-American kid with an attitude. He sat on a sofa surrounded by high-powered lawyers and managed to appear both above it all and insolent at the same time. Reminds me of Jamel."
"Is he giving you a problem?"
"No. I think he gives his parents a problem though."
"That's what the neighbors in the storefront next to the real estate office said yesterday." He broke off a piece of Danish and pushed the plate in my direction. "They said the kid hangs out with a rough crowd. They work at the car wash."
"It's on Sample."
"Yeah. Been asking questions?"
"Jamel talked a bit."
"The neighbors said that a few days before Hutchinson got popped, the kid had a screaming match with the old man. From what they heard, they believe it was over money. The wife denies conflict between them."
"I tend to believe the neighbors." I repeated my conversation with Jamel. After a moment's hesitation, I told him about Jamel playing with the tubing, too.
"He shouldn't be alone with the old man."
"I know that, but I don't have control. I reported it to the supervisor. Our options are limited. We could restrict his visitors, but we'd have to explain it. You could put a bodyguard in the room to protect him, or we could move him back to ICU. However, the insurance won't pay for it, and the hospital won't either."
"Let me think about it."
"I think Jamel came in to say goodbye. He won't be back much." I broke off a piece of Danish. It was dry and crumbled in my hand. I ate it anyway and washed it down with a sip of coffee. "I was surprised to find that cute little dress shop in the shopping center."
"Huh?" Ray shook his head. "What dress shop?"
"The one next to Hutchinson Realty."
"You've been there?"
"I went there Saturday afternoon. I have an appointment to see property with the competition at Michael Wiley Realty on Thursday. Art Meyer, a real talkative older guy, can't wait to show me around."
"I don't like you going out on your own and playing private eye."
"I've made the date, and I'm going to see what I can find out. Either you'll want to know or you won't. Whatever." I shrugged and raised my hands, accenting my flip attitude.
"Let me know what happens." He strolled out of the cafeteria without looking back.
I watched him go, admitting to myself that he had made a class exit. I thought about moving back to North Dakota, picked at the stale Danish, and sipped the bitter coffee. The whole conversation with Ray had taken about five minutes. I spent the remainder of my break seething and remembering.
I met Ray when I was rookie police officer. My partner, Ralph, and I were the first to arrive at the scene of a brutal homicide. A neighbor had heard fighting, the sound of breaking glass, and the woman yelling, "No, no, please don't." The woman's boyfriend was prone to violence, so the man didn't check. He called us instead. It was a good move on his part. The boyfriend carved the woman with the jagged edge of a broken booze bottle, then finished the job with a kitchen knife. When we arrived, he had fled.
We secured the scene, roping off the entrance, outside walk, and part of the yard with yellow crime scene tape. A crowd formed. The media monitored the call on police scanners, so we had a TV crew to deal with, too. That kept us occupied until the sergeant and the detectives arrived. Ralph entered the apartment to see if the victim was alive. It was a one-room studio. I saw everything from the door.
After the detectives took control of the scene, we collected names and apartment numbers from the neighbors, asking what they had seen or heard. We had plenty of help and finished in a couple hours. Later I leaned against our patrol car, remembering the scene and trying not to lose my dinner. Ray approached me and said supportive things, helping me come to grips with my feelings.
He called me the next day to check on how I was doing. His compassion impressed me. One thing led to another, and soon we were an item. After about six months, we started to talk about marriage.
Then Ralph and I stopped a speeder going west on Sample Road. Departmental regulations didn't allow us to give chase, but it was late and the sergeant gave permission. The creep killed Ralph and shot me. I was luckier than Ralph. The shaft of my right femur shattered at the point it bends to become the greater trocanter---the thighbone part of the hip joint. My pelvis broke when I fell, and I had a belly wound. The result was a lot of my blood in the street, making the perpetrator think I was as dead as Ralph, whom he shot between the eyes.
Ray stuck by me when I was a patient in ICU, while I fought a raging infection, and as I struggled with an extended rehab. When I left the hospital to go back to North Dakota to recover my strength, he said he was moving on. He didn't offer an explanation, and I didn't ask for one. I had sensed it was coming, but I've wondered a lot about it. What seemed clear during the aftermath of the trauma didn't seem clear any longer.
I opted for nursing school rather than returning to the police force. On occasion, we drifted together then drifted apart again. The reconnection always centered on a case relating to the hospital or something medical. As a nurse, I was in a position to access behind-the-scenes people and events. When I was on the force, he respected my judgment despite my inexperience. I sometimes worried a problem to its solution---a cop's genes, or a nurse's.
The last time we cooperated on a case, the guard injured the fish in the mall. He got a kick out of picking things for me to try on and then seeing me wear them, so we'd gone shopping. After he split, my wardrobe suffered as much as I did. I missed the closeness we once shared.
I threw the last of the Danish in the trash, followed by my half-full coffee cup, arriving on Five East in time to see Jamel and his friends shuffling into Hutchinson's room. I retrieved some medication from the Pyxis, a medication cabinet resembling a computerized cash register, and followed them.
Amelia sat in the corner near the window with an open book on her lap, glaring at her son. "You should have come alone," she said.
"I did. Early. I came back." Jamel approached his mother while his friends hung back. He appeared sullen, his eyes downcast.
"I thought you were working."
"I didn't have to. I showed up late, and they had already called someone else in. Me and the boys came back here. I need some money."
Amelia's eyes seemed to survey the small group. "I didn't know you were so concerned about my husband."
The three young men were about twenty-two or three. Jamel-clones in baggy pants and huge shirts, they needed baths, deodorant, and a harsh shampoo and conditioning of their dreadlocks. At least Jamel smelled clean.
I was amused watching the young men take small steps backward until they lined up against the wall, as if trying to dissolve into the woodwork. They each stood over six feet. Even with slouching posture, they weren't effective in looking inconspicuous. One of them, the tallest one with the floppy cloth hat pulled over his eyes, took the hint and shuffled out of the room. The other two followed. I exited after them.
Once outside, I stayed close to the room, rechecking my patient's medications and straining to hear the conversation.
"Jamel," Amelia said, "you need to keep your job. I don't have extra cash to give you."
"Too late. I'm fired." Jamel challenged his mother, his words insolent.
"Why?" She sounded breathy, strained.
"It's the pig Stone's fault. I told him I had to go to work."
"I asked you to call the detective. I asked you three times. You didn't have to wait for him to find you. You should have gone to the police station like he asked and answered his questions."
"I didn't hear you."
"You said you heard me. You even repeated it."
"I don't remember."
Amelia's reply was inaudible.
Jamel spoke again, his voice louder and sharper. "What right does that pig have to talk to me? I didn't put a hit on the old man."
"They have to check out every possibility. You know that. We talked about that, too."
"Just give me some cash. I'm comin' up short.
"So am I. You'd better find another job."
"When I get time. The boys and I have something to do."
"When do you have class?"
Jamel mumbled.
"What did you say?" Amelia persisted. It sounded like familiar territory for them.
"I don't. I dropped them."
"Again?" There was a long pause. "When will you be home?" Amelia sounded exhausted.
"When I get there." I heard his voice sharpen. Emerging from the room, he folded a twenty and a five and shoved them into his pocket. He'd been successful bullying his mother. Had he done the same with his father? I wondered.
The next day was Tuesday. I offered to take Hutchinson, accepted report from the off-going shift, and headed down the hall. I anticipated a better day. We had plenty of help, and I'd be able to spend a lot of time in Hutchinson's room. Since he was my sickest patient, I stopped in to see him first.
Hutchinson was alone. After the scene the day before, I didn't think Jamel would be around much.
Hutchinson showed no signs of waking---his overall condition hadn't changed. The antibiotics were having an effect, and the smell from the dressings was less intense. The treatment and the ventilator kept him alive. I held his hand, feeling sorry he should have to endure such a fate and knowing I had come close to the same predicament myself.
Amelia Hutchinson showed up at three in the afternoon, late for her. I had most of my work done, so I gave her a few minutes to settle in.
"Do you have time to sit with me?" she said when I entered the room.
I smiled and nodded but went to the other side of Hutchinson's bed with the fresh dressings Central Sterile had delivered. I put them in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, checked Hutchinson's pump and ventilator settings, then pulled a chair next to her.
She looked tired. Rather than being dressed in her usual business clothes, she appeared rumpled and casual in a pair of loose fitting cotton slacks and an oversized tee shirt with a metallic appliqué of fish and palm trees. I doubted she had been selling real estate.
"What's on your mind?" I said, holding her hand.
"Did I tell you we have a small family---my husband, my son, and I?" She stared out the window. For a few moments, the only sounds in the room were the rhythmic whooshing of the vent and the soft hum of the feeding pump.
I looked outside as well. The parking lot appeared smoldering though the temperature was only in the mid-eighties.
"I didn't realize there were no brothers or sisters for either you or Barry. It must be hard for you."
"Barry has a brother up north, but we seldom hear from him. I called about the shooting, but he didn't say much and hasn't called to find out how Barry's doing."
"A lot on his plate perhaps."
"We haven't gotten along in years. The men had a falling out over the inheritance when their mother died."
"That's too bad."
"Yes. Maybe that's why I had second thoughts about the divorce." She continued to stare out the window. Her eyes were glossy, and tears pooled in the corners. "I'm afraid of ending up a lonely old woman. I always thought Barry would be an abandoned, friendless old man. I found out . . . out . . . he's had a girlfriend for a long time."
That took me by surprise. Looking at Hutchinson, he wasn't the kind of man you pictured having a girlfriend. He was, no doubt, more vibrant in life than in a coma, but he was old-looking, soft, with droopy skin along the jaw line and lots of excess tissue around his neck. Even in his current state, I saw the years had taken their toll. "How do you know he had a girlfriend?" I asked, recovering from the revelation.
"After I asked for the divorce, I had second thoughts, like I said. We hadn't made love for a few years, even though we shared the same bed. He would stay out at night, drinking and partying. I worried about catching some disease, so I refused to have sex with him. I got used to it and put it out of my mind.
"I expected him to have a girlfriend. I even suggested he get one. He said he wouldn't. He'd learn to live with it." She frowned.
I nodded periodically and let her talk.
"I thought it was a moot point. He's had blood pressure trouble for years, started a long time ago, and he was impotent. At first, he was angry about the problem. Quit taking his pills."
"There's a whole thing about a man's sexual performance defining his masculinity and his value," I said.
"He said life without sex wasn't worth living. Then he had a slight stroke. He was in his late forties, and it scared him. Living became more important to him than sex."
"Amelia, you're not making a lot of sense. First you tell me he had a girlfriend, then you tell me he had a performance problem."
She stared at me, then bent and rummaged through her pocketbook, retrieving a crumpled package of spearmint gum. She took a piece and offered me some. I'm not a gum chewer, but the minty smell was enticing. It tasted as good as it smelled, fresh and clean.
After a moment, she continued. It was as if she were talking to herself rather than to me. "I thought maybe I could rejuvenate our marriage with sex, so I made a pass at him one night. He responded, and we fooled around. He couldn't do much, but he always was able to please me. He had his ways."
"What did he say about the divorce? You told me he waited for you to ask for it. You said he wanted out as much as you did."
She looked me in the eye. "He didn't say anything, never did. He did comment that he couldn't turn down an old piece when it was thrown at him. I should have taken the hint and what was left of my self-respect and left, but I didn't. It became a habit. When he was home, we'd fool around. But he didn't come home very often."
"I thought you were afraid of catching something from his running around."
"Oh, I was," she said, "but I was more afraid of being alone. Alone and broke."
"I don't understand," I said, thinking about their business.
"I knew he'd never give me anything, then I found out he'd cleaned out the savings account. There isn't anything left."
I didn't know what to say.
"That's why they called me to the police station today."
"Excuse me?" Now I knew the reason she came late.
Ray was covering the bases. I agreed with him. A person familiar to the victim is often the killer, and there was a lot of trouble in this family. But I wondered what was behind Ray's enthusiasm. Hutchinson wasn't dead, might not be for a long time. Ray was spending an unusual amount of time on an attempted homicide when there were plenty of successful murders to work.
"It was terrible," she said. Tears filled her eyes and ran in rivulets down her lustrous brown cheeks. I offered her a tissue, and she dabbed at the tears before blowing her nose. "The phone rang about eight. I was getting up. I showed some property late last night, then met with Michael Wiley. When I went to bed, I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about being sixty years old, destitute, and selling real estate for that creep Wiley. He won't pay me anything significant for the business. He wants to take over the contracts and give me a job. I bet he fires me the first chance he gets."
"What did Detective Stone want?"
"He wasn't the one who called me. It was some woman. A clerk or something. When I dragged myself into the police station, Stone was there. He asked someone to put me into a conference room." She shifted her weight in the chair then stared at her husband's ventilator. "It wasn't a conference room. It was an interrogation room like the ones on television---table and chairs, nothing else. It didn't even have a window."
"Go on," I said. On one hand, I wanted to rise to the defense of my patient's wife. The poor woman. On the other hand, I understood she was a suspect. But why call her in now, today?
"They left me there a long time. Stone came in with another officer, a young man, and they offered me coffee. They questioned me about the business, how it was going, and how it was doing before Barry was shot. I told them things were on a wing and prayer as far as I could tell. I even volunteered the information about the lack of cash flow and the fact I was having trouble making payroll."
"It sounds like pretty old territory. Hadn't they asked you those questions before?" The gum had lost its flavor, and I realized I was chewing too hard, like a cow with her cud. I helped myself to a tissue and used it to remove the gum from my mouth, keeping an eye on Amelia while I disposed of it.
"I presumed they'd get around to questioning me. Right after Barry . . . Well, they pretty much left me out of it. They asked me a few things, but I was distraught and not helpful. They said they would get with me later." Grunting, she lifted herself out of her chair, walked around her husband's bed, and stood by the window.
"What else happened?" I decided to keep prompting her. It would be interesting to compare what she said with Ray's version, if he discussed it with me that is. I went to stand beside her.
"Stone said---let me see if I can get it exact---he said, 'Don't you think you could make payroll if you hadn't taken five-thousand out of the agency's money market account?'" She looked at me. Her face was tense, drawn in around her nose. She spread her hand out in front of her in a motion that would have said he's got the whole world in his hands had the circumstances been different. "I was speechless."
"Then?"
"I tried to explain I hadn't been included in the agency's finances. Barry brought home a paycheck, sometimes as payroll, sometimes as corporate dividends, depending on what the tax accountant said. I never saw the books. I didn't have access to the money. I remember signing cards when the accounts were opened, but I never did anything with them. The only time I learned anything was when the taxes were done at the end of the year."
"Given your feelings about your husband, didn't it concern you?"
"Of course it did, but he evaded my questions, saying I shouldn't worry so much. He said the agency was half in my name, and I'd get my share."
"Sounds iffy to me, if you want to know the truth."
"I thought so, too, but I didn't want to rock the boat any more than I had. I thought there was a chance of keeping our marriage and our business together. We're older people, and I hoped he would get tired and stay home."
"Amelia, it sounds like you beat yourself up pretty bad over the years. Unless there was some major event, I can't see how you would expect him to change his behavior."
"Sophia . . ."
"Yes?"
She pointed to Hutchinson. "This is a fairly major event in his life."
I shook my head, pinching my lips together, then glanced at my watch. I could talk to her for a few more minutes. I'd have to hurry to get a couple of blood sugars checked and the insulin injections given before the dinner trays arrived. "Is that all the detectives wanted? It seems you were there a long time."
"From about, maybe, nine this morning to noon. Afterwards, I went to the bank to verify the information they gave me and then to the agency."
"You look tired. Why don't you sit?" I pointed to her chair and watched her walk back around the bed and settle into it.
She shivered, wrapping her arms around her chest.
"I'm confused." I retrieved a clean blanket from the back of a chair and laid it over her legs.
"So was I. Stone accused me of taking five thousand dollars out of the money market account. I told him I didn't do it. He said, "Yes you did. We have a copy of the withdrawal slip.'" She moved her hands, punctuating her rapid speech. "I said, 'No, show me.' He refused. Said I knew what I signed.
"He wanted to know if I'd used the money to put out a contract on Barry. Can you believe that? He said in South Florida it's easy to take out a contract. Happens all the time. He said you go into one of the slums, like where my son hangs out, and ask around.
"I love Barry. I didn't want him dead. After all these years, I wanted him home with me at night. That's not too much to ask. Like my friends. Their husbands are home with them. That's all I ever wanted. Just a normal family."
"Amelia," I said, rubbing her shoulder. "Take a few deep breaths. Try to relax. The police are doing their jobs. If they found a big withdrawal, they have to find out where the money went."
"They think I found out about Barry's girlfriend. They said it made me mad, and I decided to kill him. They wouldn't believe I didn't know about the girlfriend until they informed me a few hours ago. How would I know? Barry didn't tell me, and his behavior never changed. Sure, I thought he had many girlfriends over the years, but nothing long-term. What did I expect? I wouldn't sleep with him."
"Let me get this straight. You didn't know he had a girlfriend, but you thought he had many girlfriends. That was okay?" I held up a hand to emphasize my question.
"Sophia, I don't want to be alone. At first, I refused him because I worried about getting AIDS. I didn't know where he went at night. He said he was drinking with his friends. But after a while, I knew he wouldn't go that long without sex. I figured he was getting it somewhere. I found Viagra in his pocket, so I knew he was able."
"That didn't bother you?" I felt my eyebrows rise.
"No, not really, because I didn't know for sure. I put it out of my mind."
"How is this different?" I struggled to keep my expression supportive.
"Stone . . . Stone found out Barry was living with a woman. He had a steady relationship. They shared an apartment on the other side of town."
"And you didn't know?"
"I had no idea. I mean, he stayed out more, sometimes overnight, but there was no pattern. He never called, so how would I know?" She turned in her chair and looked into my face.
"What did they tell you about the woman? If you don't mind my asking, that is."
"They said she was in her fifties and worked in a legal office on the other side of town. And, I still don't believe it---she's white."
"So?"
"That makes it worse." She knitted her brows together as if she was stricken with a severe migraine.
"Why?"
"I don't know, but it does. He insisted Jamel date African-American girls, his own kind Barry would say. I can't believe he'd take up with a white woman."
"Amelia, it happens all the time."
"Not in my family it doesn't, not to me." She pointed at me. "Sophia, what about my son? When he finds out about the girlfriend, it'll make me look like a fool, and he'll lose respect for his father."
"Maybe he doesn't have to find out." I said.
"He will. Stone said he was going to talk to Jamel and see if he knew about the woman. He implied that if I didn't admit to trying to kill Barry over it, maybe Jamel would."
I was having trouble reading her. There was something strange in the exchange. She started out weepy and sad, and now she was angry. Was it because she had found out about the girlfriend? Did the race issue make it more insulting for her? Or, had she known all along, but now it was exposed?
When I left the hospital that evening, getting out on time for a change, Ray Stone stood next to my car in the parking lot. "Fancy meeting you here." I said, digging into my pocketbook for my car keys.
"I've been trying to reach you. Don't you return your calls anymore?"
I glanced at my cell phone. "Oops. It's not on."
"Makes it hard to get in touch with you." He laughed, but the accompanying smile was over-confident and annoying.
"Yup. I should leave it off more often." I stuck the key in the car door. "Look, Ray, I'm tired. I want to go home."
I wasn't in the mood. I hadn't processed the information from Amelia yet and felt he had somehow set up the poor woman. And why was he here?
He stuck his long arm out, over my shoulder, and braced the door shut. I thought he was trying to be casual about it, but he didn't fool me. "I interviewed Amelia today. We need to talk."
"Questioned."
"Huh? We're on the same side. I don't need to question you."
"Questioned. I said questioned. Amelia, I mean. You questioned Amelia. Maybe interrogated, confronted, and accused would be better ways of putting it." I frowned at him while I continued to fiddle with the lock.
"If you like." He stepped back a few steps. "Clue me in. Why are you concerned?"
"I don't know why I'm concerned. Earlier, I was anxious to hear from you and find out your side of the story. But it seems you destroyed the woman. Here she is. Her husband is critically ill. She doesn't have a clue if he'll ever be a shadow of his former self. Her life and business are in ruins. You tell her he was cheating on her, then accuse her of trying to have him killed. I guess I have sympathy with the wife of the victim." I took a breath.
"You don't think she had motive?"
"What motive?" I knew where he was going.
Nurses are trained problem solvers. We're critical thinkers. That's why we're good at finding solutions to our patients' problems, and it's why we're good at solving mysteries. We know how to collect the facts, study them, and arrive at reasonable conclusions.
But we get involved. Caring and compassion motivate us to be safe and accurate. Sometimes it clouds the mind.
"Look at it this way." Ray held up his left hand, using his right index finger as a pointer to tick off the issues. "There are five thousand dollars missing from their money market account. The withdrawal emptied the cash reserve of the business, I might add. The withdrawal slip bears her signature. She denied knowing about it."
"Maybe she didn't," I said with as much venom as I could muster.
He ignored my contribution to the conversation and proceeded to touch his fourth finger. "Hutchinson had a long-term girlfriend." He touched index finger to thumb. "Amelia asked Barry for a divorce. Everyone in the strip mall knew it. Heard them fighting over it."
"She said she changed her mind. They were sleeping together again, and they were trying to reconcile."
"That's not the way the girlfriend tells it. She says he was going to leave her as soon as he worked out the details of keeping the business and finding something for her to do. He was trying to make a deal with Michael Wiley to hire her. The problem is, the girlfriend said, Amelia is not a good real estate agent---talks too much and doesn't make a lot of sales. Wiley wasn't interested in hiring her."
"Did you check with Wiley?"
"Not yet. I pulled it together yesterday and today. Wiley hasn't called us back yet, but we'll talk to him."
"I'll bet you will." I looked at Ray. "Do you think she had her husband killed because he was ditching her for another woman, leaving her destitute in the process?"
"Something like that."
"Any life insurance?"
"Yes as a matter of fact, a hundred big ones."
"No kidding. Amelia was the beneficiary?"
"Amelia gets seventy-five, and the kid gets the rest. She also gets the business, the house, and the cars. She'd be much better off with him dead. With no mortgage on the house, she was set for retirement. If he left her, she'd have next to nothing."
"Shit."
"Motive." He smiled. It was annoying. I hated it when he was right.
"Do you want me to pursue anything in particular when I go to the realty office on Thursday?"
"Let's get dinner and talk about it. I'll bring you up to date on the progress in the case overall." He waved his arm in the direction of his car, which he had parked two spaces from mine.
The last couple of days were draining. I wanted to go home, collect my thoughts, make a few notes on the subject, and sleep until next Tuesday. "Ray," I said, "I'd like to." I stopped. "No. I wouldn't like to. I want to go home."
"We need to talk."
"I'll meet you for breakfast."
"Can't, I've gotta be in court." He opened his mouth, closed it, exhaled, and said, "Thursday for breakfast?"
"Works for me. I have an appointment with the realtor at eleven. You'll have plenty of time to prepare me for the occasion."
Ray opened the door to my Mini and stood back as I climbed in. "Sophi," he said through the open window, "the best thing would be for you to stay out of it. But I know you, so can we lighten up and just exchange some info?"
"Sure," I said without conviction.
"What's the problem?"
"I don't know. Old baggage, I guess. Old questions."
"Maybe we need to talk about them---clear the air." He sounded sincere.
"We'll see. You didn't want to tell me then."
"You didn't ask."
I looked away and started the engine. As I was backing out, I stuck my head out the window. "See you Thursday morning. Denny's near me okay?"
"Fine." I noticed his cheeks were tugging at the edges of his beard. He was pissed. That's his problem, I thought.
On Wednesday morning, Vanessa was responsible for Hutchinson's vent care. I tried to keep a close eye on her. She had to work with someone she detested, and I wanted to make sure my patient received the best care.
She was attentive to his needs, spending extra time in the room. She cleaned his tracheostomy tube, drained the water from the vent hoses, and checked the settings, making entries in the computer as she worked.
Amelia sat in the armchair watching everything Vanessa did, but there was no conversation. I didn't see Vanessa look at Amelia even once.
Around ten, Vanessa and I took a late breakfast, before the cafeteria closed to prepare for the next session. I'd gotten three calls from the intensive care unit. They had several patients for us. It was typical of them to complete the transfers before their meal break. That way the ICU staff enjoyed an uninterrupted lunch before the next round of patients filled their beds. I didn't blame them. They often didn't get time away to eat. They sometimes didn't get to pee.
I'd given a short report to Connie, who had the group of patients in the rooms next to mine, and hurried to meet Vanessa in the cafeteria. She sat in a booth near the windows on the far side. I'd anticipated finding her outside on the patio and felt relieved she stayed in the air conditioning.
There wasn't a line at the counter, but the dietary aide was collecting the big metal trays. He stopped his work and smiled as I studied my options. The scrambled eggs---powdered, reconstituted, over-cooked---looked like they were returning to their original pulverized form. The aroma of bacon hung in the air.
I selected an egg from the bin labeled soft-boiled, suspecting it would be hard in the center by now. That was okay with me. I felt hard-boiled myself.
The toast had dried out, so I grabbed a bagel and found a package of cream cheese. Not bad. I took a small sealed cup of orange juice and stopped by the coffee pot. The coffee was fresh, which meant it would not be fresh when the lunch crowd converged on the small dining room.
The cashier had closed the register. I dropped the money in the honor system bowl left for late diners.
By the time I reached the booth, Vanessa had finished her powdery eggs and was sipping her coffee. "Hi," I said, sliding onto the bench across from her. "Sorry I'm late."
"No problem. I needed a few minutes to think about my real estate problems anyway." She smiled as if she had said something delightful. I wondered if she was losing her grip.
"What's happening?" I opened my orange juice and took a sip. It tasted too sweet.
"The son of a bitch Hutchinson screwed me. I parked myself in the mortgage broker's office yesterday. I've been trying to call him since I talked to Amelia, but he wouldn't return my calls. I decided to show up."
"How was the reception?" I glanced at her face as I worked on the shell of my egg.
"He welcomed me like a long lost relative---one he could fleece out of a bunch of money." She frowned, looking frustrated. That suited me. At least her expression was appropriate for the conversation.
"I thought you planned to cancel the contract and get your deposit back."
"I did, really I did. After I talked to Amelia on Saturday, I thought about what you and Connie said, and I figured I'd find another house. I even negotiated an extension with my landlord." She leaned forward and put her elbows on the table.
"Van, I'm missing something here." I salted my egg and lifted it to my mouth, waiting for her to fill me in. I took a big bite of the egg, the liquid center gushed like a cream filled donut, sending cold yellow yolk down the side of my face and onto the collar of my uniform.
Vanessa laughed, and I cast her a dirty look.
She said, "Sophia, do you always eat soft-boiled eggs like that?"
"Damn." I wiped at my face and went to work on my uniform using the shiny metal napkin dispenser as a mirror. "Who would think the boiled eggs would be soft at this time of the morning?" I kept dabbing, using water from Vanessa's glass. "Tell me about the real estate deal."
"Like I said, when I got home on Saturday night, I gave it some thought and decided to take my time before finding another house. I called Amelia Monday. She told me she had great news. The seller signed the contract---it was now a contract---and agreed to the stipulations."
"I asked her how that happened given the delay. She said there were no time limits in the contract. That's the way I signed it. I told her I wanted out, and she threatened me with losing my down payment. I know ten grand isn't a lot of money, but it's my money, and it's all I have. I begged, I pleaded, and she held firm. She said the sellers were prepared to close on schedule, and I'd better get a mortgage."
"Did you mention the promises about interest rate and terms Hutchinson made to you?"
"Sure I did, but she said it wasn't in writing. The contract specifies I have to get a mortgage at the prevailing rate. I didn't put extra stipulations on it."
"Sounds like you screwed yourself."
"What do you mean, I screwed myself? I asked the questions and that frigging Hutchinson told me what I wanted to hear. He hurried me when it was time to sign, summarized it for me, and said, 'Don't worry. I'll handle everything.' He acted real happy and congratulatory."
"I understand how that can happen. But Van, you know you have to read everything. If you don't look out for your own interests, no one else will either."
"Craig used to read all of that stuff. He wouldn't give me a chance, said I was too damn dumb. Guess he was right about that at least." She put her head in her hands for a moment. I thought she was going to cry, but she looked at me clear-eyed.
"Van," I said, "you're as smart as the next one, but you're inexperienced for a woman your age. You need to get help with the things you don't understand."
"Now you tell me." She stuck an end of a napkin into her water glass and reached her long arm across the table. She worked on my collar a moment. "Okay, you'll pass for another day."
"What happened with the mortgage broker?"
"He's trying. It looks like I'll have to pay a couple of points more than the prevailing rate. If I forego a few things, I shouldn't starve to death. What I'll have to do, I think, is put the house on the market as soon as I own it. But it's a tough market. I think that's why my sellers changed their minds and signed."
"Maybe you need to get a lawyer to check it out."
"I tried, but they want a couple of hundred dollars an hour. By the time it's checked out, I'd spend as much money as I would lose walking away from the contract."
"You're in a bind." I ate the last bite of bagel. When I took the last sip of my coffee, I asked, "Vanessa, as angry as you are with Hutchinson and Amelia, shouldn't you excuse yourself from his care?"
"No, why should I? I work on the unit, and I didn't invite him. Why should I disrupt my work life because of him? Really. My personal and financial life may be in chaos because of his damned incompetence, but I'm a professional. I'll take care of him just fine."
"Point taken," I said, sliding out of the bench. I wasn't comfortable with it. She was confused, had been screwed over, though she asked for it, and she was being trapped into a deal because she hadn't read the contract. And Amelia, for her part, pushed it forward rather than helping out.
I went upstairs and found Connie in Hutchinson's room seeing to his needs. She took him as her assignment when I wasn't working and relieved me for meals or breaks when I was. She formed emotional attachments to long-term ventilator patients, and Hutchinson was no exception. Nothing distracted her from the patient's needs.
I watched her clean around the tube in his neck then fluff his pillow and put it back under his head. She spoke to him all the time she touched him, just as we learned in school. I noticed she'd changed the dressing on his head as well. The putrid smell in the room had diminished.
Connie wore a new uniform. It reminded me of her swimming suit. Matronly. It was a jumper with a dropped waist and gathered skirt over a short sleeve pullover. It came to about three inches over her shapeless ankles and accentuated her broad behind. When I realized it was new, I touched it, and said, "Nice fabric. It'll wash well."
She beamed and said, "Thank you."
I don't think she stopped to think about what I didn't say.
As Connie finished, Amelia entered the room with a coffee cup in hand. Perfect, I thought, Vanessa's in the Respiratory Therapy department for a few minutes. I can validate what she told me.
Though Amelia and I had greeted each other earlier, we hadn't had time to chat. We passed a few moments with the customary pleasantries, then I popped the question. "Vanessa says her contract is finalized, and she's working on a mortgage."
"That's true." Amelia settled next to the window in her favorite chair. The chair was on the opposite side of the room from its customary place. She must have moved it after I left on Tuesday evening. I noticed she didn't say hello to her husband.
"The mortgage is going to be higher than Barry led her to believe, and she'll have trouble affording it." I glanced in her direction as I pulled back the covers to check Hutchinson's belly.
"She must have misunderstood. Besides, she didn't ask him to say anything about it in the contract."
"She said the seller completed the contract this week. Didn't it have to be signed in a couple of days?"
"Yes, usually that's true, but what happened, I think, is they were out of town. Barry had her initial a change which gave the buyer unlimited time, unless, of course, Vanessa withdrew the offer."
"Didn't she tell you she intended to withdraw her offer? I heard her tell you on the telephone on Saturday she was thinking about pulling out."
"Sophia," she said, her voice edgy, "are you questioning me? The last thing the woman said to me was fix it, which is what I did. What interest is it of yours anyway? Take care of my husband and stay out of my business."
"Amelia, you asked me to check around, to keep my eyes open. I did, and I have a question."
"Yes," she said, her manner sweet, "I remember. The truth is that I thought it was a good deal and that she shouldn't back out. I rushed over and asked the sellers to sign, but Vanessa never called to tell me to withdraw the offer. The last direction I had from her was to push the sale through."
I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "I don't believe that was in the best interest of your client. You should have checked with her again first."
"Sophia, the buyer and the seller are both my clients. I think it's in the best interest of the seller. That's where my first loyalty has to be, to the seller. After all, it's our listing, and it's sales that produce the income."
It didn't sit well with me. I thought a realtor couldn't represent both parties. I was confused, and I walked out of the room shaking my head. I had vehemently defended this woman to Ray two days ago. Live and learn.
Early Thursday morning, the alarm clock short-circuited my sleep. I rolled out of bed. I had no choice. I had insisted on breakfast, knowing it meant meeting Ray at seven God forsaken o'clock. So I dragged out of bed a little before six. I wanted a cup of coffee on board in order to deal with the man.
First, I fed Sunshine and opened the doggy door, letting him into the yard. He demanded and received the first bit of attention every morning. Then I headed for the shower.
As I stood under the hot stream of water---I have my showerhead set to deliver a solid stream rather than a diffuse mist---I reviewed the activities of the preceding day. Vanessa, Connie, and I had been stuck on forced overtime until eleven. Vanessa hadn't said anything significant for the rest of the day, but I could tell from her distant looks she was preoccupied.
I pulled myself back into the moment, climbed out of the shower, and toweled myself off. Sunshine returned from his morning excursion, complete with wet paws and chin, and presented himself for a good morning-rub. The fact I was stark naked didn't deter him from asserting his demands.
I knelt next to him on the floor and rubbed his belly. Then I kneaded around his ears. He held his head one way and then the other to increase the force of the massage. He's a real hedonist.
The aroma of coffee drifted into the bedroom. Unable to wait, I wrapped myself in my towel and went into the kitchen for a cup. Then, as I sipped, I laid out a short-sleeved sweater and matching cardigan, guaranteeing I'd have something warm to combat the chilling air conditioning in Denny's and the real estate office.
As I sat in front of my vanity blow-drying my hair, I continued to rehash the previous day, preparing to relay it to Ray. I wasn't sure what would be important, but he'd want to know about Amelia's attitudes and how she was handling Vanessa's real estate deal.
I gave my hair one last brushing. It looked the way Ray liked it, soft and alive. I applied a touch of eye shadow, some mascara, and a blush of pink to my cheeks. I reached for the Chanel and sprayed it along my neckline and into my hint of cleavage. Then, for good measure, I sent a short mist of cologne into my hair and fluffed it with a pick. Done.
Time to go. I wanted to be the first to arrive.
I surveyed my appearance, grabbed my sweater and purse, and sent Sunshine to his crate with a treat. He'd do anything for a treat.
I pulled up in front of Denny's ten minutes later. Though it was not yet seven, Ray waited outside, standing next to an areca palm. So much for being there first. He wore a cream-colored dress shirt and dark tie with brown slacks. I knew he'd left his jacket in the car. He looked fine, real fine.
We ordered eggs, pancakes---the works. Everything tasted good. I'm fond of pancakes when I don't have to make them myself. They're a treat. I never choose them in the hospital cafeteria. There, they're not a treat.
I felt like a traitor telling Ray about Vanessa's problems with Amelia and Barry Hutchinson and with Amelia's total lack of willingness to help. Ray didn't act surprised. I think he was convinced Amelia gunned down her husband.
Of course, he didn't say Amelia had done the deed. No sir.
"I think Amelia took out the contract on her husband, and I think her son had a hand in it. Your story confirms that her motive was greed, pure and simple."
"Ray," I said, "I can't argue with you. It seems that way to me, too."
"Nice of you to agree with me for a change. Yes ma'am, it is." His bass voice, with the barest hint of a southern drawl, rumbled from across the table.
"Ray," I said, "now you're being the catty one."
"How so?"
"Forget it."
"No, let's not forget it. I think it's time we talk about whatever it is that's bothering you." There weren't any jerking movements along the edge of his goatee, so I knew he wasn't angry.
If I pissed him off, he wouldn't let me be involved in cases anymore, and I enjoyed it. Or did I enjoy the opportunity to see Ray? "Let's forget it. I don't want to open old wounds this morning."
Ray was born and raised in Parkland, Virginia. It sits at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains, on the east side where the slope is gradual. We took a trip there to meet his parents. We were planning our wedding, and visiting his folks was the thing to do.
For some reason, I don't remember why, we approached from the west and sped up the west side of the mountains, drove a short distance on the Blue Ridge Parkway, then descended on the east. The road leading up the mountain was at least three times as steep as the one going down. Trees close to the road obscured the scary hairpin turns and exciting drop-offs. The old song Thunder Road ran though my head. Of course, the way Ray drove the Viper didn't help. He grew up on the roads and knew every turn.
The smell of Ray's Nautica drifted across the table. He didn't wear Nautica then---I don't think it existed---but he'd worn something as sensual.
"Sophi, we need to clear the air."
I didn't say anything.
He continued, "I don't know what it is about us lately. We can't get along."
I sat straighter in the booth and leaned forward. "What do you mean lately? I don't hear from you for months on end. First we meet, have a romance, decide to get married, then I get shot and everything is called off. And never an explanation."
"That was eight years ago for God's sake. Why are you bringing it up?"
"Because, my handsome former fiancée, it was never resolved. Every few months, you walk back into my life and expect I'll greet you with hugs and kisses, and sometimes sex, too. Makes me feel used and abused. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not claiming you forced me into your bed, but it feels like it. I like helping with the cases. But where does that leave me? Screwing you so I can play cops and robbers once in a while?"
It was his turn to sit there. I studied his face, looking for the telltale sign of his cheeks tugging at the edges of his beard, but no, he still wasn't angry. He reached his long arm across the table and took my hand. I didn't pull away. I thought maybe I'd hear something giving me closure to the emotional roller coaster I'd ridden for years.
"If you remember, before you were injured, we were having problems. We'd decided to put our engagement on hold for a while, but we were still seeing each other."
"Of course, I remember."
"When you were in the hospital, I came to see you every day." He paused. "At first, I couldn't get over almost losing you, but then I met someone. When you said you wanted to go home to recover, I decided to make a clean break. You didn't ask. I thought you had figured it out."
"But you never asked for the ring back."
"Wasn't important at the time."
Knowing didn't bring closure. It brought fresh pain. He had a right to do whatever he pleased, but it still felt like deceit to me.
When I didn't say anything, Ray continued, "The woman and I quit seeing each other soon after you left town. When you came back to town, you didn't call me. The captain showed me the letter saying you were going to nursing school. I thought you'd be back to the department."
"You could have contacted me. It wasn't as though I kept my whereabouts a secret, and I went into Patty's Pub every weekend."
"I know. I walked in a time or two, saw you there, and slipped out."
"Coward."
"Exactly."
He still held my hand. He's one of those guys whose muscles seem to extend into his hands. I guess it's because his muscles are part of his natural physique, not put there by lifting weights. The strength of his hand made his shaking more obvious.
He loosened his grip and stared at my face until he caught my eyes. "That's why I started using you on my cases. I felt guilty over not sticking by you. Then I found out you were a real asset on certain cases, people open up to you. Now I call you for two reasons. One, it's an excuse to see you. Two, you're a big help."
"Where does that leave us?" I noticed the only emotion he mentioned was guilt. He took a sip of his cold coffee and didn't answer. I remembered the days when we thought we were in love.
He said, "I don't know. Working on this case, I guess."
My eyes stung. "You have to go to work, and I have things to do before I see the realtor. I'll give you a call if I find out anything."
"Call me either way."
"Fine." I slid out of the booth and left without looking back. My tears flowed.
Concerned about someone unveiling my clandestine investigation, I looked around. The parking lot was empty except for a couple of late model, four-door sedans and two other vehicles. I pulled into a diagonal parking space in front of Michael Wiley Realty.
I glanced in the direction of Hutchinson Realty and confirmed Amelia's car was not there. Vanessa was working overtime, so she wouldn't drive by and see my car either.
As the cars whizzed by on the north-south corridor, I reviewed my plan to find out about contracting to purchase real estate and about the Hutchinsons.
When I walked into the realty office, Wiley stood near the door. He didn't look like the typical friendly realtor. His craggy nose formed a sharp slope to his high forehead and thinning brown hair. A nasty scar extended from his right ear to the side of his mouth, following the angle of his jaw. The skin on either side of the scar appeared permanently swollen.
The scar looked like an incision, making me suspect recent cancer surgery. I assumed many people guessed it was the result of a youthful knife fight.
Wiley's demeanor contrasted with his appearance. He swung the door open and extended his hand, ushering me into the cold office with a warm welcome. "Young lady, what can we do for you today?"
He wasn't much older than I, approaching forty-five---maybe. "I have an appointment with Mr. Meyer."
"Ah, yes, I remember him commenting on a fishing expedition with a new client."
"Fishing, that would be me. I'm searching for a new house. I need to see what's out there before I decide if I can afford to buy." I looked around, hoping not to see Mr. Meyer. I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to interview Wiley before leaving with Meyer. "Is he in yet?"
"No. He called a few minutes ago. He's on his way. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?" He was perhaps six feet with a slim build and a slight paunch. He bent at the waist when he spoke, as if trying to get to my level.
"I'd like that. Thanks." I took a seat and stared at the world's-greatest-salesmen display, then saw a stack of paper on the ledge by the vacant receptionist's desk. I took a roster of recent listings and returned to my chair. One has to appear interested.
Wiley returned with my coffee. "Can I get you started? We like to collect some information on new clients before taking them out, routine pre-qualification stuff. We try not to inconvenience our sellers with traffic from folks who won't qualify."
"Sounds like a plan to me." The coffee was bitter. I tried not to make a face. The pot needed scrubbing. Following him to his office---his was the only one with walls---I noticed only one occupied cubicle. "Quiet day?"
"Usually is on Thursdays. A couple agents are out with clients, but most of the sales force comes in after lunch. We get busier later in the day."
I took a chair and set the coffee off to the side. I planned to leave it there. "I thought about doing business with the office on the other end of the mall. I'm not much into huge boxes filled with cubbies." I waved my arm at the maze.
"It's not as bad as it seems. Besides, I think Hutchinson's Realty will be a part of our organization soon. Barry, he's the real estate broker, was hurt in an accident, and I don't believe his wife will continue in the business."
"Oh, is that so? I met her a few days ago, and she didn't mention going out of business."
"That doesn't surprise me. She isn't excited about closing the office. But she doesn't hold a real estate broker's license, and her husband won't be able to work again."
"That's sad. What kind of accident?"
"Did I say accident? I mean tragedy. He sustained his injuries in a drive-by shooting. He's lying in the hospital, even as we speak, close to death." He fidgeted with his pens, picked up a form and laid it down, then looked at me. "He and I were close friends---competitors yes, but still close friends. A time or two, we discussed combining forces but decided we'd miss the competition. Certain clients prefer a smaller office like his, while others prefer our bigger operation. They think we have more listings."
"We'll isn't that true?"
"No, we use the same multiple listing service. With sales, we show our own listings first. That makes economic sense. Someone listing with us gets more exposure from our salesmen. Beyond that, it's a matter of comfort for the client.
"When we show our properties, we tell the client we are transaction brokers only. That means we provide a limited form of representation rather than representing them as a single agent and owing them our full loyalty. This form explains it. We encourage those clients to obtain a lawyer's services." He laid a form in front of me. After I'd finished reading it, he continued, "Can we get some information from you?"
"Sure, why not? What is it you need to know?"
"Let's start with your current address."
He asked questions, and I provided answers, trying to mirror Vanessa's economic condition. He asked about income. I lied, cutting my income by twenty-five percent. He asked about available cash. I lied, saying I could, maybe, scrape together a few thousand.
"Tell me, do you think I can hope to get into anything decent? I know I should have more money to work with, but my rent is high. It's hard to save."
"It will be tough."
"I've heard sometimes agencies do some interesting things with contracts and prices."
"Some of the less reputable people will, yes. They inflate the value of the house and credit the extra to a down payment, giving the appearance of higher equity and forcing down the mortgage rate. That makes it easier for the buyer to qualify for an affordable mortgage."
"Is that legal?"
"No, definitely not. In fact, it's conspiracy to defraud a federally funded institution. In the old days, we did it on occasion. But not anymore. The laws are more stringent. Sometimes buyers have to raise a larger down payment. Then with the credit crunch brought on by the bank problems, it is even harder to qualify marginal clients."
"Sounds like padding the price is a way to make a sale that shouldn't be made," I observed.
Wide-eyed, he stared at me.
I knitted my brows, trying to look puzzled. "I ask because my friend is working with Amelia Hutchinson to buy a home. She's having problems with the contract."
"Oh, tell me." He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward.
I explained about Barry Hutchinson calling Vanessa's offer a contract when the sellers hadn't signed, then described the details of Vanessa's home buying fiasco. I elaborated on the distress to the buyer and added a few creative details for effect.
"That's not how we do business." He made a note on the form and folded it. "We refer to the mortgage broker after both parties sign the contract. We review changes with both the buyer and the seller to be certain they understand. Also, we never have open-ended time frames. That's asking for trouble."
I thought Hutchinson had significant cash flow problems and pushed sales, or, maybe, he had been inept. I poked deeper. "Amelia pressed the sellers to sign and left my friend stuck."
He tilted his head. "Now really? Amelia? I'm surprised."
His eyes darted to the doorway.
I glanced over my shoulder at Art Meyer.
Wiley said, "Come on in and join us. I completed Miss Burgess' file. She's ready to go."
All pre-qualified, I thought, masking my surprise with a cough. First, he tells me I won't quality, and, now, I'm set to look at homes. I stood to leave.
Art Meyer wore light yellow pants, a matching golf shirt, white loafers, white socks, and a stretchy white belt. His narrow shoulders accentuated his round belly.
"Mr. Meyer," I said. "Nice to see you again."
"Please, call me Art." He stepped back and waved his arm toward the front door. "Ready to go?"
"My pleasure." The quintessential, semi-retired, Jewish Floridian was taking me to look at houses.
As we walked, he said, "I picked a number of homes to visit. Some are more expensive, some town homes, a condo. It's a broad sampling so you'll know the market and can decide where you want to go from here."
"Are you sure you want to spend that much time with me? From what Mike Wiley said, I won't qualify for much of a mortgage."
"Sophia, let's take first things first. You said you wanted to look around. That's what we'll do."
This was going to be interesting, I predicted, walking to his car.
I felt like I was climbing into a Cadillac with one of my patients. "Nice car. You sure you need to work for a living?"
"I don't want to stay home with my wife. She's a k'vetsh. When we retired to Florida, ten years ago this month, I pursued a real estate license for something to do. I don't golf or play cards. This fills the time."
"A man with a plan. I like that." I settled back into supple leather seats. "Educate me on the real estate business."
Art talked while he drove, but he kept his eyes on the road, a careful driver.
Soon I felt safe and relaxed and gave my full attention to his running dialogue.
As we traveled from one property to another, he explained the real estate market. He responded to my questions about the business, contracts, and mortgages, convincing me Vanessa got a raw deal.
Next, I needed to steer the conversation to the Hutchinsons. I decided to be direct. "Can you tell me anything about Hutchinson Realty?"
"Why do you want to know?" He scowled, looking skeptical.
"My friend Vanessa is buying a home through them. She's having problems."
He pulled to a stop at the light on Pine Island and McNab Roads, tapping his fingers on the leather-covered steering wheel.
For a moment, I believed I'd had lost him, knowing he'd be justified in dumping me in the parking lot.
"Okay," he said, drawing out the word. "I suspect that's the real reason for your shopping expedition. I heard you talking to Mike about your friend." He paused and peered at me over his wire-framed glasses. "I should be angry with you for wasting my time. Truth is I'd be stuck home with my wife, and I'd rather be driving around with an attractive young woman. What is it you want to know?"
"I'm sorry. I should have bought you a cup of coffee and asked my questions."
"You wouldn't have gotten the answers. Too direct. Would have put me on the defensive. I'd have wondered why you singled me out, maybe looking to sue me or something."
"You're not mad?"
"No, like I said," he muttered something in Yiddish.
I mustered a matter-of-fact expression. "What can you tell me about them? Mike answered my questions about the contract, and you filled in the blanks."
He pulled into a strip shopping center, swung into an empty space, and backed out. We headed back north on Pine Island, which became Coral Springs Drive when we crossed into the next town.
The names of the streets in South Florida change at the whim of a politician. It's okay for residents. We know our way around. Tourists get lost.
Art glanced in my direction. "Hutchinson has been in the strip mall for as long as I've worked for Mike."
"How long?"
"I've been in Florida for ten years, with Mike for eight." He braked and turned left on McNab.
I realized he wasn't headed to the office yet.
"Hutchinson Realty was my first choice when I was peddling my brand-new license. I wanted an active agency close to my condo. Hutchinson wasn't interested. He catered to black clients. Didn't think I'd fit in."
I smiled.
"He referred me to Mike. At the time, Hutchinson had the bigger agency. He released half of his space two years ago to the dress shop."
"Interesting." I paused to digest the information while Art swung north on University Drive. "Where are we going?"
"You wanted to see houses?"
"But you know it's a ruse." I flashed him a quizzical look.
He didn't respond to my comment. "Mike decided to grow his small agency into something bigger about the time Hutchinson downsized. 'Getting ready for retirement,' he said. Most of the agents moved to the other end of the strip. Many of them had a following and their client referrals went with them. Mike's book of business grew, and Hutchinson struggled."
"Did that affect their personal relationship?"
He looked at me over his lenses. "Of course it did, my dear." He turned north onto Coral Ridge Drive. For a few minutes, he drove in silence. When we passed King's Point, a retirement community for adults, he pointed and informed me he and his wife lived there.
I decided to probe since he'd stopped talking. "Tell me more about the relationship between Mike and Hutchinson."
He let out a big sigh. "At first Hutchinson was standoffish, then he got rude to agents, clients, and even to Mike. I heard he sold his house and moved into a smaller one."
Art pulled into Eagle Trace's entrance and stopped. It's an upscale, gated community. Lush shrubbery and palm trees filled both sides of the divided entry and the median strip, which led to a red brick guardhouse.
"They lived in here when the agency was making money," he said.
On elaborate homes off to the right, I saw beige and white walls under expansive red tile roofs. I lived close by, not in a gated community of course, but I knew enough about the market to know the houses weren't touchable for much under half a fortune. There were some nice apartments toward the neighborhood's rear entrance.
"Where did they move to?" I said.
He pointed across the street, indicating a community of modest townhouses. "To those townhouses."
"Quite a come down. They must have lived on the edge to lose so much that fast."
"Maybe. I don't know. I remember overhearing Hutchinson tell Mike they bought the townhouse free and clear from their equity. Part of their retirement plan, he said."
The answer puzzled me. I pushed for more information. What could he do, throw me out of his car? "Art, is there more to this?"
"I'm not sure what came first, but their kid got in trouble and went to jail. Then Jamel came around again. Mike said Hutchinson spent most of his reserve and some clients' escrow bailing him out. The kid repaid him by getting into trouble again."
"Sometimes it's better not to rescue them."
"My opinion, as well. I have good kids though. One's finishing med school, and the other's teaching history at NYU."
"You obviously did a fine job raising your children. I'm impressed."
"Thanks. Having a decent income certainly helped."
"Back to Mike and Hutchinson."
"They were friends and competitors for years, but they worked different markets, Mike catering to the middle class whites and Hutchinson to the upper middle class blacks. Changes in the community made them direct competitors. The neighborhoods blended, and Mike was top dog."
"Hard to take."
"Hutchinson seemed a changed man. I overhead him and Mike arguing a couple of times, but they were polite. I also know Hutchinson was trying to get Mike to hire his wife. She's a nice lady, but she isn't a sharp salesperson."
"Oh?"
"Not bright, in my opinion." He lowered his voice, his tone confidential. "Now that Hutchinson is out of the game, I think Mike will buy what's left of the agency."
"What about Amelia?"
"Good question. He promised we wouldn't have to work with her."
"I'd gotten the idea she planned to work for Mike, sell him the agency, give him the outstanding contracts."
"Without a broker of record, the agency isn't worth much. Every client listed with Hutchinson needs to sign a contract with us. In general, the listing contract isn't transferable to another realty. She has to hire a broker of record to complete the scheduled closings. That's my impression, but I'm not a lawyer."
We were sitting in front of the drop gate at Eagle Trace, and the guard was walking over to our car. Art waved him off and made a U-turn. When the traffic cleared, he headed south.
I was certain we were going back to the agency. "Mike's a mean SOB," I said.
"It's business."
I grimaced. "So, you take a woman when she's down---lost her husband, lost her home, kid's a problem---then you take her business, promise her a job, then fire her?"
"I never said it was nice business."
"Touché." We rode in silence.
When Art stopped across the lot from Michael Wiley Realty, my watch said two o'clock. Amelia's car sat in front of her office, and the lights glowed inside. After thanking him for his time and the information, I walked to Hutchinson Realty, intent on verifying the information from Art. After all, Amelia asked me to get involved with the case.
The door to the agency stood open, and I walked in. No one was around, but I heard voices from the back room. I thought it might be a client, so I busied myself minding other people's business. I studied the bullet hole on the wall, then strained to see what was on top of the reception desk. The collection of papers was notes left by a couple of different people, making me suspect Amelia terminated the receptionist.
The voices in the back grew louder.
I recognized Amelia and Jamel's voices. He asked for---no, demanded---money, and she refused. Then the tone changed.
"What are you going to do, hang on until the old man dies?" Jamel said, his voice cracking with emotion.
"Jamel, my son, what else can I do? He needs us."
"Mom, he cheated on you for years. He has a girlfriend. He was going to leave you. Let her take care of him."
"I can't do that. I have my responsibility." Though I heard her clearly, her voice had softened.
"I wish he did die. He should be dead. It wouldn't be hard to hurry it along."
"Oh my God." The pitch of her voice elevated.
"Mom, all I'd have to do is disconnect the breathing tube. I did it for a while the other day. He doesn't breathe when it's off."
"Don't talk that way. He's your father."
"Yeah, right. I'm so proud."
I felt uneasy about the conversation and uneasier still when I contemplated getting caught eavesdropping. They were high on my suspect list, and Jamel was fast approaching top billing. Was he capable of murder, or was he just talking like a big shot?
The doorknob twisted on the back room door.
I stepped back a few feet, pushing the front door open with my back, pretending to be entering the office. "Anybody here?" I called, my voice light.
Jamel stepped out of the office and glared at me. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to talk with your mother. Is she here?"
"She's in the office, but she's leaving to go to the hospital. We're closed. Why don't you come back later? Better yet, talk to her at the hospital." He ambled past me, his upper body swaying on the loose joints in his hips and knees.
I had the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shake sense into him. Then hearing Amelia talking and crying, I started toward the back, intent on eavesdropping.
Jamel came back into the store. "I told you to leave." He leaned up against the receptionist desk and watched until I left the office.
As I drove home, I dialed Ray's number at the station. His answering machine cut in, and I left a long message.
Ray returned my call late Saturday afternoon. He thanked me for the message regarding my visit to the realty agencies. Then he said, "I'm involved with another case. We'll keep tabs on the Hutchinson shooting, but it's growing cold. Besides, it's not a homicide yet. If he dies, we'll jump on it."
"Sounds to me like you're growing cold."
He hung up.
I'd decided to spend a quiet evening at home, not having any place to go. I chose a Randy Rawls thriller, made a cup of cappuccino, and settled on the sofa with my Kindle and the dog. The weather had warmed, and the air-conditioner hummed. I relaxed in my own cool, safe cocoon.
Sunshine wandered in and out of the house as if intent on distracting me. He's not a good watchdog, more of a tail-wagging burglar-assistant. He seemed nervous, so I paid attention.
I peered through the double French doors onto the patio. It was too dark to see into the shadows. I flipped on the light. Just a table and chairs, my seldom-used treadmill, and a set of weights that once belonged to Ray. I didn't see anything in the yard.
Sunshine's unrest wasn't caused by one of the pesky, neighborhood cats. If it were, he would be outside barking, pretending to be brave.
I went into the living room and peeked through the stained glass door panel into the driveway, wavering between wanting to see who was there and wanting to scare them away. I turned on the porch light. The front yard was empty.
The dog sniffed at the door and growled. Odd behavior. Cavaliers don't often growl.
Uneasy, I hurried into the master bedroom and looked outside at the deserted landscape. A rippling crash against the windowpane forced me back several feet. Sunshine yelped and ran from the room, his tail between his legs. I realized someone had thrown a handful of pebbles against the glass. Afraid and shaking, I approached the window from the side, slipped my hand to the latch, and found it secure.
Sunshine, having recovered his bravery, ran from window to door, barking and growling. The hair stood erect along his spine.
Without turning on a light, I checked the windows in the spare room and den. Then not knowing what else to do, I armed myself with a paring knife from the kitchen counter, opened the door into the garage, and turned on the light.
The side door jiggled. Someone was trying to break in. Sunshine rushed at the door---sixteen pounds of jumping, barking fury. The door stopped moving.
Now what? My insides did a flip-flop. I could use a gun but don't own one anymore, and I'd managed to earn a brown belt in karate before taking the slug. All that expertise, coupled with Sunshine the Wonder Dog, left me feeling exposed. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and hurried to the kitchen in search of a more suitable weapon---the six-inch carving knife.
Then I dialed 9-1-1. "This is Sophia Burgess. Someone is trying to break into my house." I recited my address, forcing myself not to hurry.
A rattling came from the back of the house. The prowler or prowlers were on my patio, close to the French doors. A man yelled, "Hey, Ho. How you like it, Ho?"
"Please tell them to hurry. I can hear voices on the patio." My voice shook. I hung up the phone before the dispatcher could reply.
A second man said, "Bet she likes it. Yeah man, I'd like to give the bitch a little."
Someone banged on the front door.
Sunshine ran yelping into the spare bedroom, leapt onto the bed in one fluid motion, and stuck his head under the blind, informing them he wasn't a ferocious watchdog in the process.
I lived a couple of miles from the police station, and a few moments later sirens pierced the quiet night.
A male voice yelled, "Po-Po's comin'."
There were a couple other voices, but the words blended into the noise created by my pounding heart. I ran to the front door, stared out the window, and glimpsed three retreating youths---tall, baggy clothes, dark skinned. Jamel and his friends? I wondered while waiting for the police cruiser to arrive.
The officer coming to my rescue was a classmate from the academy. He, along with other officers, visited me several times while I recuperated from my wounds. He also knew Ray. It wasn't a surprise when Ray appeared at my door an hour later.
"Sophi," Ray said when I opened the door. Concern etched his face. "I heard you had a problem. You okay?"
"I think."
Sunshine's greeting distracted him for a moment.
It's a rule in my house---Sunshine's rule---you have to say hello to the dog before you're allowed to conduct business, even if you're a stranger. Ray isn't a stranger so the whole process takes longer.
He knelt and rubbed the dog's ears, then picked him up and rubbed him some more.
I took Sunshine out of Ray's arms and hugged him---the dog, not the man.
Ray walked uninvited into the kitchen and pulled out one of the low stools next to the counter. "Tell me what happened."
I told him about the noises and the young men running away. The whole episode was unnerving, and it was good to have Ray around. I took my time with the story.
"Any idea who they were?"
"I didn't see faces, just running backsides in baggy clothes." I put Sunshine back on the floor and pulled out the other stool. "But I'm wondering if it was Jamel."
"Who?"
"Jamel Hutchinson."
"Why would he come here?" He knitted his brow, looking puzzled.
Remembering I hadn't reported on the exchange in the office between Jamel and his mother, I described the scene.
"Sophia, you left me a message with all the minute details from your little real estate adventure, and you forget to tell me you heard the victim's son talking about finishing him off?" He sounded pissed.
"I thought Jamel was being mouthy, but now I think he has something to hide."
"I agree," Ray answered. "He's a viable suspect."
"He's not working, he dropped out of school again, and he hangs out with some pretty tough looking thugs. His mother is protective and can't seem to defend herself against him. Was it the same way with the father?"
"Don't know. I'll track him down tomorrow and have a chat."
"What if it wasn't him or his friends?"
"Then he'll deny it and tell me where he was at the time. But I'll have warned him. I don't like him." He stood. "Meanwhile, Sophi, I'm going to hang around for a bit."
"Gee, Ray, do you think they'll know you're here with your S2000 out front?" I sassed.
"I parked it in front of Joe's house in the next cul-de-sac."
"Can't wait to hear his innuendos over the fence in the morning." I stomped into the Florida room---the Florida version of a family room---and flopped onto the recliner loveseat. Within seconds, Sunshine pounced into my lap.
Ray sat next to me. "I'm glad you're seeing this my way."
There we were, like old times, separated by Sunshine and years of pain.
"I won't stay long, just until I know you're safe."
I glared at him. Why can't I get rid of the anger? Here he was, doing the honorable thing, and I was mad. "I'm sure I'll be fine. I have my trusty dog to protect me."
"Let's not fight. I told you on Thursday mornin' that I'm sorry for hurtin' you, but I can't change it." He was relaxed, off-duty. His soft drawl was more evident, his deep voice soothing to my frazzled nerves.
"Okay, Ray, okay." For the first time in years, we talked about everyday things---the department, the hospital, my family in North Dakota, his family in Virginia.
After a while, he picked up the remote and found a baseball game. I awoke alone on the loveseat a couple of hours later. I checked the doors and windows. He'd done a good job before he left, sealing me in as safe as possible under the circumstances.
The telephone blew me out of a deep sleep at six-thirty in the morning. My supervisor asked me to be charge nurse for the day shift. The overtime money would come in handy, and I didn't have anything else planned, so I agreed. Without benefit of makeup but otherwise clean and groomed, I strolled onto the unit thirty minutes later.
Due to my tardy arrival, the morning routine lagged. By the time I received report from the off-going shift, made assignments, and got organized, we were behind schedule, not unusual for a Sunday morning. I didn't get out on the unit to make rounds until ten. Connie Kuhn had the section with the sickest patients, Hutchinson's section. I saved her rooms for last. She'd have things under control.
When I entered Hutchinson's room, Amelia was entrenched in her chair with an open book on her lap. She stared into space. "Hi," I said. "How you doing?"
Connie had changed Hutchinson's dressings, bathed him, and even given him a shave. I didn't detect the odor of infection. Some of his problems were resolving. While I waited for Amelia to respond, I glanced at ventilator settings and intravenous lines. He lay on his side supported by pillows. I checked the skin on his back and buttocks. Intact. Good job.
It took a long time until Amelia looked my way. "Sorry, I was lost in thought." She placed her book on the bedside table, taking pains to position the bookmark just so. Then she smoothed her hunter green silk skirt over her legs and arranged the folds of her loose tunic over it. "Jamel said you were in the agency on Thursday. Why?"
"I was in the neighborhood, saw your car, and decided to stop in and say hello."
"Oh." She stared through me. Maybe she didn't believe my story. Maybe she didn't even care.
"What's wrong today? You seem more down than usual."
Tears rolled over her round cheeks and dropped on the wide collar of her silk blouse. The wet droplets disappeared into the pattern. She accepted the tissue I handed her. "Not only does he have a girlfriend, he was going to leave me without anything. We lost our nice big house, and now I live in a crowded, tiny townhouse. He was going to walk out. Detective Stone accused me of taking the last money out of the agency account to hire the people who shot my husband. I went to the bank and requested a copy of the withdrawal slip. It's not my signature, close, but not mine. Barry signed it. I recognized how he wrote my name right away."
"Have you told the detective?" I pulled a chair next to her and touched her hand, hoping to encourage her to open up.
"No. I thought about calling him, but what good would it do? He doesn't believe anything I say."
"He can get an expert opinion."
"Oh." Her expression was blank. She stared straight ahead.
"What else?" I might have stepped over the line, but I hoped she'd reveal something significant. She had plenty to be depressed about, but I hadn't known her to be distractible.
"Jamel wishes his father was already dead."
"That's not uncommon when a loved one's condition is grave. Family members often wish the pain and suffering were over." I wondered if she would tell me more about the conversation.
"Yes, he's being normal." She stared at me for a moment, then reached for her book.
I took the hint, checked his tubes and wires again just to be official and useful, and slipped into the hall. In the process, I collided with Vanessa Vanderbilt, who knocked me hard against the doorjamb. I grabbed the walking-rail and managed to stay on my feet. "I didn't know you were working today."
"Overtime."
"Me too. I figured, why not?"
"I volunteered." She seemed preoccupied.
"Still taking this assignment, I see."
"It is my normal unit, my job. Besides, Amelia and I are getting along fine."
"Good," I said, not believing her.
"I figured as long as I'm locked into the contract, I'd go with the flow, close on the place, and move in. I do like the house, and the price is fair. I can always refinance later, after I have a chance to improve my credit rating. I met with one of those credit specialists, and he's helping me plan my payments."
"Sounds good. Want to meet for lunch in a couple of hours?"
"Okay. I'll meet you downstairs, at what, twelve-fifteen? You'll tell Connie?"
"She can't come with us today." As the two nurses with the most seniority, Connie and I couldn't leave the floor at the same time. She assumed charge duties when I went to lunch, and I watched her patients while she ate.
"Fine." Vanessa hurried into the room.
I stood outside the door for a few moments. There wasn't much conversation between her and Amelia.
Connie waited for me at the nurses' station. "Do you have time for a little coffee?" Her hands shook. She looked more wired than usual.
I was going from one distracted, edgy individual to another. I glanced around the unit, nodded to the secretary, and followed Connie into the back to the staff lounge. "What's up?" I sat on a battered chair across the corner of the table from her.
"I don't know. I'm frustrated. I spent at least an hour in Hutchinson's room. For what? Why is he still alive? It's not fair to him." She fiddled with a scattering of crumbs on the table. First, she swept them into a neat pile, then spread the pile out, tracing geometric designs in the mess. I knew she'd continue playing with the mess while we talked.
"It isn't his time yet."
"I don't believe that his time stuff. If it wasn't, why was he shot?" She swept up the pile again.
I didn't say anything. What was there to say?
"I've taken care of him for the last few days---while you were off. His wife never looks at him. No one else visits. A tall, blond lady came in, but she left right away."
"She was probably concerned Amelia would come while she was there. She say anything to you?"
"She asked if he was going to wake up. She touched him. Like she knew him well." Connie smoothed out the tiny hill of crumbs, then swept them off the table with a flourish. "I wish people would clean up after themselves," she said in a loud, harsh tone.
"I do, too." I glanced at the mess on the floor. "What did you tell her?"
"I said I didn't believe he would. Then I told her she needed to talk to Amelia."
"Connie, I suspect that was the girlfriend."
"I didn't know." She stood, her motion abrupt and jerky as if fueled by anger.
"You wouldn't have any way of knowing."
"Who told you?"
"Ray."
She gave me an oh-no-not-again look but didn't comment. She pulled open the door. "Thanks for the break. Back to work."
I slid past the closing door. Connie seemed more nervous than usual. I followed her out into the station where my duties consumed me---calling physicians, answering visitors' questions, and processing new orders.
The order entry system times-out when not in use. There were so many interruptions I had to reenter my password every couple of minutes. I caught a glimpse of Jamel and two of his friends entering Hutchinson's room. Good, he's visiting, I thought, though I suspected he wanted to badger his mother for more cash. Before I knew it, the unit secretary reminded me to go to lunch. I stuck my head into Hutchinson's room and told Connie she was in charge.
When I stepped onto the elevator, Michael Wiley exited. He wore knit slacks and a coral golf shirt. The color drew out the pink of his facial scar. The bright lighting illuminated the side of his face, confirming for me that he had recently undergone surgery. Given the placement of the incision, I suspected his problem was a tumor. He wasn't especially thin, had a little paunch even. I reasoned his doctors had removed all the cancer. Time would narrow and whiten the incision line.
"Hi, Mike," I said.
He stared, blinked, then stuck out his hand. "Hello, Sophia. I didn't expect to see you here."
"I work here."
"I see," he said as his eyes traveled from my head to my shoes. He was taking in the uniform, name badge, the works. "I'd forgotten."
"Maybe I didn't say."
"Maybe."
"You here to visit Barry Hutchinson?"
"I thought I'd look in on him. Do you happen to know if Amelia is here?" He stepped away from the elevator door.
"She was there a while ago with her son and his friends."
Wiley rolled his eyes. "Okay, catch you later." He strode down the corridor while I headed for the stairwell.
At twelve-fifteen, Vanessa was nowhere in sight. After I scanned the tables and the food line a second time, I joined the queue, took my time deciding between the meatloaf---which looked scrumptious---and the soup-salad-sandwich special, and picked an empty booth near the window, thinking she'd see me when she walked in. I finished my vegetable soup and was halfway through my salad when she walked in. I still had a tuna sandwich to eat as well. She waved, smiled, and joined the line leading to the salad bar.
Vanessa looked good. She had twisted her blond hair into a simple bun at her neck, then tied it with a black silk scarf. Unlike many of her co-workers in the respiratory therapy department, she shunned scrubs. Today, she wore a long lab coat to protect her clothes---she special ordered her white jackets to get the length she preferred---over black boot-legged slacks, black boots, and a stunning black and white print spandex sweater. Vanessa put her model's figure to good use, and now that she was free of her bastard husband, clothes were her main vice. With a practiced eye, she scavenged bargains at sales and discount stores.
As she headed in my direction, the overhead paging system blared, "Code Blue. Five Northeast. Code Blue. Five Northeast." The beeper in my pocket squealed. I scribbled SAVE THIS on a napkin and covered my food.
Vanessa hurried toward me and slid her tray onto the table, butting it against mine, sharing my napkin-sign.
Together we scooted across the cafeteria, dodging tables, pulled-out-chairs, and employees with filled trays. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an emergency nurse abandon her meal to her code team duties. In silence, we rode the elevator to Five.
As we trotted onto the unit, a patient care assistant pushed the crash cart containing the emergency supplies, cardiac defibrillator, and drugs through the doorway into Hutchinson's room. A couple of nursing students stood back from the door peering in, looks of astonishment on their faces.
Hurrying past the nurses' station, I glanced over my shoulder to be certain someone manned the desk. Our long-term secretary, Stella, sat at her place talking on the telephone. Based on her hand gestures and the few words I caught, she had Hutchinson's physician on the line. I went into the patient's room. As the charge nurse on the unit, I had responsibilities during a code.
I paused upon entering the room, getting an overview of the activity. Dr. Kravitz, the anesthesiologist who ran the code, stood next to Hutchinson's right shoulder. One of the staff nurses, Samantha Davis, used an Ambu, an inflatable bag that works something like a bellows, to inflate Hutchinson's chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vanessa slip by me. She relieved Samantha and took over providing ventilations.
Connie performed chest compressions. She stood flatfooted on the left side of Hutchinson's bed and leaned over him, positioning her shoulders over his breastbone. The fingers on her right hand interlaced with the ones on the left. She checked her hand position. They were positioned to avoid unnecessary injury. Together, the ventilations and the chest compressions comprised CPR, cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
I slipped behind the crash cart and moved the patient care assistant out of the way by pushing gently on her back as I said, "Move, please." I twisted the red plastic lock securing the drawers. The only cardiac activity on the monitor was the motion from the CPR. Sliding the top-drawer open, I reached for the first drug on the protocol and held it high. "Doctor Kravitz?"
He smiled and nodded. "Epi. One milligram."
The epinephrine comes in a two-part syringe. The barrel contains the medication. The other half has the needle and a sleeve that fits over the barrel. I popped a couple of plastic caps with my thumbs and fit the two parts together. Abracadabra. No fuss, no muss, no bother. And no fumbling with syringes or vials and ampules. I handed the medication to another staff nurse who was standing close to Hutchinson's intravenous access.
The nurse pushed the epinephrine, and Connie continued chest compressions. We all stared at the monitor.
"Call ICU for the external pacer," Dr. Kravitz said.
"Yes, sir." I motioned at the nursing supervisor who stepped into the room. She left to make the phone call.
"Repeat the epi." Kravitz continued on task. He looked in my direction. "Does he have a DNR or a living will?"
"No sir, his wife is the healthcare surrogate and hasn't made those decisions." We continued to watch the monitor.
"Hold CPR," Kravitz said.
There was a flicker of activity on the scope, an occasional beat.
"Atropine, one milligram," Kravitz said.
I prepared the syringe---it worked like the epi---and handed it to the medication nurse, watching as she jabbed it into the injection port on Hutchinson's IV line.
Connie resumed chest compressions to pump the medication through Hutchinson's body and into the coronary arteries. Connie seemed tired. Perspiration beaded on her brow, and her breathing was rapid. She's not an active, athletic person. "Relief, please," she said.
I pointed to a tall, young respiratory therapist who was watching the activity. "Can you relieve her on the chest?"
Without comment, he slipped around the side of the bed and held his hand in ready position next to Connie's. She moved aside, and he took over. They didn't miss a beat.
Kravitz allowed him to continue CPR for a couple of minutes more.
"Hold CPR." This time there was activity on the monitor. Kravitz's fingers probed Hutchinson's neck. "Good," he said. "We have a pulse."
Thirty minutes later, the external cardiac pacer in place, Hutchinson was on his way to the procedure room adjacent to ICU. He'd get a temporary pacemaker, one with a wire running through a large vein in his neck to his heart, and then go to ICU.
I wondered how long he was in cardiac arrest before a staff member discovered him, and I wondered why he arrested. The one sure thing about Hutchinson, and the only reason he was alive, was his strong heart.
I called Amelia, helped clean the mess from the code, then notified admitting of the vacant room. It took a couple of hours to attend to the needs of the other patients who felt neglected during Hutchinson's code. That's often the case during an emergency, but more so on a weekend. Then I set about the task of trying to discover the details of what happened.
Under the pretense of finishing the documentation, I asked Connie to take charge of the unit for a few minutes and went downstairs to ICU to track down Hutchinson's chart. He was in an ICU room in front of the nurses' desk. Amelia sat next to the bed with a scowl on her face. I'd expected to see her crying, given the major setback her husband experienced.
I saw Hutchinson's neurologist with the chart and sidled over to her. "Can I ask you a couple of questions?"
Dr. Jennifer Staiger had the reputation of being a brilliant neurologist. She was Boston born, Harvard trained, and married to medicine. To my knowledge, she had no husband, no kids, no pets, and no life. Now, in her early forties, she appeared matronly and overweight with shoulder-length, stringy blond hair.
She nodded, but continued writing.
"What happened to Mr. Hutchinson?"
"He was fine this morning when I made rounds upstairs. I'm trying to understand it now," Dr. Staiger said.
I looked to where her finger pointed.
"Everything was fine. Vital signs stable, neuro exam stable, vent management on track. Then he arrests." She glanced at me. "Any ideas?"
"No, but that's why I came down to read the chart. It's a mystery to me, too."
I've known Dr. Staiger for years. She was my neurologist when I was injured. She pays more attention to me than she does to most of the nursing staff, and she still ignores me about half the time.
"Were you on the floor when he coded?"
"No, sorry. I was at lunch. Connie responded when the monitor tech alerted her to the changes in Hutchinson's rhythm. Another staff nurse beat her to the room and was attaching the Ambu when Connie arrived."
"Sophia, I talked to the other staff nurse already. She told me she found the ventilator tube disconnected and lying next to his neck."
"I didn't know."
"It's here in the chart." She pointed to the neat entry in the nurses' notes.
"She should have told me." I felt stupid for not knowing and wondered why a staff nurse would write it in the chart and not tell the charge nurse. I planned to ask her later.
"Look at this." Staiger flipped back a couple of pages to the ventilator management sheet. "We started weaning him a couple of days ago." She looked at me over her thick lenses. "He was doing better, triggering the vent a lot on Thursday and Friday, rate way down, pressures . . ." She pointed to a graph to show me his progress. "Yesterday the pulmonary guys started trials off the vent. He tolerated three or four minutes during the day, but last night he was up to almost six."
"Do you think someone took him off for the weaning and forgot about him?" I said, thinking about Vanessa, though I didn't believe she would harm him.
"That could be." She leaned closer to me. "But Sophia, you were a cop. Someone tried to kill him before. What better time than now to finish the job?"
"Did they?"
"Finish the job, you mean?" She raised her eyebrows over the top of her frames.
I nodded.
"Yes." She jerked her head in Hutchinson's direction. "Anything he was recovering is lost and more. I completed the physical examination for brain death. He didn't respond to any of the tests. I've ordered an EEG for confirmation and a consult with another neurologist. I expect we'll declare him brain dead by tomorrow morning."
"Do you need to notify the medical examiner before you do anything? I mean, this would make him a murder victim, even if the ventilator thing was an accident."
"I'll give him a call," she said.
"Let me know what you find out, please."
"Why are you so involved in this case?"
"Um, well . . . Ray asked me to poke around. And, to tell you the truth, Amelia asked me to see what I could do, too."
She waved me off. She knew I wouldn't tell her the details. She also knew I sometimes involved myself in things.
She picked up the phone to call the medical examiner.
I called Ray to tell him his attempted murder case would upgrade to murder by this time tomorrow. I left a message on his voice mail at the department. While I was at it, I thanked him for the concern he had shown the previous night.
Dr. Staiger declared Barry Hutchinson brain dead early the next morning---Monday, the twenty-first of May. It was one month after the first attempt on his life. The clues on the drive-by shooting had grown very cold in my estimation.
Ray paged me around eight. After a moment's worth of small talk, he said, "Jamel has been dealin'. One of our boys on the street was very convincing. He's also has a history of bullying his parents. The other occupants of the strip center heard raised voices a number of times."
"I thought you said you weren't going to spend anymore time on the case, that more recent homicides took precedence."
"That was before I got the story from the informant."
"I don't understand why he'd harangue his mother for money then. It doesn't make sense to me. If he's dealing, he should have enough money to buy and sell poor Amelia. Does it make sense to you?"
"You said on your message that Hutchinson was going to be declared dead. Did that occur?"
He asked a detective-like question of his own rather than answer mine. I couldn't tell if he didn't have an opinion about the money issue or didn't give a damn about my comment. What was obvious was he wanted to get off the telephone and onto whatever it was on his mind.
"There are some things happening down in ICU, I think. Why don't you give Dr. Staiger a call? She can fill you in."
"Sophia, just give me the damned information."
"Sorry, Ray. I'm a little busy right now. I don't have the damned information." I rattled off the extension for critical care. "I'll try to transfer you. Have a nice day." I hit the switch hook twice and then hung up the telephone.
I decided to stroll to ICU. My unit was quiet for a change, and I took a break off the unit---a rarity on the best of days.
Amelia sat with Jamel in the ICU waiting room. It's a cozy room, decorated in muted teals and mauves, with the chairs arranged in family-sized conversation nooks. A couple of small windows opened onto the corridor leading to the unit.
I slipped by, wanting to see what was going on inside before I spoke with them.
Though officially dead, Hutchinson's chest moved up and down with the rhythm of the ventilator, and the cardiac monitor showed a regular heartbeat. There was a lot of activity near his room---organ donation, I thought. Several people I didn't recognize as regular staff members hung around, one of them deep in discussion with the nursing supervisor. Dr. Staiger sat in the dictation room with someone in a white coat. I decided to check it out.
I tapped on the window. Dr. Staiger glanced at me, didn't smile, but waved me into the small room.
"Sophia, this is Allison White. She's a nurse from the University Organ Procurement Agency." Staiger tipped her head in the direction of the attractive, mid-thirties, African-American woman sitting to her right.
"It's nice to meet you, Allison."
"It's never nice to be here, not in a situation like this," White said. "However, we were glad to get this call."
"Dr. Staiger, I'm surprised. I hadn't considered this as a possibility."
"When I called the M.E.," Staiger said, "he suggested we pursue transplantation. He said Medical Examiners provide a large number of healthy organs to the transplant programs. They work with the teams all the time."
I looked at White. "How can he determine the cause of death after you harvest the organs?"
"In this case the initial injury was to the head. We never open the cranium, so that's not a problem. We only take the undamaged organs. We take pictures, and the M.E. still has an opportunity to do an examination. Besides, we're very interested in donors like Mr. Hutchinson."
"Why?" I had spent my nursing career working on medical-surgical units and in the emergency department, and I hadn't had much exposure to the organ transplant process.
"A couple of reasons. Mr. Hutchinson was stable for the month after his injury. The accidental disconnecting of his ventilator . . ."
"If it was accidental," I interrupted.
"That doesn't matter to us in this case. His kidneys and his heart are in very good condition. His infections have all been resolved. He's an excellent candidate. The challenge is to get the family to consent."
"Why is it so important? I know donor organs are in great demand, but one more or less?"
White gazed at me, her dark eyes snapping with life. "Because, even though African-Americans comprise over thirteen percent of the population, they receive twenty-seven percent of the donated kidneys, but only donate a little over ten percent themselves. Minorities suffer more end-stage kidney disease than do whites. But whites donate the vast majority of the organs. It's important to have donations from different races and ethnic groups. People are more genetically similar to members of their own group, so they get a better match."
I gave her an oh really rise of the eyebrows. It provoked her to continue her lecture on the ethnic issues of organ donation. I listened while she dispelled the myths about racial discrimination in organ transplantation programs.
I asked, "If that's the way it is, why don't more African-Americans donate organs?"
"Good question. Distrust of the system maybe, lack of knowledge about the problem, not understanding a normal funeral and burial can still take place. We deal with those issues every time we make a request." She raised one hand. "That's why I'm here today. We hope that by having the request made by someone culturally similar, we'll have greater success."
"I know the family well," I said. "I'll be happy to help in any way I can."
"Thanks." White faced Dr. Staiger. "Is there anything else you can tell me?"
"No, I think it's all been covered." Dr. Staiger stood. "I'll come with you to make the request."
"Sophia, would you like to come along?" White asked.
"Give me a minute to call my unit and see if it's a problem." I used one of the telephones in the dictation room. Everything was fine. The charge nurse said she'd reassign my few patients to another nurse. It took me about five minutes to give a report on my patients, then I was ready to go into the waiting room with White and Dr. Staiger.
The family knew Hutchinson was brain dead. Dr. Staiger had spoken with them earlier. They had had some quiet time to contemplate the situation. Now was the opportunity to make the request.
Dr. Staiger introduced Allison White. "She's from the University transplant team and would like to talk with you about making a donation."
Amelia, with her nursing background, didn't seem surprised and appeared eager to agree. Jamel acted wary of the process.
I stood in the background and listened as White explained the program, the fact there was no cost to the donor family, and that something good would come of all this grief.
Jamel spoke first. "You gonna pay us to take the old man's organs?"
"We can't do that, Mr. Hutchinson. The law forbids it. It would be an act of charity and kindness on your part. We desperately need organs for other African-Americans. It reduces the risks of rejection."
"You probably want to stick my old man's insides into some rich white dude."
"We try to get the best tissue match possible." White sat next to Jamel and explained the facts about organ donation.
"Seems to me we should get paid." He pointed to the ICU unit's door. "Besides, who's going to pay for all of this?"
"That's not the family's responsibility," White said. "Any charges entered after your father was declared brain dead are paid by the program."
The conversation continued with assurances the family could have an open casket funeral, promises to let them know about the organ recipients, and more firm refusals to consider paying the family for the organs.
Jamel, to Amelia's obvious relief, finally gave up the notion. He said, "Do whatever you want. I'm outta here." He left.
I thought he left the hospital, but I found him a few minutes later standing outside the men's room, tears flowing over his cheeks.
It was good to see some emotion from the punk. I asked him to come back to his mother. He shuffled in the direction of the room, and I kept pace with him.
Dr. Staiger was gone, but two ancient women had arrived during my absence. They wore flowered dresses, white gloves, and white hats. A folder chrome walker with tennis balls on the tips of the legs leaned against an empty chair.
"Sophia," Amelia said, "these ladies are my distant cousins Clara and Martha Lee. They're about the only kin I have around here."
White excused herself, saying she'd be back in a few minutes with the papers.
I sat with the family until it was obvious they no longer desired or welcomed my presence. When I returned to my nursing unit, they didn't need me either. The South Florida population is seasonal, and the hospital census fluctuates. Glad to be free for the rest of the day, I clocked out and went home.
After I let Sunshine out of his crate and submitted to the expected welcoming ritual, I called Samantha Davis, the staff nurse who found Hutchinson in cardiac arrest.
"Tell me what you saw when you found Hutchinson."
"He wasn't breathing, making no respiratory effort at all. His ventilator tubing was lying next to him on the pillow---like it had popped off."
"Did you have any reason to think he disconnected himself when he coughed?"
"You mean with a lot of secretions?"
"Yes."
"No, the respiratory therapist left the room a few minutes earlier. I saw her go from Hutchinson's room to the patient down the hall. The tubing was clean as a whistle."
"Did you see anyone else around?"
"There have been so many people in and out of Hutchinson's room. Umm. A bunch of young dudes. A tall, white, skinny guy with a big scar on his face. Barry's wife, and I don't know who else. I had the patient in the next room, and we were talking about the amount of commotion and the number of visitors."
"Samantha, I was in charge. Why didn't you tell me you found the vent disconnected?"
"I told the doctor. I told Connie. I charted it. I put it in the incident report. I just forgot to tell you. What's the big deal?" She sounded annoyed.
"I'm curious, that's all. Staiger raised the issue. I didn't know the details until I read the incident report. You'd left for the day. Then I find my name on a serious incident. Caught my attention."
"Anything else you want to know?" The tone was cutting.
"No, you've told me enough. Thanks for the help."
I showered, slipped on an above-the-knee black skirt and white pullover, then applied blusher, shadow, mascara, and lipstick. I spritzed Chanel No. 5 behind my ears and between my breasts---I can't quite call it cleavage. I planned to find Ray, and I intended to get his attention. It was time to get to the truth.
I had no facts to support the ventilator tubing popping off versus someone removing it. If my hunch was accurate, someone disconnected Hutchinson's vent. That would make the drive-by shooting an attempted homicide, and this the actual murder. Maybe it was the same person behind it all. Hutchinson was dead either way.
I inventoried the suspects. Amelia. Possible but doubtful. Jamel. More feasible. I heard him threaten to disconnect the ventilator, but I thought him to be spineless. Michael Wiley. Competition gone bad? Hutchinson's girlfriend? Improbable, she would have everything to lose and nothing to gain by his death. Who else? If Hutchinson had mishandled Vanessa's real estate deal, he might have done the same with others. The possibility existed that Barry Hutchinson created many enemies.
Rather than calling, I decided to drop by the police department. I hadn't set foot inside for two or three years.
A handwritten sign taped to the glass in the first floor lobby directed all comers to the second floor by way of the elevator. Beyond the unused reception window, bare two-by-fours framed a small area. A stack of sheet rock blocked an unfinished spiral stairway.
When I approached the glass-enclosed counter in the second floor lobby, the woman sitting there greeted me by name. I hadn't seen her in years. "Are you here to see Detective Stone? I think he's back there." She motioned over her shoulder. She called Ray's extension.
I made my way through the maze of unmarked corridors. Though the building appeared modern from the outside, the inside showed the years of use and abuse---drab paint, worn tile, and marred furnishings.
Ray smiled as I approached. He seemed glad to see me. A couple of the other detectives watched me walk by, one commenting I never looked like that in uniform.
"Chuck," I said, throwing him my biggest smile, "police uniforms weren't intended to be attractive---what with bullet proof vests and all."
One thing I remembered hating about the job was the nasty pants---cut for a man. As a result, women ended up with square hips, and the heavy belts covered any hint of a waistline.
"How you doing?" he said when I stopped next to his desk.
"Fine. Nursing is my niche. It fits me."
"Why are you here then?" he persisted.
"Just came by to see Ray, that's all."
He cocked an eyebrow and nodded in Ray's direction. Chuck had been around a long time and knew my history with Ray. By tomorrow everyone in the department would know I visited and rumors of a renewed romance would be rampant. The department is like a small town. Everyone knows everyone's business.
I pulled a chair next to Ray's desk. He looked good. He'd opened his white shirt at the neck and loosened his gray and red print tie. Wisps of chest hair peeked out. A slate gray suit coat hung on the back of his chair. I waited for him to finish whatever he was writing.
He laid his pen on the legal pad and smiled, his eyes traveling the length of my body. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" He leaned back in his swivel chair, making eye contact. "I expected a phone call, maybe."
"You know Hutchinson was declared brain dead," I said, intent on my agenda. "They're harvesting his organs at this very minute."
"I didn't know about the organs." He reached for the telephone. "Have they been in contact with the M.E.?"
"Sure. He made the suggestion."
He dialed the telephone. "I'll just verify that if you don't mind."
"Sure, why not? I came from there. What would I know?" I stood to leave. I didn't like distrust.
"Sophi, sit."
"Arf, arf." He pissed me off. I waited while he finished his discussion with the M.E. I saw his point. If he didn't make the call, and the organ donation compromised the case, it'd be his butt in the sling.
"Now, would you like to relax, or did you come here to get ticked off?" He raised his left eyebrow and waited.
I sat. "It was a tough morning. I went to ICU to check on Barry and ended up staying through the donor request process and the aftermath. It's draining, exhausting." I told him about the whole thing, including Jamel's repeated request for payment. "I don't know about that kid." I finished my tirade and smiled, relieved to have it off my chest.
"I had him in here yesterday morning to ask him about your prowlers."
"And?" I reached for Ray's cup and took a sip. The black coffee was room temperature and bitter, but it helped the dryness in my throat.
"He denies being in your area. In fact, he denies knowing where you live."
"Where did he say he was?" I took another sip of Ray's coffee and made a face.
"He didn't. He told me it was none of my business. Unless I was prepared to charge him with something, he didn't think he'd hang around and answer my questions."
"Non-productive."
"Except I did learn a bit more about his personality and that, maybe, he has something to hide." He stroked his beard and mustache.
"Like what?"
"What I can't figure is why he needs money from his mother if he's dealing drugs."
"Just the point I was trying to make yesterday when you blew me off." I leaned forward in the chair. "Did you ask him?"
"No. We want to see what goes down on the drug side of this case. I didn't want to tip him off."
"Maybe he always asks his mother for money and doesn't want to change the pattern, doesn't want her to know he's dealing."
"Could be, but I think he's in debt and not seeing any drug income at the moment." Ray stretched and put his hands behind his head.
If nothing else, it gave me an excellent view of his chest muscles, bringing back memories of the six-pack below. I've always enjoyed looking at a well-developed male chest.
I said, "He must have left here and gone to the hospital to see his dad."
"Probably. I called him at home and asked him to stop by. A couple of his friends waited for him while we talked."
"Let me guess. Tall skinny dudes?"
"Right."
"The same ones were with him at the hospital yesterday. They've been in a couple of times. Rough young men."
"I agree.
"When he was here, did you happen to ask him why he bullies his mother?"
"As a matter of fact, I did." Ray flipped open a small tablet. It kept his current case notes in bound, pocket-sized pads. He started a new one for each investigation. He used to keep a stack in his car. I wondered if he still did.
"What did he say?"
Ray looked at pages toward the end of the little notebook. He'd been busier on this case than I realized. He hadn't been sharing much information with me, but again, why should he?
"He said if his mother wanted to put up with it, what business was it of mine."
"Tough kid."
"He's not a kid. He's twenty-eight friggin' years old. Give me a break."
Oops, I'd stepped into it. The twitches of his cheek muscles pulled at the edges of his goatee. "Damn, Ray. He's too old, but he dresses like a kid. He acts like a kid. You know, looks like shit, smells like shit, tastes like shit, must be shit."
"This time I think the dude stepped in it."
I smiled.
So did Ray.
"Listen," he glanced at his watch, "it's almost three. Want to grab a bite? I'm starved."
"Sure, why not?"
Ray stood and slipped on his jacket while I watched with interest. His matching suit pants hung loosely on his narrow hips, accenting his long muscular torso and broad shoulders. He smiled in a crooked, annoying way. I knew that he knew, but so what, a girl can look, too.
He rested his hand on my back and guided me out of the building to where he had parked the S2000. He held the door for me to slide into the low passenger seat. "You look really good."
"Thanks. You do, too." I fastened my seat belt and stared straight ahead, wondering if I was complicating my life.
We didn't talk as he drove the short distance to Patty's Pub. I laid my head back against the headrest and stared at the clear sky. It was a nice day for a ride in a convertible. The Honda's engine roared as Ray put it through its paces. I noticed it was a hot little car, not as hot as the Viper, but impressive nonetheless. I thought I'd like to drive it sometime.
Patty's opened at three o'clock and catered to shift workers---for the most part cops, but also emergency nurses, paramedics, and a smattering of locals who liked to hang out with them. It was a dimmed joint with a long shiny mahogany bar, several tables with Irish memorabilia embedded in thick polyurethane, and a couple of semi-private booths in the back---near the kitchen door. A thick, glossy finish covered the rough-hewn floor. As the night progressed, peanut shells littered the floor, but it began each evening shiny-clean. There was a single pool table near the front window. The cops kept it busy into the wee hours.
The fare consisted of thick burgers, grilled chicken sandwiches, wings, fries, and corned beef and cabbage on special occasions. There was no printed menu. Regulars knew the selections, and for strangers, there was a blackboard behind the bar.
Ray escorted me to one of the booths and waited, southern gentleman style, while I slid into the booth. He seemed to hesitate---maybe he wanted to slide in next to me---then chose the facing bench instead. He ordered a burger, and I asked for chicken.
I was on edge. I expected to sit at the bar and have a quick bite.
He took my hand. "Sophi, I've been thinking," he said, his soft, bass drawl soothing to my ears. "Do you think---"
"No," I pulled my hand free. "I don't want to be abrupt, but I don't want to put my heart in harm's way again." I stared into his deep blue eyes. "I'm glad we're getting along and can work together, but that's all I want."
For a fleeting moment, he looked annoyed. Then he smiled and said, "I was saying, do you think I could make a burger as good as Patty's on my grill?"
I gulped and blushed, then took a moment to regroup. I'd stepped into that one. "Sure, why not. Just make sure you get it hot enough." I touched his hand, then pulled mine back to my lap. "What's your lineup of possibles in the Hutchinson case?" I thought of the mental list I made earlier in the day. "Did Barry have enemies I'm not aware of?"
"Huh?" He looked confused. "Oh, yeah. I'm just finishing, but we went through his client list for last year. He was busy, closed a lot of deals. He also pissed off people, but no one's mad enough to consider murder."
"He screwed up my friend Vanessa's finances, told her partial truths, twisted things around. Then Amelia finished her off. Now Van has to buy a house she can't afford." I paused while Patty set our drinks and food in front of us.
"She's not the only one making those allegations." Ray took a bite of his burger then wiped his beard. "I'm surprised his clients haven't reported him to the Florida Real Estate Commission."
"You checked?"
"Of course. They've never received a complaint."
"Maybe his customers weren't savvy enough to know how to file a grievance." I tasted my sandwich. It was good, moist with a hint of rosemary and garlic.
"Good point, although most of his customers appeared on the ball. The consensus is Hutchinson wasn't attentive to detail and required a lot of follow-up on the part of the clients. No one seemed unhappy with the outcome, just with the time it took him to do the job. He pushed the deadlines on the contracts. Last minute."
"With Vanessa it was worse. She believes he lied to her, trying to force her into a deal. Then he sent her to a mortgage broker who didn't follow through, and he gave her a contract with big holes. That sort of thing."
"It may be more Vanessa's interpretation than actual fact, but it is more extreme than his other customers reported." He took another bite of the burger and wiped his mouth. "I didn't find a viable suspect in the lot of them."
"Who are your suspects?" I washed down a mouthful of chicken with my Coke. "I figure Jamel, the wife, maybe Wiley. The girlfriend?"
"Not the girlfriend. No reason."
"I agree. That leaves the three of them? Have you talked to Wiley? There seems to be a lot of friction between Amelia and him."
"I'll talk to him later tonight or tomorrow morning." He toyed with his iced tea. "Wiley doesn't fit though. He had more to gain by buying Hutchinson's agency or beating him out. Killing him would give the agency a bad name, and he'd have nothing to buy. From what Amelia Hutchinson said, Wiley is willing to take over her outstanding contracts and give her a job. Why resort to murder?"
I shrugged. "He was there yesterday, right before Hutchinson died."
"You're convinced someone disconnected him from his life support?"
"It wasn't an accident." I set my sandwich down and leaned across the table. "He wasn't strong enough to cough off his vent tube, and it was clean. I asked the nurse who found him. Someone had to remove it. Maybe a weaning accident, but Vanessa was his therapist, and she's careful."
"That's rich. His most dissatisfied client's responsible for his life support on the day it gets disconnected. What were you people thinking?" He shook his head, then paused a moment, appearing thoughtful. "Why don't you poke at Vanessa and see what happens? Be casual."
I frowned at him. "I don't want to rat on my friends."
"We need to clear her of suspicion, and you can help with that if you're willing."
What Ray said was right. Connie and I had tried to warn her, but she'd insisted on caring for Hutchinson. "Okay, I'll give it a try."
I helped Ray make a list of other people to interview at the hospital. Samantha, the nurse who found him and started the code. Connie, his nurse for the day. Vanessa, his therapist. Dr. Kravitz, who ran the code. Dr. Jennifer Staiger, his neurologist. Amelia. Jamel and his friends. And Wiley. As an afterthought, we added the hospital's risk manager, the nurse manager, the head of respiratory therapy, and me. Life was getting interesting.
Ray dropped me off next to my Mini Cooper in the police station parking lot. I extricated myself from the S2000---sliding, turning, and standing in the same motion, causing a cramping pain in my right hip---and waved before he said or did anything. I climbed into my red car and zoomed off across the parking lot. I gave him the satisfaction of a parting beep-beep as I turned the corner.
Early the next morning, my little alarm clock dog rattled my bones with his barking. He wanted out---fast.
I called Vanessa, arranging to meet her for lunch and an afternoon of shopping. It would be the perfect opportunity to get her talking about the hospital. Ray and I agreed I'd tell Vanessa I was helping him. She knew he'd been around and would suspect as much. I'd be upfront and honest, and she'd be more inclined to talk.
We met at the fish tank in the mall. By the time Vanessa arrived, I'd been watching the one-eyed puffer swim around for ten minutes. I was surprised to see him. Glad, too. It felt good, so I named him Karma. It seemed to fit. Karma's continued usefulness---at least as entertainment for the shoppers---seemed permanent and hopeful. We purchased grilled chicken sandwiches from Chick-fil-A and coffee from Barney's, keeping our tank-view table.
Unlike the several varieties of saltwater fish that propel themselves by swishing their tails, the puffer moved by waving his top and bottom fins as well as the fin on the end of his tail. Karma moved with the aid of translucent propellers. Fascinating. When he got in the rocks, he changed the direction of the propellers and backed out. His wide, round head and tapering body suggested a living, miniature submarine.
I'd pulled on a pair of stretch jeans and a tee shirt, then added a pair of sandals, tiny gold earrings, and minimal make-up. Vanessa, who looked like she'd lost weight, shone in a taupe-colored stretch pantsuit and matching long-sleeved blouse. Even her sandals matched. Today, she'd pulled her blond hair back with a huge butterfly clip.
"You always look like you stepped off the cover of Vogue," I said.
She sipped her coffee and smiled. "You think shopping with me will make you grow taller, then you'll be able to wear the same stuff I do."
I sat extra-straight, trying to make the best of every inch of me. "Very true. But alas, I suffer from terminal shortness. I push the limits of good fashion sense with my long skirts. If I gain weight, I'll look like a tent."
She laughed. We'd covered this territory before. She wished she couldn't eat soup off the heads of most males, and I wished I could reach the top shelf in my kitchen.
"Hear anything from Craig?" I asked. She seldom heard from him anymore except for an occasional telephone call in the middle of the night. If he'd started harassing her again, it would explain her weight loss.
"I haven't heard a peep from him in a month. It has me worried. Maybe he's coming here. At least when his home number flashes on my caller ID, I'm sure he's up north."
"Maybe he tired of the game or found someone else to torment?"
"I wouldn't wish anyone else the grief."
I popped the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth and chewed, savoring the flavor while thinking about how to proceed. "Speaking of grief, when is the closing on your townhouse?"
"In a couple of weeks, I guess. The mortgage rate will be high, about two points above the going rate. My new mortgage broker, Carl, is more helpful. He said I can refinance in a couple of years. I think Carl might even help me. Then again, he might be saying that to see if he can get into my pants."
"Oh, is he interesting or just horny?"
"Interesting."
"You going to go out if he asks?"
"He offered. I refused."
"Why? You need to get out."
"And you don't?" She knew I hadn't dated much since Ray. She had the habit of encouraging me to warm up to this therapist or that doctor.
It wasn't for lack of opportunity that I didn't date. I had settled in and felt content with my lifestyle. That's what I told myself anyway.
She continued, "I'm concentrating on my real estate deal. I can't see becoming involved with anyone right now."
I decided not to pursue the comments about our uneventful social lives and picked up the thread that might lead to more detail about the home purchase. "You're resigned to buying the townhouse."
"I am, but I think that bastard, Hutchinson, and the bitch, Amelia, did me wrong."
"Before we continue this conversation, I need to tell you something."
"What, you're seeing Ray again? I saw you with him in the back of Patty's yesterday, deep in conversation."
"We were talking about the Hutchinson case. I'm involved in it with him."
She didn't flinch, a good sign. "You looked like you had more than Barry Hutchinson on your mind."
"I can't seem to move on. I know he's poison. He'll just hurt me again. It always bothered me that he split when I got out of the hospital. Poor timing. Now I find out he had another girlfriend. Not that he didn't have the right."
"He talked about it?" She cocked a brow.
"Yes."
"Give it some thought, honey. Guys like him don't come knocking on your door every day."
"I do think about it." I stared at the tank, hoping to see our fish, but Karma must have stalled on the other side rather than continuing to go around and around. He appeared from behind the big coral rocks on the left, taking a short cut. "What were you going to say about Barry and Amelia?"
"I wasn't going to say anything."
"Sorry. Thought you were." I looked at her.
"When I first started doing business with them, Amelia told me about her trouble with Barry. She knew I worked at the hospital, and I guess she felt close to me." Vanessa played with her drink, then glanced over her shoulder at the tank.
"She covered some of that territory with me after the doctors transferred Barry to fifth floor."
"I think her story changed. I think she wanted people to believe she loved him."
"Oh?" I made waving motions with my right hand. "Tell me more."
"One day at her office, she said she planned to file for a divorce. Said she'd move on when she got her half of everything. They hadn't gotten along for a long, long time, and she was tired of it." Vanessa paused, looking thoughtful. "I wasn't unhappy with the agency then, and I wanted to be helpful. I told her about the trouble with Craig and the good counselors I found. She wasn't interested. She said Barry refused marriage counseling, and she'd had enough."
"That's about what she told me." I kept the details to myself.
"I've been dealing with them for a long time. One day, for instance, I went into the agency without knocking and without calling ahead. The reception area was empty. I heard Amelia and Barry in the back yelling at each other. She was using real hard language, calling him a cheating mother-effer and worse things. She screamed that the fact the woman was white insulted her worse than anything else."
"Did he say anything?" I leaned forward in my chair, intent on every word.
"At first, just muttering. Then he started yelling that she hadn't been a wife to him in a long time and what right did she have to question who he slept with."
"He didn't deny it?"
"No, he agreed with her. He said his girlfriend showed him consideration, and he had every intention of leaving Amelia to live with her."
"Heavy stuff. What did she say?"
"She said, 'How can you say that? I've been sleeping with you, like a wife.'" Vanessa raised her left hand, puppet style. "'Now?' he yelled, 'what about all those other years?'" She held up her right hand, making mouth movements with her fingers. "Amelia said 'I worried about catching something. I thought you were sleeping around.'" Left hand. "'I wasn't, but now I am. So, why are you sleeping with me now?'" Vanessa paused, a look of perverse satisfaction on her face.
"Then what happened?" I prodded.
"I heard a crash, then Barry yelled, 'Don't break up the place.'"
"Whoa, really?"
"Yes. Then another crash followed by a thump. Amelia said, 'I'm going to kill you, you bastard.' Then there was another thump and a thud. I wasn't sure what happened, but I slipped out the door. I took a ride and returned about thirty minutes later."
"What did you do?"
"I didn't want Barry to realize I'd heard the fight, so I asked about my real estate deal. After awhile, I heard some noise in the back and Amelia's voice on the telephone, or maybe talking to someone in the back."
"Did she come out?"
"A bit later. She said hello to me, told Barry she had a headache, and she left."
"Did you see any bruises or damage to her face or anything?"
"No. But men who beat their women are smarter than that. Craig never hit me on my face. He broke my ribs, bruised my breasts, and battered about every clothed part of my body. He wanted to make sure no one thought badly of him."
"I have to admit, I had no idea he beat you all those years, not until you asked for help. It's a good thing you found the courage. I'm sure he'd have killed you otherwise."
"He might still do that. He refuses to believe I have a brain. My independence drives him crazy."
"It's good you're going into a multi-family area, more people around." I watched Karma for a minute. "Van, did Amelia say anything more to you about her marriage?"
"No. The problems with the sellers and with the mortgage company began. Our relationship fell apart, and we quit having social conversations." She slurped the last of her coffee through the hollow plastic stirrer. "One day in the hospital, she said 'By the way,'" again Vanessa used her hand to depict her conversation, "'Barry and I made up. Isn't that grand? Now I have an invalid to take care of and still no husband.'"
"Heavy stuff."
"I thought so."
"Have you told any of this to the cops?"
"No, they haven't asked anything except a few questions about my purchase transaction."
"They will. I helped Ray make a list of people who were there when Hutchinson coded. You're on the list."
"Thanks a bunch."
"I couldn't help it. Besides, it's part of the record."
"Okay, sure."
I tried to make eye contact, but she looked away.
Vanessa said, "Let's go shopping. You have anything special in mind?"
"Something slinky."
"Thinking about Ray?"
"Yeah." I loaded Vanessa's trash with mine and double stacked the cafeteria-style trays. Taking the last sip of my coffee, I added it to the pile. "Let's go."
Two hours later, I had a foxy little-black-dress from the sale rack at Macy's, high-heeled sandals from a new boutique shoe shop across from Gordon's, and some sexy underwear from Victoria's Secret. For the underwear, I used a gift certificate from my ever-hopeful mother. She'd approve. If I promised to wear it for Ray, she'd even buy me more. She loved him like a son. Vanessa didn't buy anything. She saved her pennies.
"Vanessa," I said, climbing behind the wheel of my Mini, "how about you follow me over to the station and get your conversation with Ray out of the way?"
She stood beyond the swing of the door on the driver's side. Her car was about two rows over. "Why would I want to do that?"
"Because if you do it now, I'll be there with you. At another time, maybe not."
She put both hands on top of the car and bent to look in the window. "Are you sure he's there?"
"Let me give him a call." I dug in my purse for my cell phone, turned it on, then keyed in Ray's work number. He answered on the first ring, made a crack about my cell phone being out-of-service, then said he'd wait at the station for us. "He'll be there. You know where it is if we get separated?"
"Yes." She gave me the directions, not the ones I would have taken, but one of the many possible routes from the mall to the police station.
As I closed the car door, Vanessa pulled in next to me in the police station lot. We walked side-by-side into the building, rode the elevator to the second floor, and approached the reception desk in silence.
"Good morning, Sophia," the elderly volunteer said, buzzing open the security door. "Detective Stone is expecting you. He said to send you right on back."
"Thanks Elsie. You're looking well," I said as we passed through the door. Elsie was a fixture around the department.
In the hallway, a couple detectives leered at Vanessa but only glanced at me, nodding hello.
Unsmiling, Ray watched us walk across the room. I'd surprised him, and he didn't appear to appreciate it. The edges of his goatee twitched, but he smiled when we drew near, sending a mixed message.
He stood and greeted Vanessa, extending his hand. "Thanks for coming down," Ray said. "Have a seat. I want to talk to Sophia."
Vanessa said, "Fine." The word dripped with attitude.
I wanted to tell her to lighten up. Ray was already pissed, and she was about to make it worse. Instead, I followed him to the coffee room.
The tiny break room reminded me of the one on my nursing unit---messy, an empty donut box on a cluttered table, various notices on a large corkboard, a small refrigerator, and a full coffee pot. It was unoccupied except for a dead roach on the floor near the john door.
He stopped and faced me. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?"
"What do you mean?"
"You call me in the middle of the afternoon and tell me you're bringing someone in to question. Someone, by the way, who might prove to be a suspect."
"I brought her because she has information about Amelia and Barry. She overheard a fight, one with physical contact. I thought you needed to know. It happened before the shooting."
"Sophia, she could tell me all about it when we bring her in for an interview." I knew he was mad. He called me Sophia.
"Listen, I'll tell you what. Why don't we just leave? You can make your own arrangements to see her." I took a quick step toward the hall.
"You're unreasonable." He reached out and touched my arm.
I brushed him off, turning to face him. "You think it's fine to use my services anytime you need help at the hospital. Meanwhile, I'm ratting on my friends, then you get pissed when I deliver them to you." My face flushed---I felt the heat. "She's had a tough life. I wanted to be around to support her during the interview. Screw it. I'm going home, and I'm going to tell her to leave with me."
"Like hell, you will. I'll talk to her for a minute now, but depending on what else I find out, I may need to talk to her again---without you holding her hand."
"Okay." Without further conversation, we rejoined Vanessa.
"Vanessa," Ray said with a smile, this time a bit more sincere. "Let's go into one of the interview rooms where we can sit and talk without interruption.
"Sure." She followed Ray, and I brought up the rear.
Ray held the door open, ushering Vanessa in with a wave of his right hand. When I started to follow, he said, "You can come in but don't say anything."
Without interrupting, Ray allowed Vanessa to tell him about Amelia and Barry Hutchinson's fight, nodding encouragement at frequent intervals. Every once in a while, he'd jot on his tablet. I strained to see his notes, but the glare from the window obliterated them, perhaps by his intention, but I thought not. When Vanessa finished, we sat in silence for a couple of minutes.
Ray leaned forward in his chair and looked Vanessa directly in the eyes. "Vanessa, you said Amelia came out of the office and pretended as if nothing happened."
"Yes, that's what I said."
"Did you see evidence he'd hit her? Maybe it was Amelia who hit Hutchinson."
"She's pretty dark skinned." Vanessa appeared thoughtful.
"Did you see any evidence Hutchinson had been hit?"
"No, I told you." Vanessa raised her voice a few decibels.
"Back to what you overheard. You said you heard a crash, some yelling, the sound of fists, and another crash."
"I definitely heard her get hit, she yelled in between, said she was going to kill him, then I heard her fall."
"How do you know it was Amelia who fell and not a chair or even Hutchinson?"
"Well, I . . . I . . ." She looked confused and uncomfortable. She smoothed her jacket over her slacks, buttoning and unbuttoning the collar closure a couple of times. "I know the sound of a body hitting the wall. A body sounds like a body, not like the crack of a chair."
Ray took a long moment to make notes, doing nothing to help her feel less uncomfortable. Vanessa squirmed in her seat. He asked a few general questions, then wrote several lines on his pad.
Ray stood, pushing back his chair. "Vanessa, thank you for coming in. You've been a big help." He opened the door, our signal to leave. As we passed in front of him, he said, "Vanessa, I'll be talking with you again. I'm in the process of interviewing everyone who was around on the day he died, just to get the facts straight. Where can I reach you?"
Vanessa swallowed hard and gave Ray her home number and mobile number. She looked pale. I thought all the discussion about abuse was painful for her, raising threatening memories. She looked in my direction, grimaced, then walked out of the station too fast for me to keep pace. By the time I reached the parking lot, her car was gone.
Ray had followed me out of the station, but as I gathered my thoughts, I pretended to be unaware. "Sophi." I heard his voice from a few feet away.
"Yes." I turned to see him approach. I suspected he had an agenda unrelated to the case.
"I'll call you later. Will you be home?" His voice was soft, the drawl more evident.
"What for? I got the idea you were angry."
He bit the side of his lip, looking thoughtful. "I am pissed about you bringing her here with her half-baked story, but that's not what's on my mind. I figure we can keep this case and the rest of our lives separate."
"That's a thought."
"I'd like to take you to dinner."
"Call." I raised my hand about halfway and hurried to my car. I had the little black dress, proving I wanted to go out with him. Still I was ambivalent. Fool me once, I thought, shame on you. "Fool me twice," I said under my breath as I started my Mini's engine, "shame on me."
When I arrived home---I'd run several errands---I stashed the dog food under the sink, greeted Sunshine, let him out in the yard, and punched the button on the answering machine. The first message was from the hospital, the risk manager wanted me to call her anytime day or night. Her voice sounded tense, irritated.
Since it was still business hours for her, I picked up the telephone. "Brenda," I said when she answered, "this is Sophia Burgess. You called."
"Detective Ray Stone came in to see me about the Hutchinson death," she answered, sounding ticked.
I noted that she skipped her usual social litany. "I thought he would, given he's investigating a homicide."
"I wasn't prepared. He raised the possibility the death was negligence, but he seemed more inclined to believe it was murder."
"I know. Someone gunned Hutchinson down in the street. There's a good possibility they wanted to finish the job," I said, trying to keep my tone matter-of-fact.
She exhaled heavily into the telephone. "I feel a little blindsided here. All of a sudden, I get this call. You could have warned me, given me time to prepare."
I started explaining from the beginning. It took me several minutes to tell her everything I knew or suspected about what happened to Hutchinson in the hospital. I concluded by saying, "In my defense, I was the charge nurse when Hutchinson died. The staff sent down an incident report to your office. I went to your office, read it, and added an attachment of my own. I was careful to make sure you had a complete report."
"I have it."
"Help me here. Why do you feel blindsided?"
"The incident reports talks about the patient being found coded, off the vent. I thought accident. Murder didn't cross my mind."
"Think of it. It wouldn't have been appropriate for me to mention murder on the report. Just the facts. Remember." I felt impatient. I understood the hospital's unpleasant position. If I were the administrator, I wouldn't want someone murdered on my watch either. Looks bad. But on the other hand, the murderer controlled the events.
"Ah . . . um . . ." she stammered.
"Look at it this way," I decided to take a more reasonable tone with her. It wouldn't pay to tick off the hospital establishment---bad for longevity. "Not only were there several hospital employees in the room, there were also a number of family members and acquaintances. I listed all the traffic I witnessed on my addendum. The possibilities are endless." I paused to allow her time to stay with my thinking. "I called Detective Stone and told him a nurse found Hutchinson's ventilator disconnected. Then I called him when Hutchinson died. There's a note on the chart from your office directing the staff to keep the police informed on the patient's progress. It was the appropriate thing to do."
After a long moment, Brenda said, "Just for the record, if something like this happens in the future, don't call a homicide detective with the news without telling me first. Of course, you needed to notify him. I agree with you, but you should have told me in advance. It would have given me time to call administration and cover our butts before he came knocking on the door."
"Okay." What more could I say? She was right.
I brought her up to date on the investigation, throwing her extra information to maintain some kind of a professional relationship, and we said goodbye.
Gritting my teeth, I returned to the recorded messages on my machine.
Ray's voice drifted from my machine, soft and relaxed. "I want to take you for a nice dinner. I made a reservation at Pete's for eight o'clock this evening."
The invitation hit below my lingerie elastic. He knew I favored Pete's in Boca. We went there many times in the past for special occasions.
"I'll be out of touch for the next few hours," he continued, "I'll show up at seven-thirty. See you then."
What are my choices? I thought. I wanted to spend the evening with him. I headed for the shower with Sunshine trailing along. As I stripped off my jeans, Sunshine hopped on the bed for a snooze. With him in the house, I was never alone for long.
The dress fit like a dream, slinky, skimming my body, not clinging anywhere, but not bagging either. It stopped above the knee. I wore black stockings and black high-heeled sandals. The spaghetti-strapped bodice---it would have revealed cleavage if I had cleavage---showed under the loose-fitting tunic. I fingered the sparkling beads, running my fingers over the swirling pattern. The air conditioning would be an issue in Pete's, but if we ventured onto the dance floor, I'd want to take the tunic off. I added diamond and gold earrings and a thin gold chain necklace, both gifts from Ray. I thought he'd be pleased I hadn't given them away.
Ray arrived at seven-thirty, looking good---real good. His dark suit was a longer-styled, three-button European job that accented his broad shoulders and tapered around his hips. He'd stopped for a haircut and a beard trim since I'd talked to him in the middle of the afternoon. And, he carried a dozen red roses.
I stood back as he stepped into the entry, then watched as Sunshine welcomed him like a long-lost housemate. Ray squatted and allowed the dog to lick his face, providing the required ear rub in return.
I wasn't sure I wanted to climb the hill I faced. But then again, I did.
When Sunshine finished with him, Ray stood and looked me over. "Nice." He nodded. "You look beautiful." He handed me the roses. "These are for you." He always had a way with stating the obvious. I guess it was better than just saying here.
It had been a long time since someone gave me flowers. I got on my knees and dug out a vase from behind the dog food and tall bags under the kitchen sink. After washing it, I arranged the deep-red roses and positioned them in the middle of the kitchen island.
"Ready?" I said, picking up my black, beaded evening bag.
The Honda shone in evening sun. He had attended to the car as well as to himself. The sun hung low on the horizon and glowed red behind scattered fluffy clouds, backlighting them in shades of orange and gold.
Feeling the heat, I slipped off my jacket before sinking into the passenger seat. As Ray closed the door, the side windows and black interior enclosed me, creating a topless cocoon.
Ray sank in next to me, then turned in my direction. I read the appreciation in his expression. His eyes traveled the length of me, but he said nothing. Then he turned the key and pushed the red start button. The rumbling sound of the engine filled our space, and we were off.
In truth, he drove sedately out of my small community. We weren't off with a roar until he accelerated onto the Sawgrass Expressway, heading toward the Florida Turnpike. Then he tromped the accelerator.
Ray felt speed limits were for civilians. He'd said many times he trained to drive at high speeds, give chase, and apprehend criminals. I gave up taking issue with his speeding several years ago. I noticed, back when we were a couple, he followed the speed laws when we left South Florida. I guess his police officer conferred immunity wasn't nationwide.
We exited the Turnpike at Glades Road and turned into Pete's driveway. A thick layer of clouds hid the sky. Ray glanced heavenward, hit the button for the convertible top, and locked it in place. He handed a valet key to a kid with dark circles under his eyes and told him to park it.
"Yes, sir," the kid said. He slid in and put the key in the ignition, tried to turn it to start the car, then grinned when Ray pointed at the red start-button to the left of the steering column
We watched while the kid glanced at the shift knob, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the driveway.
"Guess he won't leave the transmission in the parking lot," Ray said, guiding me into the restaurant.
As we relaxed at our table, our chilled wine on ice beside us, Ray lifted his glass to mine. The crystal pinged as we touched stemware. "To old times," he said, his voice soft and low. "I've missed you."
"To old times." I smiled, feeling warmed by the thought. I took a sip of wine and set my glass next to my bread plate. "How's the investigation going?"
His eyes flashed disappointment, signaling he hadn't planned to discuss Hutchinson's unfortunate demise. Oh well, I wasn't ready to thrash out our relationship either.
"Not ready to talk about us, huh?" Though the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, he looked sad.
"Something like that." Deep inside I was ready to talk, but I was afraid of being hurt again. "I'd rather take this slow."
"Okay, anyway you want." He took another sip of wine. "The list you helped make of people to interview turned out to be very useful."
"Thank God for that. I did something right."
"Samantha, the nurse who started the resuscitation on Hutchinson, responded as you predicted. She became defensive and grew more so when she realized I was talking about a murder investigation. When I said she wasn't a suspect, she relaxed and cooperated." He sipped his wine. "She confirmed she discovered Hutchinson off the ventilator and not breathing. It didn't look to her as if he coughed off the ventilator tube. The M.E., by the way, confirmed the cause of death---asphyxiation. He didn't have unexpected blood levels of drugs or toxins, no fresh brain damage, and no evidence of heart attack."
"Samantha has had a tough go of it. She started slow in nursing---had problems with her skills at the beginning and seemed to be in trouble a lot. The manager sent her for remediation to fix her techniques several times, and she found that humiliating. I think that's why she's defensive. Anytime anything goes wrong, she thinks she's going to get the blame."
"That much was obvious when I talked to her." He stopped a minute and refilled our wineglasses. "I talked to your friend Connie today, too."
"Busy man."
He smirked and went on with his report. "That lady's a piece of work."
"How so? I think she's a sweet person who's upfront and honest."
"She went off on a tangent about how Hutchinson was better off dead and about how he shouldn't have been kept alive on a ventilator anyway. To my way of thinkin', she's a nut case."
"She does have some definite ideas about long-term, ventilator-dependent patients. I suspect she's pro-euthanasia, though we've never talked about it in any detail. When Kevorkian was having his public legal battles, she was in his favor."
"Maybe she disconnected the vent?" He stroked his goatee.
"I doubt it. She's a conscientious nurse and is likely to do more rather than less for her patients." The waiter came with a basket of bread. I helped myself and slathered on the butter. "Besides, she hasn't taken care of Hutchinson that often, not enough to form an obsessive attachment."
"That's not the way she sounded to me."
"Oh? I'm sure it was just her honesty coming out. Her father existed in a vegetative state for a long time. Her stepmother didn't have the heart to end it, so it continued past Connie's tolerance point. Sometimes those feelings come out a little too strong. She doesn't mean anything specific."
"You're entitled to your opinion. She's on my short list of possible suspects. Low on the list. But on the list."
Ray's opinion shocked me. "If it's okay with you, I'll talk to her about Hutchinson and see what she says. Perhaps she'll tell me something that will convince you she's not a suspect."
"Can't hurt. But you know if you find out anything, you could end up testifying against her?"
"Yeah, I know, but I could also testify on her behalf." I took some time to gather my thoughts, taking a bite of the warm and flavorful bread. "Did you talk to the docs?"
"Yes ma'am, both of 'em." With each sip of wine, the pace of his speech slowed, making his southern drawl thicker.
I remembered the times we locked the door, took the phone off the hook, and emptied a wine bottle. He always became more southern as the evening continued---in more ways than one.
Ray said, "Doctor Kravitz said the code was in progress by the time he arrived. He mentioned a lot of cross talk about the staff finding the patient off the vent. It struck him at the time, and nobody offered an explanation, so he followed up with the patient's neurologist and talked to the risk manager." Ray repeated Kravitz's comments in detail.
"Maybe it was a weaning accident." I didn't want to believe someone killed Hutchinson in my hospital and on my watch. I told him what Staiger has said about Hutchinson's weaning progress.
"I questioned her about that."
Ray grasped things medical, always had. He read a lot and asked questions, and he'd suffered a severe gunshot injury many years ago---we had that in common. His wound took down his lung and almost cost him his life. I remember his telling me his son was a baby at the time. After he recovered, he and his wife split, and he moved to Florida. I wondered how much his job had to do with their divorce.
"What did Staiger say?"
"Hutchinson was having some success off the ventilator. In her opinion, he was off the machine for ten to twenty minutes before having the arrest. That gives us a time frame."
"Ten minutes, more or less, is tough to track on a busy nursing unit."
"True. It's plenty of time for any number of people to have dropped by for a visit, done the deed, and strolled off the area."
The waiter appeared, and we placed our orders. I decided on the poached Norwegian salmon, and Ray ordered broiled snapper.
As the waiter walked away, Ray continued. "None of the other interviews at the hospital turned up anything. The family and friends were at the funeral, so we have to wait to talk to them."
"Fast. I didn't expect the funeral for several days."
"I wonder about the rush."
"Maybe Amelia wanted to put it behind them."
"'Um." He stroked his goatee.
"Did you talk to Wiley?" I sipped my wine again, being careful not to drink too fast. I wanted to remain in control of myself. We'd be at the restaurant for a couple of hours yet. Ray had pointed to the dance floor in the lounge on the way in and suggested we finish off the evening there.
"One strange dude." He raised a finger, giving it a single shake.
"How so?" I felt my eyebrows rise as I asked the question.
"When I called him, he volunteered to come to the station. In fact, he left a few minutes before you and Vanessa showed up."
"Good thing we missed him."
"Probably. Anyway, he had a lot to say."
"For instance?" Wiley was high on my list of suspects. He struck me as a weaseling kind of guy, one who would take advantage of an opportunity. Of course, I had no facts on which to base my opinion. I fanned the fingers of my free hand toward my face, encouraging him to continue.
"He was open about wanting to put Hutchinson Realty out of business. He said he and Hutchinson cooperated on the surface, but were fiercely competitive. A long time ago, Hutchinson had the biggest agency and did some things like stealing listings and putting flyers on cars parked in front of Wiley's office. When their fortunes reversed, Wiley returned the favor."
"I understand why Amelia wasn't interested in working for him. But that's not the story I heard from Wiley, or his man Art, or Amelia either for that matter."
"Yeah, I know. Wiley didn't want her around either. He described her as a lousy agent, but he'd help her out for a while if he could. I think he figures he'll grab the listings. From what he told me, Hutchinson attracted many upscale minority clients with substantial properties." He paused a minute while our meals were placed in front of us.
"Amelia gave me the impression Hutchinson's business was going down the tubes, and he was cutting back in preparation for retirement."
"Wiley thinks Hutchinson deliberately created that impression for Amelia's benefit. Hutchinson came to Wiley a few months back and asked him to employ Amelia. Hutchinson wanted out of his marriage because he liked his girlfriend better."
"The SOB." I tasted my dinner. The salmon was firm, falling in thick flakes when I worked it with my fork. "Figures."
"Why?"
"Men are all alike." I regretted the remark the second it left my lips. We were having a pleasant evening, and I'd been hoping it would get more pleasant. Now, I'd ruined everything. I stopped myself mid-thought. What did I care? I didn't want to go there anyway.
"I'm trying to make amends here." He took the crack as a personal insult, and he looked hurt.
"Ray, I know you are. I'm sorry. It slipped out." I reached across the table and touched him. He stared at my hand touching his, making no move to reciprocate.
"Anyway," he continued, "Wiley admitted he agreed to hire Amelia to have an inside track on the customers. He figured she'd be so pissed she'd talk about the proprietary information."
"Good instinct on Wiley's part." I stopped short, my salmon-laden fork suspended in the air. "He wouldn't have motive to finish Hutchinson off, even if he took out the original murder contract, not really."
"Why?" He raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Because Amelia doesn't have a real estate broker's license. The customers are ripe for the picking, at no cost to him."
"That's about what he said. He's planning on hiring her anyway to be honorable."
"Interesting. What did he say he was doing at the hospital on Sunday?"
"Visiting his sister. He decided to stop and pay his respects."
"Likely story."
"It checks out."
"Oh," I said.
"Anything else exciting?"
"Wiley gave me enough information to track down Hutchinson's girlfriend. She was out of town at the time of the shooting and in church when the staff found the vent disconnected."
"Convenient."
"Verified. Besides, I can't come up with a motive for her. She's off my list."
We ate in silence for a while. I couldn't think of more questions to ask about the case and for the moment didn't have anything else to say.
Ray broke the silence. "Dessert?"
"Dance," I said.
"I'd like that." He raised his hand to catch the waiter's attention. He mouthed, "Check," and soon the waiter appeared with it. A few minutes later, he guided me onto the dance floor. Tuesday was ladies' night, and the dance floor was crowded with people getting to know one another.
It had been years since we'd danced together, but it didn't seem to matter. I knew his every move. Ray was a superb slow dancer. He guided me around the floor with a firm hand in the small of my back. I kept a little space between us, but still I felt his body heat and smelled the damn Nautica. I thought they should call it Erotica instead.
Though I thought it unusual, he stayed on the floor for the faster numbers. His moves showed a bit more variety and polish than in years earlier. When I commented, he smiled. What did I expect? He wasn't a monk. And to tell the truth, I wasn't a nun either, I thought, scanning my memories of my love life since Ray. It didn't take long.
When the music slowed again, he overpowered my resistance to body contact. He bent to nuzzle his soft beard against my neck, whispering tender things---the things I'd lain in the hospital and dreamed about. I blocked the old regrets from my mind and molded my body to his, relishing the feeling.
The unexpected intimacy on the dance floor created desires I wasn't prepared to satisfy. On the drive home, I rehearsed how I would tell him he couldn't come in. We pulled in front of my house, and he walked me to the door.
"Sophi," he said, softly, soberly, "I had a wonderful evening, even if you did make me talk about work for over an hour. Can I call you again?"
"Yes." I couldn't get much else out.
He held me hand for a moment, then he was gone. I pulled my front door closed and peeked through the window until his taillights disappeared around the corner.
Sunshine awakened me at the crack of damn-dawn by licking my ear. I felt refreshed and ready to conquer the world despite the storm during the night, and the dog's shaking and crying with each rumble of thunder. The weather report forecasted continued rain, though the glow through my window hinted at a beautiful, sunny day. It would be clear for the morning---I hoped.
As I lay in bed listening to morning radio, I decided it would be a good beach day. However, I also needed to pull a few weeds in the yard. I hated yard work, so I decided to do it first. Then I'd call Connie and see if she wanted to go along.
Sunshine stretched and crawled off the pillow on the unoccupied side of the bed, sitting next to my hand. I rubbed his ears, then when he laid back and rolled over, I massaged his chest and belly. I enjoyed running my hands through his thick coat as much as he seemed to enjoy having it done. I took my time, then I chased him off the bed, brushed the dog hair off the sheets, and pulled up the quilt.
I never thought I'd sleep with a dog---at least not the barking kind. It all started when he became fearful of thunder, and I couldn't calm him during a middle of the night storm. I never bothered to crate him at night after that. I liked the idea of having him close, not for protection, but for someone living and breathing next to me. The funny thing is I still can't keep him settled when there's a thunderstorm. I've accomplished nothing other than waking every morning with dog hair in my nose.
I stuck in a load of wash, ate a light breakfast, then yanked out a forty-gallon bag of weeds. The people who owned the house before me planted Devil's Ivy as a ground cover in the back of the yard. It's effective, covering ground, grass, and anything else it its path. I try to keep it under control by pulling a bunch of it at regular intervals, but it has a life all its own.
I can't judge my predecessors' choices too harshly. I covered the fence in vines after I moved in. The nurseryman sold me a vine in the passionflower family. It has beautiful and bountiful, dark-red flowers that open wide to reveal several white-topped stamens. The guy didn't tell me it was a canopy-seeking forest vine. Now it covers my fence, the neighbors' fences, and it's running across the tops of the trees. I should kill it, but I like it.
By eight in the morning, I was satisfied I had done my duty as a homeowner. I called Connie. She sounded gloomy.
"Connie, I'm headed to the beach. Want to go?" I tried to be cheerful and positive, but I regretted the phone call. I hoped she had other plans. Often times, Connie pulls me to her level, be it depressed or cheerful.
"Hang on a second." I heard the telephone receiver make contact with something firm, then voices in the distance. She was checking with her husband, Darrell, and her son, Wayne, who was home from college. She came back sounding more cheerful. "I'd like to come. Can you pick me up? My car needs to go in for service. Darrell and Wayne will do it, but then I won't have wheels."
"No problem," I said. "I'll be there in about an hour. We need to go early to beat the rain."
"Perfect."
I pulled in front of Connie's little house a few minutes early. Connie lived south of me in a neighborhood once reserved for retirees, but now filled with small families living on limited funds. The rows of white buildings looked as if they rolled off an assembly line. The concrete block construction made the square design more defined. I called them Florida boxes.
Connie's husband couldn't hold a job. Like many nurses, she married someone needy. She spent her entire life supporting him and the kids. From what I saw, the son would turn out fine. He had worked his way through the first two years of college with minimal help from his mother and planned to continue. Her daughter, who is grown and out of the house, graduated nursing school and worked at the county hospital.
Connie wasn't quite ready to leave for the beach. After retrieving a cup from the dark-mica cabinet over her sink, I helped myself to coffee and wandered into the Florida room, which was more of a sun porch. The previous owner enclosed the patio, installed awning windows, finished the interior, and raised the floor. Instant addition.
The room felt comfortable, homey, with pictures of family interspersed with violets on a small shelf under the side window. Connie had a knack with plants. I envied that. I killed almost anything green and growing---except Passion Flower and Devil's Ivy.
One snapshot caught my attention. It showed her father looking strong and handsome. He sat on the end of a dock, dressed in fishing clothes, his gear off to one side and an outlet to Florida's Gulf a blur in the background. She bought her house with money left to her by her father.
Following a boating accident, rescuers pulled his almost lifeless body from the Gulf and whisked him away to an ICU unit in a nearby hospital. He spent several months on life support before dying of infection and shock. Though he had a living will, his wife, Connie's stepmother, wouldn't allow doctors to disconnect the ventilator. She protested, fought, and resisted, then acquiesced. The doctors refused to go against the wife's wishes, and Connie didn't have the gumption to take her stepmother to court to force the issue.
Connie missed more workdays than she attended during that period. I think she spent most of her time on Alligator Alley going back and forth to the west coast. When her dad died, she came back full-time with a new attitude about long-term ventilator patients. After watching her father die a long, slow death, she did everything she could to get a family to honor the patient's wishes. As I thought of Ray's comments, I hoped that was all she was doing.
"That's the last really good photo I have of him." Connie's voice, close to my side, startled me, and I jumped. "It was taken a couple of months before the accident, just after he turned sixty-five."
"It's a great picture. It seems to capture his personality."
"It does. He lived his dream retirement. All he talked about for years was getting a small house on some obscure body of water and fishing away his waning years."
"I wouldn't call the Gulf of Mexico obscure." I laughed at the thought. She did too.
She pointed to the photograph, "The dock was behind his house. It extended out onto the Peace River."
"Who took the picture?"
"Me. I took several that day. I wanted to get the perfect image of a man completely happy with his lot in life. I think I did." She grew quiet. "The next thing I knew, Mildred was on the phone telling me he was in the hospital on a ventilator."
"That was a hard time for you," I said, touching her arm. "Losing a parent is always hard, but especially to a tragedy."
"Seeing him suffer was the worst thing about it, but Mildred couldn't stand to let go. She didn't believe me when I told her Dad wouldn't recover. Even the doctors refused to offer her any hope, but she persisted. I don't hold it against her---we're still close. One day she admitted she was prolonging Dad's agony. Then infection took over, and he slipped away during the night. I knew it was the best thing. I'm still sorry we couldn't save him from those last months of suffering. All the needles. The skin problems. I hope he didn't feel anything."
"I remember when you came back to work. You seemed to have real interest in taking care of vent patients. I was surprised. I thought you'd transfer to a unit with lighter patients." I watched her expression.
"I thought about it. The supervisor talked with me and suggested my unique perspective might be helpful to patients' families. After all, I relate to what they are going through." She was matter-of-fact, no tears, no hesitation.
"Doesn't it bring back old memories every day you're working?"
"It does, but my memories of my father are positive. I try to put those last days out of my mind and think of him as filled with life. Besides, every time I'm able to help a family make a decision that's good for them, I feel like I've done a service for my dad." Still no emotion. "Let's go." She raised the beach bag in her hand.
Intent on the conversation, I hadn't noticed Connie wore her swimming suit.
\*\*\*
I took 441 south to Sunrise Boulevard, then turned east towards the beach. The commuter traffic was gone, and we sped along, hitting most of the lights on green. Since it was mid-week with school in session, we found a parking space with no difficulty and didn't have to resort to going into one of the expensive parking lots.
We walked a short distance to the boardwalk and trudged across the warm sand, chairs and tote bags in hand, and picked a choice location near the water. I suggested a spot close to several young women with small children. I found watching the activity entertaining.
Connie grew quiet during our long ride. When she'd arranged all her stuff to her exacting specifications, she settled herself in her chair and said, "You brought up my father because you're digging for information, right?"
"I did, but how did you know?"
"I had a visit from your friend Ray yesterday. He asked me about the Hutchinson case, my involvement, and my feelings about ventilator patients."
"I knew that." I pulled a cold Coke from my tote bag and popped the top. "I helped him make a list of the people who were involved in Hutchinson's care on Sunday."
"What did he tell you?"
"He said you had a negative attitude about ventilator patients, and you are a suspect, way down on the list, but a suspect nonetheless."
"I'm being accused of murder, and you helped?"
"Connie, it's not like that. I defended you, and I'm looking for ways to support your innocence. He has to consider all the possibilities, everyone who had contact with the man. Besides, I didn't discuss your attitudes about ventilator patient with him. You did."
"He asked if I thought some of these patients would be better off dead, better off than on a ventilator I mean, and I said I did." She accepted my offer of a Diet Coke. "I couldn't lie. What would it look like if I told him one thing, then said something else under oath?"
"You were truthful, as you should have been. So was I, as I had to be. I expect, since I was charge, my involvement will cease. Someone other than Ray will need to interview me about the day."
"I hadn't thought of that." She grinned. "Maybe you disconnected the ventilator before you went downstairs?"
"Except you were in his room when I left. Remember, I stuck my head in and said I was going to lunch and you were to keep an eye on the desk."
"Um. I finished cleaning him and was about to do his trach care. Vanessa came in and offered to finish for me."
I watched as Connie made little designs in the moisture forming on the outside of her Coke can. The drops consolidated and dripped onto her leg. She didn't wipe them off.
"That fits. The tubing was sparkling clean when he coded. Where was Amelia?"
"In the room, like always. So was the kid."
"How about his friends?"
"They left much earlier, if I remember correctly."
"How about Mike Wiley? Tallish man with a nasty scar on the right side of his face."
"Now that you mention it, I saw him walking down the hall when I was going back to the station. Who is he anyway?"
"He's a realtor friend of the Hutchinsons." I took a gulp of my Coke, hurrying to finish while it was cold. I looked at a bank of clouds rolling in. The weatherman was right.
Connie said, "Who do you think disconnected the vent?"
"I really don't know. I thought if we figured out who the last person was in the room with him, we'd have our villain. But then the person would be sure to lie about it." I stood. "I'm going for a swim."
"I'll stay here with the stuff." She settled back in her chair and closed her eyes.
The water was warm, like a bath with surf and seaweed. I had intended to swim, work my bad hip and leg, but I felt lazy in the warm water. Instead, I rolled over on my back and floated in the sun. When I swam back to shore, Connie lay splayed out, her skirted swimming suit emphasizing rather than hiding the unattractive parts of her body. She had caught her ragged curls in a banana clip, exposing her neck to the sun.
"Connie," I said, sitting down and reaching for my bottle of sunscreen. "You're burning, even with the clouds. Want some of this?" I extended it her way.
"Could you put some on my back?"
I knelt beside her in the sand and smoothed the thick white lotion on her back. Her skin felt hot, and I saw a slight tinge of pink. When she showered, she'd turn lobster-red. "You need to put your shirt on. You're burning."
"You know," she said as I rubbed, "I'm in favor of euthanasia, but it's illegal. I also think it's a private matter between family and physician. I wouldn't put myself in the middle of it, other than answering questions when a family asks."
"Okay." I returned to my chair. I believed her. For my money, Connie was a rule follower. Disconnecting vents was against the rules. "While we're on the subject, anything else you remember?" Ray would know how much to ask and how hard to push. I didn't. I decided to approach it as I would an interview with a patient. I'd get the information, then make my judgments later, after collecting as many facts as possible.
"Jamel asked me a lot of questions about how his dad was doing with the weaning." She moved from her towel and sat in her chair. I extended the sunscreen to her, and she accepted it.
"And?"
"I told him Barry tolerated a few minutes off the ventilator, but I didn't think it was significant." She smoothed the lotion on her arms and bony neck. "I explained that respiratory therapy took him off several times a day and stayed with him to be sure he was okay. They were trying to build up his tolerance."
"What did Jamel say?"
"Nothing. He didn't say anything more about it."
"Was he there when you left?"
"Like I said, he, his Mom, and Vanessa."
"Cozy group."
Our conversation turned to other things. When I noticed my shoulders were getting red and tender, I suggested we leave for the day. With my fair skin, I burned rapidly, even with sunscreen. I slipped on a long-sleeved white shirt and began to pack my things.
Thursday was a quiet day at work. When you're a staff nurse on a medical-surgical floor, boring is good. It means you have time to attend to little things, to spend extra time with patients, to get a coffee and a lunch break, and to get out on time and still feel like you did a good job.
I clocked out at eight minutes after seven. Payroll rules say the hospital pays hourly employees to the nearest quarter-hour, and even though I left early, my boss can't dock me. I wanted to get home while it was still light. I'd thought all day about a slow-paced bike ride through the neighborhood. By the time I reached the side door of the hospital, it was pouring rain.
The cul-de-sac I live on is quiet and private. Though the neighbors support one another, no one sits out on the front stoop waiting for an opportunity to converse. In fact, only two of us ever park in front of our homes.
When I pulled into my driveway and saw the front door ajar, I knew it could have been open for hours without anyone noticing. A time or two I'd left in a hurry, didn't secure the lock, and came home to find things as I left them. I sat in my car looking through sheets of water, searching my memory.
I remembered locking the dead bolt with the key and pausing to shake the door. I had awakened earlier than usual with a strange feeling of foreboding. I checked the backyard before allowing Sunshine out and walked around the house, inspecting the latches on the windows. I even locked the door from the garage into the house, something I seldom do.
I gunned the engine on my Mini before turning it off and tapped the horn. I wanted to alert anyone who might be inside and give them plenty of opportunity to escape out the back door. Then I took the stethoscope from around my neck and laid it on the passenger seat. I did the same with my nametag, which I wear on a braided string. Having removed any convenient objects an intruder might use to strangle me, I climbed out of the car and popped open my umbrella. I stood there a few seconds, getting my breath and trying to calm my nerves. I dug a pointed hemostat from my pocket, thinking it was better than nothing. Then I slammed the car door and locked it.
"Sunshine," I called, hoping he would bark a greeting. When he didn't respond, I headed in the direction of the house. Sunshine was not a barker, and I imagined him huddled in the corner of his crate shaking in morbid fear of the thunder.
Stepping under the porch roof, I folded the umbrella and secured it with the Velcro tab. Rather than placing it next to the door to dry, I held it like a club.
I peeked through the crack in the door, studying part of my living room. It looked fine, as did the visible slice of the kitchen. I pulled the door open wide and stuck my head in, getting a better view. I didn't hear the dog, and his crate was out of sight on the far side of the Florida room.
I couldn't hear anything else either, so I went in. I stared at my shut-tight bedroom. Odd. I live alone, and I never close any doors unless I have company. I even store one of my five-pound weights in front of the bedroom door to prevent the fan from blowing it shut. I didn't remember when I'd last moved the weight to clean behind the door.
Feeling more concerned about Sunshine than what happened in my bedroom, I ran across the house and found his crate empty, the door ajar. I never leave him loose in the house, fearing he'd spend the day sleeping on the white-linen living room sofas. Now I was certain someone had been in my house. My heart raced, and I choked back tears. I could handle almost anything---but not something happening to Sunshine.
"Get a grip," I said. I was once fearless, perhaps daring, but since the shooting, I'm not brave---I'm chicken. I know how much it hurts, and I'm not into pain. "Breathe. Breathe." I collected myself, then checked the den. It looked fine though the computer was on and shouldn't have been. Everything else seemed in order. The same for the spare bedroom and bath. "Okay, now for the master bedroom." Talking to myself helped.
I edged open the bedroom door and peered in. The room was a disaster. Drawers stood open and clothing lay everywhere. My jewelry cabinet was empty. I hoped they liked costume jewelry because there were few real pieces, and I'd worn my small diamond earrings to work. Maybe the motive was robbery. But then why the TV, stereo, and computer intact.
I heard a soft whine and rushed in that direction. I found Sunshine under a pile of clothing in the corner. I picked him up and cradled his limp body next to my chest. A trace of blood stained the side of his mouth. When I repositioned him for better support, he yelped.
"The bastards hurt my dog. Son of a bitch, they didn't have to do that." Forgetting everything else, I headed for the front door. I was almost there when the thought occurred to me to unlock the door to the garage. I did, then hurried out to my car with the dog in my arms.
After positioning a towel, I laid Sunshine on the passenger seat. He winced but didn't open his eyes. Maybe the intruders stomped or kicked him, or, perhaps, threw him across the room. Why couldn't they have just let him be? This whole thing wasn't about robbery.
As I pulled up to the stop sign exiting the neighborhood, I fished my phone out of my purse and keyed Ray's cell. He answered on the first ring. Through tears and choking, I told him what I'd found at home. "Ray, remember the combination to the garage door? I haven't changed it."
He recited the number.
"Please go to my house and find out what happened. I have to take Sunshine to the vet. He looks like he's dying. I can't even tell for sure if he's breathing."
"Where are you taking him?"
"To the animal hospital on University." I gunned the car and slipped through the light at Royal Palm on yellow. I accelerated to forty-five, then held steady. I didn't want to risk a traffic stop. Even without a ticket, it would cost valuable minutes.
"Did you call first?"
"No, no. I grabbed him and ran. Ray, please, just go there."
"Okay, Sophi. I'm at the station. I'll be there in five minutes."
I pushed disconnect and decided to take Ray's advice and call ahead. As I fumbled to get my planner from my pocketbook, Sunshine winced again. He seemed more alert and moved some in the seat. I touched him on his rump and spoke to him in my special talking to Sunshine when we're alone voice. It didn't matter what I said, but I talked to him as if he were a human in pain.
Someone answered at the animal hospital on the first ring. I learned that one of the vets had just finished an emergency case and was on the premises and available.
Apartment buildings lined both sides of the streets and kids played everywhere. In my state of mind, I needed to concentrate on my driving, but I couldn't stop myself from glancing at the dog every couple of seconds.
I turned south on University. The vet was a a block further. It was where I usually took him for his care, and they knew me.
My hands shook as I drove the last couple of blocks. The dog tried to raise himself in the seat. Each time he moved, he whimpered. Then he looked at me with sad, spaniel eyes, pleading for me to do something.
"In a minute, Sunshine," I said, fondling his fur. Except when I shifted, I kept a hand on him. I didn't want to jar him anymore than necessary.
The tech waited in the open door and stepped onto the sidewalk as I pulled into a parking space. Then she held open the door and stood aside as I carried Sunshine into the lobby. "Follow me." She led the way across the waiting room and into the treatment area beyond. "Dr. Nelson will be with you shortly."
I felt myself losing my composure. Every step I took jarred my poor puppy, and I was terrified his wounds were mortal. I followed her past the reception counter, not bothering to sign the register, turned left towards the exam rooms, then into the first room. I sank onto the molded plastic people-bench.
As I waited for Dr. Nelson, I held Sunshine in my arms and cooed to him like he was a baby. My tears poured into his soft fur.
Dr. Nelson appeared through the back door of the exam room. He was close to my age, plain-looking with a receding hairline and kind eyes. He took Sunshine from me and laid him on the shiny stainless steel table.
I explained the circumstances as Dr. Nelson began his examination, looking into the dog's eyes.
"Equal and reactive," he said. He inspected the ears. "No drainage." His mouth. "A missing tooth. That's where the bleeding is from." Then a stethoscope on his chest. Sunshine yelped. "That's where he's tender." He probed his abdomen and then each of his legs. "I'd like to get a film of his chest. Everything else seems okay."
"Of course, by all means." It would take several minutes for the x-ray to be completed. I returned to the bench and retrieved my cell phone from my pocketbook. Ray answered my home phone on the first ring. "What's going on?" I asked him
"First, what's happening with the pup?" After I brought him up to date, he continued. "I have a couple of patrol officers here with me. We think you caught the burglars in the act. They escaped through your bedroom window after hearing you come into the house."
"I saw the door was open, and I made a lot of noise on purpose."
"You should have called 911."
"Wouldn't that have been a hoot if I'd only forgotten to lock the door?"
"Better safe than sorry."
"You have a point. What have you found? Any clue to who it was?"
"Your neighbor on the west called 911 when he saw two kids crawl out your bedroom window. The uniforms are talking to him now to see if we can get a description." I heard a rubbing sound, then Ray's muffled voice. He had his hand over the telephone. Then he came back on the line. "How long you going to be?"
"I don't have any idea. I'm going to stay until I know he's okay. Then I'll come home."
"We need you here."
"I'm sorry, but I can't leave him."
I waited for what seemed hours although my watch told me it was minutes. When Dr. Nelson reappeared with Sunshine in his arms, the dog looked more comfortable and alert. "What's the story?" I said.
"He'll be fine. The bleeding from the tooth stopped. I think he must have latched on to one of the intruders."
"Sunshine? Fat chance."
"It looks like it. Maybe he felt threatened and bit one of them."
"I can only hope." I took the dog out of the vet's arms. "What about his chest?"
"The x-rays are negative and his hematocrit is good. I think he has some soft tissue damage around here." He rubbed his hand over Sunshine's right thorax. "I think he was kicked. He's uncomfortable, but I think he's okay. Take him home and keep an eye on him for a couple of days."
"Thank God."
"And don't let him play hero."
"Sunshine the wimp, hero dog." I held and cuddled him as I paid the bill. Then, I laid him on the front seat of the car. "Oh, puppy."
He looked at me with sad eyes, licking my fingers as I tried to make him comfortable.
When we got home, there was a patrol car plus Ray's S2000 in the driveway. I parked in the street in front of the house. Sunshine climbed out of the passenger seat under his own power, but he whined when his front feet hit the ground. The vet had given him a little something for his pain, and it had taken the edge off. I carried him into the house, putting him into his crate where he could rest and stay out of trouble. He looked like his feelings were hurt, so I gave him a biscuit.
I found Ray and two officers in my bedroom. "What's happening?"
He pointed to the telltale signs. "We dusted for prints."
"Fingerprinting for a simple burglary?" I asked.
"I'm not sure it's simple. Your involvement with the Hutchinson case should have stopped when he died. This seems to be too closely connected."
"Coincidence?"
"No. You had the prowlers a few days ago, and now this. Someone is looking to get under your skin. Someone who knows your habits."
"Why? I'm no threat to anyone."
"Maybe they don't know that."
One of the young officers interrupted. "Ray, we about done here?"
"Looks like it."
"Fine, we're outta here."
We watched them leave. One rattled the door to be sure the door locked behind him. I turned to Ray, then waved my hands around my bedroom. "Look at this mess."
"I'll help you with it."
"Would you really?"
He wiped my tears away with his warm fingertips. Then I felt his hands on my shoulders. I looked up as he bent down and kissed me on the forehead.
"Let's get to work," he said, stepping away. "I'll bring you up to date on what's been going on."
The stuffing from my comforter and pillows littered the room. Upended drawers crowded the floor near the dresser, but none appeared broken at first glance. Besides the pile of torn clothing that had hidden Sunshine, a second and larger pile covered the closet floor. Empty shoeboxes crowned the pile. Several pairs of shoes lay ruined, their straps cleanly sliced with, perhaps, the same knife that ruined my bedding.
I stripped the slashed linen off my bed, casting it into a pile in front of the door. I was thankful to see the mattress remained intact, except for a single shallow gouge near the foot. After we flipped the abused side down, I retrieved clean sheets from the closet and began to make the bed. Ray grabbed the other side. We'd done this before. "So," I said, stretching the last corner of the fitted sheet into place, "what's the news you were going to tell me?"
"First, Jamel Hutchinson and his source had a parting of the ways. Unless he's reconnected, he isn't dealing at the moment."
"That would explain his need of money from his mother."
"True, but he is still in debt to the man for missing merchandise. The word is they had a problem over the money, and the supplier cut him off until he settles his debt."
"Maybe he was looking for something to sell here?"
"We don't know it was him. And, most of your valuables are in large electronics, not little bedroom items."
"He wouldn't know that."
"You're not exactly bedecked with jewels." He pulled the top corner of the old comforter I'd taken from the closet until it was smooth. "Don't get me wrong. I think Hutchinson and his friend were in here, but I think they want to scare you off, not rob you."
"But---" There was no reason to debate the issue. Besides, I thought Ray was right. "Are Jamel's prints on file?"
"Yup." He pulled the bedside table back into position and straightened the lamp. "I told the guys to check his first. If there's a match, we can pick him up."
"I'll stake my life on it."
"I hope you haven't already." He pointed to a pile of clothes in the corner. "What are you going to do with those?"
"Go through them, I guess." I shrugged. "Why would they just throw the clothes on the floor?"
"To aggravate you." He turned his back and left the room, returning a minute later with Sunshine in his arms. "I thought he'd be happier in here watching us." He laid the dog on my fresh, clean pillows and began sorting the clothing on the closet floor.
I watched him toss some of my favorite blouses onto the trash pile in front of the door. I began to do the same with the pile in the corner. Most of what I found appeared in good shape. I started a second pile of things to launder. I didn't want to wear something next to my skin that had been touched by the thugs. God only knows what I'd catch.
As he worked, Ray resumed his report. "You know Calvin Wiggins?"
"Sure. When I was on the force, he was an active informant on local gang activity."
"Now he's a crack head and fading fast. He was more than willing to give me info for a twenty yesterday." He tossed a blouse onto the trash pile.
I cringed---another favorite. "And?"
"He claims he overheard one of the brothers talking about a job. He's sure it was the hit on Hutchinson because there was a side comment about not getting the rest of the payment because the mark lived and had to be finished off in the hospital."
"I can't imagine there being two of those incidents without you knowing about it."
He nodded.
"Did you pick up the hit man?"
"No, we can't find him. We have a name, address, and description. It's only a matter of time. The other interesting thing is the brother was braggin' about having an Uzi Parabellum."
"What significance is that?" I finished sorting my pile and sat on the bed, leaning to reach Sunshine's head. He scooted close to me so I could reach his ears. He acted uncomfortable, and I avoided his chest and the side of his head with the missing tooth.
"Uses nine millimeter ammo. Fits. I think you were right about it being one shooter and one gun. The M.E. guesses a similar sized weapon made all the wounds, but because of the time elapsing between the hit and Hutchinson dying, he can't tell for sure. All of the shells and the slugs at the scene support the one-shooter theory." He sat next to me. "We're looking under every rock and in every crack. He's a known bad guy, but we've never been able to make anything stick. We want to take him down on this one and get him off the streets."
"Think they had anything to do with the breakin here?"
"No, no, I don't. What I figure is someone, perhaps Jamel Hutchinson, put out the contract. I don't find any direct connection between him and the suspected hit man, though I believe they are acquaintances. Everyone pretty much knows everyone on that level."
"Makes sense." I continued to pamper the dog for a long moment. "What I can't figure out is why Jamel wants to threaten me. I'm no danger to him."
"We'll have to ask him."
"Something doesn't connect. I've hardly talked to the kid. He can't know I've been poking around."
We continued to discuss the possibilities for several minutes until Ray looked at his watch. "It's midnight. Been a long day." He yawned.
"Go home." I stood and picked up the dog.
"I thought I'd stay here."
I pointed in the direction of the other side of the house. "Knock yourself out. The linen is clean in the spare bedroom, and there are towels hanging in the bathroom."
I saw a flash of disappointment cross his face. He shrugged his shoulders. "That'll work fine. I don't want you alone and at risk if those clowns decide to finish the job."
"I'm sorry. The truth is I don't know what I would have done if you refused to come, and I appreciate your staying. I'm not . . . I don't . . ."
"I know." He leaned close to me, being careful not to squeeze the dog between us. He kissed me on the forehead. "I'll sleep better knowing you're okay." He left the room.
I watched from my bedroom door as he wandered around the house turning off lights and checking the locks. Though it'd been a long while since he lived in the house, he didn't forget a thing.
I suppose he slept better. I, on the other hand, didn't sleep a wink. I wasn't thinking about the intruders. I couldn't get the man in the spare room off my mind. In the morning, I stayed in bed and played dead until I heard him lock the front door behind him, then I crawled out. It was a few minutes after six, but I had a lot of cleaning and more sorting to do.
Early Saturday morning, I dressed in short-shorts and a halter-top and went out in the yard to finish the work begun earlier in the week. The morning was cloudy and cool, unusual for the weekend before Memorial Day. A hint of a breeze refreshed my bare arms and legs. Even so, within ten minutes, my scanty clothing clung to my sweat-drenched skin.
First, I clipped the hibiscus growing next to my screened patio---I wanted a clear view. Then I did the same with the cherry hedge growing outside the fence. At last, I tackled the allamanda growth on the east side, hacking it down as best I could while cursing the fibrous tendrils I'd woven through the chain link fencing during an earlier yard-tending frenzy. When I finished, the foliage around my house wasn't as lush and full. There were fewer places to hide. Purpose accomplished.
Ray had slept in my guest room again the previous night. The whole thing was getting too close for comfort, and I intended to provide for my own safety and protection. Not that I didn't appreciate his concern. I did, but I had entertained notions about offering him warmer sleeping accommodations. Not a good thing.
The next item on my agenda called for improved outside lighting. Because I'm no electrician, I made my selections under the helpful guidance of the Home Depot man. I screwed a spotlight on a swivel in over the garage side door and illuminated the east side of the house. Knowing it was against the building code, I tacked extension cords under the eaves in the rear of the house for more spots---a more permanent solution waited on improved cash flow. My neighbor to the west had an outside light that was always on. With his permission, I bought a stronger bulb for his light and a black-out shade to fit under the blinds in my bedroom. Then I installed floodlights around the front of the house. There was already wiring in place, and the plug-in variety worked fine.
The light in my life pleased me, and my right hip and thigh ached from the manual labor.
I hated alarm systems in houses, but I ordered one installed anyway, the project being beyond my do-it-yourselfer's capability. My house was small with thirteen doors and windows total. The installation took the technician a couple of hours, and by two o'clock I had myself buttoned up tighter than a snail in my hibiscus bed. The single weakness in the defense system was Sunshine's doggy door. The alarm guy and I decided I'd latch it at night. The truth is the door is too small for anyone but the smallest child to crawl through.
\*\*\*
I hadn't talked to Vanessa since Tuesday. She required consistent attention from her friends and enjoyed surprise visits. Even though her former husband, Craig, was a monster, she grieved the loss of her marriage and got melancholy and lonely at predictable hormonal intervals. I believed it was the real reason she worked excessive overtime. True, she needed the money, now even more because of the high interest she'd have when she closed on the townhouse, but she had few other expenses. They were married for twenty years, and I entertained the idea that her only goal had been staying in his good graces so he wouldn't beat her.
I showered, slipped on a denim mini-skirt, a cropped stretch top, and my favorite red sandals, then headed out the door. I'd run to Vanessa's and take her a cup of java. If she wasn't home, I'd do my monthly grocery shopping. The trip wouldn't be a total waste.
Vanessa lived in an apartment on the far west side of Tamarac. The older building once served as a seniors-only condo. The families of the dearly-departed former owners were turning it into rentals one death and estate settlement at a time. Because of the increasing number of rentals, the remaining units lost value, forcing more leases as families tried to get a return from the property. The new owners gained control of the condo board, voting a change in the bylaws to accommodate their own agendas. I understood why, but I felt sorry for the elderly residents dealing with young, often lower income, noisy neighbors. Vanessa's building, like many in the immediate area, needed paint and a thorough cleaning.
She picked the apartment because it sat in the middle of the building on the third floor, claiming the location protected her. There was an outside staircase on each end of the building and a central elevator. Rusting wrought iron railing edged the open-balcony corridors.
I climbed the stairs, taking the opportunity to provide some focused exercise to my right hip and thigh. Nearing the top, I stopped to rest and allow the cramping pain to subside. That's when I noticed a strange car in Vanessa's parking space. I glanced around the parking lot and didn't see her Camaro. Maybe she wasn't home, I thought, resuming my climb.
"Van, where's your car?" I said when she opened the solid inside door. She didn't open the screen door. She wore a wrinkled housecoat and looked like she hadn't combed her hair.
"Oh, it's in the shop." Her voice sounded flat. "That's a loaner the mechanic let me use since I had to go to work."
I looked her over. "You work all night?"
"No, just until maybe one. I . . . I don't feel very good, that's all. That's why I'm not dressed." She stepped away from the door.
"Aren't you going to ask me in? I thought I'd have a cup of coffee with you if you feel like it." I held up the two cups of designer coffee I'd purchased. "Your favorite."
"Oh, okay." She slowly turned the lock on the screen door and opened it.
"If you don't feel well, I'll leave and go shopping. I haven't talked to you in a couple of days and thought I'd stop by. I'm sorry I didn't call first."
"It's okay, Sophia, really it is. Come on in." Her cheerfulness sounded contrived. "Let me put on a pot of coffee, then I'll get dressed. It's about time I move my ass anyway."
"I brought the coffee." I held the cups higher.
"That's nice."
She laid out napkins and sweet rolls. When she disappeared into the bedroom, I took the opportunity to wander around the small apartment. I found it odd that although she and Craig divorced over two years earlier, she kept a formal portrait of the man displayed in her living room. Even more unusual was the recent snap shot of him slipped into the edge of the frame.
When she reappeared, I said, "Is Craig in town?"
"I think he is. Why do you ask?"
"I don't remember seeing the new picture of him, and you're acting strange."
Her attire struck me as less than appropriate as well. Though the day started out pleasant enough, it was now close to ninety, and she had exchanged her long sleeved, floor-length bathrobe for slacks and a long-sleeved shirt.
"I don't feel strange."
"Then why are you all covered in the middle of a Florida heat wave? My God girl, it's hotter than hell outside."
"You know I'm cold a lot. It's nothing, really." She pointed to her dining room table. "Have a seat. I'll get the milk." When Vanessa returned, she poured an ounce of milk into my coffee. "Sugar?"
"Vanessa, we've been drinking coffee together for almost four years. I take mine black."
"Oh, of course. How stupid of me. Sorry. Sorry." She picked up my cup and hurried from the room. "How stupid of me. I'm sorry."
I followed her into the kitchen. "Vanessa, it's okay really." I put my hands on her upper arms, but she jerked and pulled away. "Now, tell me. What's wrong? Has Craig been here picking on you again?"
"No. No. Not that."
"Then why are you frightened?"
"Sophia, let's just have our coffee. There's nothing wrong. Really."
I didn't believe her protests. When I asked to use her bathroom, I glanced into her bedroom on the way by, confirming my suspicions. A duffel bag sat open on the floor of the bedroom, and an extra damp towel hung on the shower rod. I peeked into the medicine cabinet and found a new can of shaving cream and a modest selection of men's toiletries. The smell of aftershave hung in the air. I didn't recognize the brand. Craig. No doubt about it.
We talked about work for several minutes, then I couldn't stand it any longer. "Vanessa, how could you let him into your life after all he did to you?" I remembered the bruises, the unexplained broken arm, and the fractured jaw right before the sheriff hauled him away.
"You don't understand. He's changed. I know he has. And, I'm lonely. I've been afraid to date, afraid he'd find out and come after me. Now he's here." Her eyes darted around the room, never resting more than a second on anything. "It'll be different this time."
"You're not acting like it's different. You're acting like you did before he broke your jaw."
"No, you're wrong. He's different. You'll see."
"You know the ropes, but let's review. Do you have a plan? Are you ready to run if you have to?" For a woman in an abusive relationship---usually the woman was the victim---one of the key points was for her to have an escape plan should the abuse escalate. She would have to sneak out of the house or leave under the pretense of running a small errand.
"Yes, I did think of that. I'm not stupid. I have my papers and money and extra keys in my locker at work." She refused to meet my eyes. "I was going to ask you to take some clothes to your house so I could get them if I needed them."
"Of course, I will." I wanted to tell her she was obviously afraid if she had already made those preparations. But I didn't want her to retract them either.
I couldn't think of anything else so I backed-off. She'd have to make her decisions. But there was a lot that didn't add up here, and I vowed to myself to keep a better eye on Vanessa. It wouldn't be long before he beat her again, if he hadn't already.
I remembered our last day at the beach. Her body looked perfect in her bikini. At work, she always wore slacks and a long lab coat, no clues there. But last Tuesday, when we were shopping, she was covered neck to toe. Another hot day. I concluded Craig was already beating her, and she had retreated into the old patterns of the abused spouse. The more I thought about it, her behavior, her attire, the more convinced I became. That, and a ten-spot, would get me a second cup of coffee at Starbucks.
I hoisted her good-sized suitcase into the trunk of my car. Van had jam-packed it and stashed it in the closet, awaiting her chance to pass it off to me without attracting attention.
As I drove north on Nob Hill Road, Vanessa's plight stuck in my mind. There was nothing I could do to help her, not yet. She needed to help herself first.
I decided to stop by the police department and see if Ray was around. I was anxious to update him on Vanessa, and I wanted to tell him he could sleep in his own apartment. Security was under control at my house.
When I climbed out of my Cooper in the police station parking lot, I glanced down and remembered my bare midriff and legs. There would be a price to pay for strolling in with my belly button ring visible. Remembering the suitcase crammed into the small trunk, I decided to help myself. I'd only wear something of hers for a few minutes, then launder it if necessary.
Vanessa had filled the bag and had, no doubt, sat on it to secure closure. As was typical of Vanessa, she folded and sorted everything. She planned to live out of it for a while, if necessary. I lifted a stack of blouses, looking for something that would fit my shorter body and go well with my outfit, and noticed a red summer weight knit sweater near the bottom. I lifted out the stack of blouses a few items at a time.
When I reached the one I wanted, I discovered an envelope of pictures nestled between the folds. Had she hidden them? I resisted the urge to peak inside and instead tucked the envelope behind the lingerie pocket.
The too-long sweater hid my belly and coordinated well over my other top. Good, I thought, at least I looked a smidge more professional.
Ray hung up the telephone and smiled when I approached his desk. "Sophi, I just tried to call you. You must be clairvoyant."
"I dropped by to talk to you about a couple of things."
"Good." He stood behind his desk. "You'll have to wait a bit. We hauled in the thugs we think gunned down Hutchinson. I'd like you to have a look at them and tell me if they are the same ones who came to the hospital with Jamel Hutchinson."
"Okay." I said, following him across the room and through the hall to the interview rooms.
"Lewis is questioning them now." Rays said, pointing to the door. "You can watch from the observation room next door.
Deglin Lewis, a huge African-American detective, was a real pussycat under his huff and puff. He and Ray were doing the interrogation as a team. Ray opened the door to the observation room and ushered me in.
"Stay here. Lewis will join you in a minute." Ray left.
If they were doing good cop-bad cop, Lewis wasn't the bad cop. I found that a trifle unsettling. Ray was kind and gentle when around me, yet I believed him capable of rising to any task necessary to his job. I'd seen him in action a few times during my time on the force and on several occasions over the ensuing years. I'd comforted myself with knowing, believing at least, he stayed within the limits of the law.
Lewis settled into the chair next to mine.
I studied the face of the young man while I listened to the interrogation. "Deglin," I whispered, "he's definitely not one of the boys Jamel brought with him to the hospital. He's," I pointed, shaking my head, "much tougher looking. Jamel's friends look like him, young men stuck in adolescence."
Lewis nodded and whispered, "I thought so."
We sat and watched the drama.
"You said there were two. Where's the other one?" I said.
"He's in another room waiting on me, actually. He can wait. It'll do him good."
We saw the entire interrogation room through the two-way mirror. It gave me the feeling of watching a gloomy program on a big screen television. The suspect appeared to be in his early twenties and sported ratty dreadlocks hanging over the neckline of his too small, black muscle shirt. A blob of a tattoo smudged his bulging bicep, the details indistinguishable against his dark brown skin.
The light-blue painted walls were unrelieved by pictures or windows, and dark-blue, egg crate foam covered one wall. The muddy-colored rubberized floor tile did nothing to improve the overall effect. A closed blind on the outside covered the small window in the door. I supposed Ray's other prisoner sat alone in a similar room contemplating his fate.
Ray paced the room while the man sat on a bolted-down, straight-backed chair. The table was free of clutter, except a small, tin ashtray. The ashtray was clean. A second chair sat askew near the end of the table closest to the door.
"Okay, my friend," Ray said in a pleasant tone of voice, "I'll see what I can do about taking you to the john. Let's talk some more first."
"Man, I'm gonna piss on the floor."
"I wouldn't do that, Jones. No, I'd have to ask you to clean it up. What would you use? Your shirt, being as how your pants would already be wet."
Jones squirmed in his chair. Despite his appearance, I don't think he felt very tough.
"Now, as I was saying, we were told you did the hit on Hutchinson."
"Who said? It's a lie. That be what it is." The young man tugged at the shoulders of his shirt, as if trying to cover the bulging muscles.
"We've got reliable sources. In fact, when I talked to my partner a few minutes ago, he advised me your friend confessed. Said you'd been paid pretty well for the job, too."
"That muther. He be throwed off. I'll kick his ass." He fidgeted in his chair. "Man, I gotta piss somethin' bad."
"Okay, dude, just give me the word, and I'll take you to the john." Ray pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and tapped one into his hand.
I leaned close to Lewis, "I thought Ray quit smoking."
"He did, years ago. The only time he smokes is when his suspect wants a cigarette. Then he'll chain smoke if necessary."
Ray smiled, more a sneer than a smile. Ray was capable of subtle psychological control over a subject.
"Man," Jones said, "if you won't let me piss, give me a smoke, man."
"Oh, no, I don't think so." Ray lit the cigarette and blew smoke, acting as if he enjoyed it. He laid the pack of matches on the table near his chair, then resumed pacing the small room. He smoked at least half of the cigarette without saying a word. We watched in silence. He stubbed it out, leaving the remainder of the cigarette intact. He rubbed his hands through his hair, then lowered his body onto the chair. "Listen," he said, his tone soothing, "the sooner you give me some information, the sooner I can let you have a cigarette, and the sooner I'll be able to take you to the men's room."
Jones didn't say anything. He stared at the cigarette in the ashtray.
Ray picked up the ashtray and matches and stood. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Man," Jones said, "please, let me at least go to the john."
"Okay, since you said please." Ray opened the door and stepped back into the room. Ray released the kid's handcuffs so he could stand, then reapplied them.
"Thank you, man, thank you." Jones nodded and bowed as if taking him to the john was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Ray escorted the suspect into the interrogation room about five minutes later. He told him to sit. "I'll be back in a minute." He didn't take the ashtray with the long cigarette, and he didn't bother to remove the handcuffs and secure Jones to the ring on the table frame. He pocketed the matches and left the room. A minute later the door to the observation room opened, and Ray appeared.
"Looks like we'll be at it awhile," Lewis said.
"I don't know," Ray said. "He's softening. He really needs a cigarette."
"You should have seen the look on his face when you picked up the matches."
"Okay, maybe I'll have another smoke and a soda. I haven't given him anything to drink, and he's been here for a few hours. He was eyeing the water fountain when we were in the hall." Ray looked at me. "Sophi, you recognize this guy?"
"No. I haven't seen the other one yet either."
"That room doesn't have a two-way," Ray said.
"Let her look in through the door," Lewis said.
"I don't want them to see her." Ray glared at Lewis. "Tell you what, let's switch rooms. You get O'Ryan and pretend to take him to his cell. Cashous Jones here will be even more convinced he talked."
I stayed in the observation room and watched the switch through the half-drawn window blinds. It worked to perfection. Jones glared at the back of O'Ryan's head as Lewis led him around the corner and away from the interrogation rooms. A few minutes later, Ray escorted Michael O'Ryan into the room.
O'Ryan, a wiry, small-framed man with light-mocha skin, had reddish-brown dreadlocks hanging below his shoulders. He wore thrift store specials, though I guess he thought his attire stylish. I'll never forget his eyes, shifty and piercing at the same time. They darted around the room, never resting on Ray's face, but never leaving it for more than a second either.
"I told you," O'Ryan said in an even voice, "I refuse to talk to you until I have a lawyer."
"I'm not asking you any questions. We're waiting for your lawyer." Ray left the room and came next door.
"We can't talk to him further," Lewis said.
"I see that. Is he getting a public defender?" I asked.
"Yup. Should be here any time. The PD will tell him not to talk and that will be that," Ray said.
"How about the other guy?" I said.
Ray bit his lip. "We read him his rights, but he's not smart enough to refuse to talk to us or to think his buddy lawyered-up. Hopefully, our little move will convince Jones to tell the tale."
About an hour later while O'Ryan met with his new PD, Jones conducted story-time. He confirmed the contract hit on Barry Hutchinson. The buyer promised five-thousand and paid two in advance. They didn't get the balance because they didn't finish the job. Jones claimed O'Ryan made the deal, and he didn't know where the money came from. Ray thought Jones and O'Ryan took the contract secondhand from someone they feared worse than the courts and jail.
Ray walked me to the parking lot. "The prints we lifted from your bedroom don't match Jamel Hutchinson's."
"Charming. We still have no clue who's stalking me---if they're stalking me." The thought was unsettling. For some reason, Jamel, if it was Jamel, didn't seem as threatening as the other options. If he contracted to have his father killed, it was because he didn't have the guts to do it himself. I translated that to him not having the guts to kill me either. But now?
"Still could be Hutchinson. His friends might not have prints on file. There were your prints, my prints, plenty of partials, and one good clear thumbprint on the window ledge. We'll keep on it." He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me next to him. "I'll be here a while. Be sure to lock your doors. I'll get to your place by ten or eleven."
"That's one of the things I came here to tell you. I put in lights all around the house today, cut the shrubbery, and had an alarm installed. The code is the same as the garage door."
He raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I'll be fine. Go home to your own bed." Even though it had been a long day for him, I smelled his cologne. Nautica was now an erotic scent for me, and his body heat seemed to be releasing waves of it into the air.
"Okay, if that's how you want it." He smiled, but his eyes looked sad.
I stepped away from him. "I also wanted to tell you about Vanessa. Craig's in town."
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
Ray helped Vanessa get rid of Craig a couple of years ago. I told him what I learned and my suspicions about Craig beating her again, then we made plans to meet for breakfast on Tuesday morning. I had to work on Sunday and on Monday, the Memorial Day holiday, but Tuesday I wasn't working.
I drove from the parking lot wishing that tomorrow was Tuesday and that I hadn't told him to go home tonight.
A major thunderstorm unleashed its full fury on our neighborhood on Monday night, and Sunshine, true to form, curled around my head and whimpered.
As I petted the dog, I smiled at the memory of the day he became afraid of thunder. He had been in the backyard hunting little lizards along the back fence. The nameless neighborhood lake---in truth, a canal gone fat---acted as a lightning magnet and thunder magnifier. The water's edge was one hundred feet or so from my place. An immense clap of thunder boomed directly over the yard, sending a wave of reverberations through the ground and into the foundation of the house. All four of Sunshine's paws left the ground. I happened to be watching at the time, and in my mind's video replay, I saw him leave the ground. He pivoted in mid-air and hit the doggie door at a run, looking like a speeding locomotive smacked him in the rear. Hence, his morbid fear of booming noises.
The raging maelstrom tested my new burglar alarm, and it performed to specifications. I'm sure the neighbors didn't appreciate the noise, but I did learn the system worked, and the service called to verify everything was okay. I checked the doors and windows, turned on the outside lights, and inspected my denuded yard. Then I gazed at the flashes of lightening off the water for almost an hour.
Under usual circumstances, I couldn't see the lake, but my neighbor trimmed his shrubs on Sunday giving me a view of the water from my kitchen window for the first time. The odd thing was that at least twice I thought I saw shadows move on the shore, suggesting someone hiding in the brush. Given the past events, it unnerved me. I thought about going back to bed, then decided it wouldn't pay anyway. The dog wouldn't calm down for a while, and I couldn't either. I sat with him on the sofa, snuggling and feeling scared until about four.
When the storm finished, I went back to bed, hauling the dog with me. I sank into a dead sleep around five. The sound of my favorite DJ's voice blasted me to my toes at seven-thirty. Damn.
"Good Morning, South Florida. It's Tuesday . . ."
I poked the off-button and lay still, thinking about the movie Good Morning, Vietnam.
I dragged myself out of bed, stumbled to the coffee maker, then fed Sunshine. He needed more cuddling, but the meal distracted him, solving the problem of getting him out of my hair. By the time I showered and dressed in slacks and a silky, peach-colored tee, I felt almost human. I splashed on Chanel, added lipstick, and ran out the door. Ray and I were meeting at the deli next to Publix. I made it there as the hostess escorted him to a table.
He looked good in his snug-fitting jeans and golf shirt, and he smiled when he saw me. As I approached, I smelled his damn Nautica.
"Sophi," was all he said as he waited for me to slide into the small booth.
"Hi."
"I worried about you. You didn't call, and you didn't pick-up on your cell either."
"I worked late last night---and Sunday, too, for that matter. The floodgates opened, and every ill person in town floated in on the storm surge. I got home both nights at, uh . . . maybe eleven-thirty. Because of the holiday, they couldn't find anyone to come in, so I stayed. I can use the overtime dough for my home improvements."
After the waitress served our coffee and took our order, I told Ray about the shadows during the night. I finished my dissertation with, "Of course, by then the man, if it was a man, knew I was up and about. I had the place glowing like a proverbial Christmas tree."
"You should have called me." He looked concerned. "I could have been there in ten minutes. You're at risk. You've had trouble twice, maybe three times."
"What I can't figure out is why it's going on at all. I shouldn't be a target for theft---I have nothing much to steal. And, I'm not a threat in the Hutchinson investigation," I said, covering old territory.
"Someone might think you are."
I screwed up my face and squinted. "Yeah, right."
"Don't take it lightly."
"That reminds me. Did you guys find a match for the prints from my window?"
"We did. That's one of the things I wanted to tell you." Ray fiddled with his coffee, swirling it round and round in his cup.
"So?"
"The prints match Jones'."
"The hired gun? The one I watched you interrogate?" I shuddered all the way down to my painted toenails.
"One and the same." He took a sip. "He hasn't said a whole lot more since he lawyered-up. But he did slip once and say she paid for the hit on Barry Hutchinson. We couldn't get him to name names."
I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. "Interesting. That would rule out both Jamel and Michael Wiley."
"Unless Jones mislead us on purpose." He raised a hand, turning it palm up in a who-knows motion. "Or, the contract could have been placed by Jamel and his mother."
"That doesn't sound realistic to me."
"Jamel Hutchinson skipped town. We can't find him to ask about the breakin at your place." He broke off a piece of his bagel, spread cream cheese on it, then put it on his plate untouched. "Several things don't make sense. We called in the wife again."
"Amelia?"
"She claims she didn't sign the withdrawal slip, and she's not lying. Someone else signed her name."
"Who took the money?"
"We talked to Hutchinson's girlfriend again. Attractive blond lady. Fifties, I'd say. I asked her about the money, and if Hutchinson ever mentioned it was missing. She said, 'Sure.' He gave it to her to deposit in her savings account. They planned to get married as soon as he divorced his wife, and the money was the start of their nest egg. Hutchinson feared Amelia would take him for all he was worth, and the five grand was the only ready cash he could access. He signed her name, the girlfriend said, as a bitter joke."
"Charming." I took a piece of Ray's bagel. I hadn't ordered anything, and I felt hungry. I peeled the top from a package of Country Crock margarine and took my time smoothing it on. "Did you verify the story?"
"She produced her bank statement and showed us the deposit. The dates match."
"Amelia seems to have motive. Husband leaving her. She knew that. She told me. Lots of bills, no money."
"Big insurance policy, and a townhouse she would own free and clear."
"Greed, necessity, revenge."
Ray smiled his most annoying smile. "Hell hath no fury---"
"Like a woman scorned." Grinning, I took a big bite of the bagel and wished I had asked for the walnut, cinnamon, and raisin cream cheese. "At least the guys who broke into my house are behind bars."
"Two of them anyway." He pushed back his plate and slid out of the booth. "I'm off today. I going to take a ride into the punks' neighborhood and ask around. I'm not convinced either one of them cut the deal. O'Ryan is mean enough, but I'm not sure he's capable, and I know Jones didn't set it up. Something he said didn't set right."
"What was that?"
"He slipped about the deal, said something about being sent on a job, and apparently, someone showed him a picture of the target."
"Can I ride along?"
"Why not? I'll follow you home."
"I'll leave my car here. It'll be fine."
\*\*\*
I settled into the passenger seat of the S2000. The sun was shining, but the air was cool, though I knew it would heat up later. Ray popped the levers to lower the top---the way I liked it. We drove in silence for a few miles.
"Just hang loose and keep close. Stay out of the conversations. Let me know if you see anyone you recognize as one of Jamel's friends."
"Ah, I'm an invitee with a purpose."
He patted my leg. I bristled at the unexpected familiarity. He retracted his hand as if burned. "The less obvious you are, the better."
"Okay, boss. Whatever you say."
We drew close to the neighborhood. He pulled over into the parking lot of a strip mall and twisted in his seat. He put a hand on my shoulder, then withdrew it in a quick motion. "I don't know how to take you. Sometimes you seem glad to have me around, then you push me away. Then you seek me out. What's with you anyway?"
"Is now the time for this conversation?" I faced him, turning sideways. I knew by the tone of his voice that we would have the conversation. The only way to avoid it was for me to get out of the car and walk home. Too far. Too dangerous.
"I can't get you off my mind. It seems like forever since I saw you on Saturday. Now you're all business."
"I thought this is a business, professional relationship. You made that unequivocally clear in the past."
"I don't know anymore. Being around you brings back those old feelings."
"Ray, for me, too. Feelings of being hurt, deserted, cheated on." I snapped at him. It hadn't been my intent.
"That's not what I meant. I mean the old emotional attachment, the longing, the desire. I didn't take you out to dinner to be professional. I took you out to be with you."
"Seems that every time we see each other we end fighting. Then you disappear until the next case. I feel set up and used."
"That's uncalled for. You've said you like to be involved in my cases. But the truth is, I look for reasons to see you, excuses to call."
I stared at him in mock dismay.
He sat back in his seat and shoved the car into gear. "I can see you don't feel the same. I'm sorry I brought it up." He gunned the engine and popped the clutch. The tires squealed, and we sped out of the parking lot, a cloud of dust in our wake. "Let's check out the neighborhood, then I'll take you to your car."
"That's a plan." I was angry, and I didn't know why. I wondered if I'd ever get over the old hurt. I didn't think so. Many years had passed, and I still remembered the day I realized he wasn't coming back to see me again. Then the other cases, the inevitable end to the case, and the casual see you around.
It wasn't long before Ray pointed to a couple of young men in front of a convenience store. He pulled in behind their car---the only one in the lot---and climbed out. "Stay here."
I watched as he approached the punks and flashed his badge.
"I'm looking for Jamel Hutchinson. You know where he's hanging?" He directed his comments to the shorter of the two.
"No, man. Haven't seen him since his old man passed. He ain't been comin' round."
"We busted the shooters."
"I heard."
Ray leaned close to the kid and said something I couldn't hear. Then he said, "You know if we got them all?"
"You do. I know for a fact." The kid glanced at his friend who looked like he wanted to crawl under the pavement.
Ray leaned close. The muscles bulged across his shoulders. The kid's mouth moved. Ray had his face within a few inches of the kid's eyes.
I strained to hear the conversation.
"Don't say anything," the companion said under his breath. "You'll be as dead as Jamel's old man."
Ray reached out and grabbed the taller kid by the front of his red shirt, lifting him to eye level. The kid's toes swept the ground. "Would you care to explain that comment?" Again, he raised his voice.
"Man, it's obvious," he said. "There's a few more of the boys. They hang out together. We talk to you, they'll do us."
"If you don't talk, they'll think you did anyway. Maybe when I find them, and I will find them, I'll tell them you told me a story."
"No, man, don't do that." The kid's voice shook as he shrunk against the wall. "Just make like we're not cooperating, and we'll tell you."
I looked around. I believed everyone in the neighborhood knew Ray had rousted these two. But was anyone close enough to know they were cooperating? I didn't think so.
Ray grabbed the shorter kid by his shirt as well. Neither of them were any match for his strength and agility, and an uninspired struggle ensued. Ray pushed them against the moldy brick façade of the building in apparent disgust and walked away. When he climbed back into the car, he said, "That was productive. You recognize either of those two?"
"No."
"I want you to drive." He pulled into a driveway and hopped out.
I did a better job of laying rubber by accident than Ray had on purpose. For the first time in days, I heard Ray break into a deep, rumbling laugh. I couldn't help but join him.
"Take it around the block. Get used to it. Then I want you to cruise the boulevard. When I tell you, let me out, then just keep me in sight. If you lose me, go to the next gas station, and I'll find you there."
"That's a plan. But why the theatrics?"
"The name the kid gave me is the local gang leader, Gordon Wright. He said Wright arranged the contract and was pissed about not getting the rest of the payoff."
"How'd he know?"
"The kid is always on the street, one of our informants. He's the one who put us onto the other two. He thought we'd stop there, and he'd never have to finger the big man."
I nodded, urging him to continue.
"Wright is usually armed and is always dangerous. We've never nailed him on anything other than a misdemeanor. He inspires loyalty, and no one will ever give him up." Ray took his cell phone out and punched in a number. "Turn right here," he directed me and pointed with his free hand. "Lewis," he said, then explained the situation in brief. "Yeah, I know I shouldn't have her here, but I can't pass up the opportunity. Wright's in the hood now, but he'll probably be on the move within the hour." He listened. "Not a bad idea. I'll give her my cell phone." He listened. "Okay."
"What was that all about?" I asked.
He keyed a number on the cell phone but didn't press send. "Just push send if things get out of hand. Lewis will be here as fast as he can."
I took a few deep breaths and felt my heart rate slow. I looked at my own hands on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white against the black leather. I picked up one hand at a time and flexed my fingers. The leather glistened from my damp palms.
"Over there. Stop a hundred feet this side of those guys." He pointed to a couple of well-dressed young men, then stretched over and retrieved his service revolver from under the driver's seat. I hadn't known it was there. I should have guessed.
I braked. He jumped out, letting the door go behind him. "Go," he said. The door slammed as I accelerated. Shifting into second gear, I roared past the two men.
In the rearview mirror, I watched one of the young men say something to the other guy and take off on foot. Ray didn't pursue him, but instead jogged over to the remaining man. I slowed to a crawl, slipping the car into first gear. I used the clutch to edge along a few feet at a time. The discussion looked heated. An angry sneer captured Ray's face, but he kept his voice under control. The only thing I heard was repeated biologically impossible instructions the man hurled at Ray. I saw Ray's lips move again, but I couldn't hear. Ray backed off and looked to see where I was. He signaled to me to pick him up, which I did.
The young man yelled as we pulled away.
I didn't catch all the words, but I could fill in the blanks. "He's rude," I said as I shifted into second.
"He was very helpful. Turn left."
I swung around the corner.
"Stop here. Wait for me to come out. If anyone approaches the car, leave. Go around the block and come back through. Anyone gives you a hard time, run 'em over."
"Sure, right. I do that every day. Run people over." I regretted asking to come along.
Ray disappeared inside a dilapidated building. The sign over the door said beer and wine, but I couldn't tell if it was open for business or not. I stayed on full alert in the middle of the narrow street, scanning the deserted street in front of me and checking the rearview mirrors every few seconds.
I heard yelling, Ray's voice saying something police sounding, more yelling, a loud crash. Then there was silence. After what seemed like hours, I checked my watch. Five minutes had elapsed. The banged up door opened. I depressed the clutch and slid the car into first, preparing to escape if necessary. I felt my heart pounding. "Breathe, Sophia." I took several deep breaths, trying to maintain my composure while thinking the worst.
Ray appeared in the doorway, sauntered over to the car, and climbed in. "Let's go."
"What happened?" I saw a bruise darkening on the left side of his face. I set the car in motion, shifted into second, then reached over and touched the bruise with the tips of my fingers. "What happened?"
"The son of a bitch took a swing at me."
"More than a swing, I'd say. Does it hurt?"
"Not now. It will later."
"Did you learn anything?"
"I learned that some of the most unlikely people have martial arts training." He laughed aloud. "And, I confirmed our boys were sent on the job, and the main man has taken a little vacation."
"Ran out of town. A guilty conscience maybe."
"Could be. But I have a name and some details. Plenty of stuff to throw at Jones and O'Ryan."
"Has O'Ryan fessed up yet?"
"No." He pointed. "Turn right at the light." After we were around the corner, he said, "But I expect he will. The public defender is protesting his innocence while at the same time making noises about looking for a deal. You know how it is. My client isn't guilty, but it'll be hard to prove. Wants to know what we can do for him. Jones' PD is dealing, says Jones was the driver, not the shooter, and he's trying to get the charges reduced."
"You think the State Attorney will deal?"
"After we get it sorted out. We want them to give up Wright, and we still need to know who took out the contract. We won't find that out until we can put some heat on the big man. Not even Jones is talking about that, says he doesn't know because it was an arranged job. Whatever the hell he means by that." Ray picked his cell phone off the dash and punched the send button. He filled Lewis in, then hung up. "He'll have every cop in the state looking for Gordon Wright within the hour."
I pulled onto the main street. "Want to drive?" I said, accelerating into traffic and shifting gears like a pro.
"No, I'm enjoying being chauffeured." He looked at his watch. "It's still early. Want to do something?"
"I thought you were in a hurry to get rid of me."
"Why would you say that?"
"Gee, I don't know. Maybe because of our quarrel."
"Sophi, we need to get over the past. Unless you don't want to?"
"I don't know. I'm afraid of being involved with you again. It never works out, then I feel used and abused."
"This time it'll be different. I promise you." He ran his hand over the side of my face and into my hair. "I told you I miss you. I know how much I screwed up. I love you. I always have."
I hit the brakes and swerved to miss a little old lady crossing the street with her wheeled walker. She didn't seem aware of how close she had come to rolling into the next life. I pulled to the side, stopped, opened the door, and stumbled out of the car. "You drive." I wobbled around the back of the small car, holding onto the side for support.
We spent the rest of the day walking hand-in-hand through Metro Zoo, and he spent the night in my spare bedroom. I told him to go home, that I'd be fine, but he refused. I knew he believed someone was out to get me. None of the creeps we saw during the day looked familiar to me. Someone else had to be involved. I wondered who.
It was close to eight when I woke the next morning. Sunshine snorted then stretched on the pillow on the other side of the bed, and the house was quiet. I knew I would find Ray's bed on the other side of the house empty. He was long gone.
I slipped on a robe and wandered to the kitchen. He had brewed coffee and left a note on the counter telling me he fed Sunshine and let him out. It said he'd call me later. Fine with me. I had every intention of going to the beach.
I stared at my coffee---it looked very strong---then decided to give Vanessa a call. The last time I saw her, she seemed in need of a break. Besides, it would give me a chance to have a look at her in a bikini and observe most of her body for bruises.
Vanessa answered on the first ring.
"Hi, Sophia. You crossed my mind a minute ago."
"Great minds," I replied. "Want to go to the beach for a while? Time is running short. Soon it will be shore-to-boardwalk with school kids."
"Sounds good to me," she whispered.
"You have a sore throat?"
"A little, I guess. I don't really know." She sipped and swallowed. "What do you hear about the investigation into Barry's murder?"
"Not a whole lot. Now that he's dead, I'm not involved. Ray only pulls me in when they need someone close-up and personal." I tasted my tepid coffee and stuck out my tongue. Ray must have left early.
"Don't you know if there's a break in the case or not?" She persisted. Her voice sounded stronger with a bit of an edge.
"There is one thing. They have the guys who did the original shooting in custody. Now they're trying to discover who paid them in the first place." Conveying the harmless information didn't matter. The arrest was a matter of public record or would be soon. "Don't say anything about it to anyone until it comes out in the paper."
"Of course not." I heard her swallow again, then a rubbing sound suggested she covered the receiver with her hand. I heard mumbling.
"Vanessa, you alone?" I wondered if Craig was there. I hadn't run into her at work over the weekend. That was unusual because she worked almost every weekend.
"Sure, just clearing my throat. The sunshine will do me good." She hacked and coughed, sounding contrived rather than congested. Then she continued. "I've been thinking. It makes sense to me that Amelia is the one who took out the contract."
"It's a possibility."
"We know she was about to lose everything. I remember her telling me about an insurance policy."
"When?"
"In the beginning, when we talked about my finances. She asked if I needed mortgage insurance and who'd take care of the payments if I became ill. She said her husband took care of those things for her. Then she told me he purchased a large insurance policy."
"That's my understanding as well. She commented about the insurance and said she could only afford to take care of him if he died. He hadn't left enough money in the business to take care of himself in the event of illness."
"Don't you think that gives her motive?"
"It could. But people say all kinds of things when they are under stress. Who knows?" I emptied my coffee into the sink. "You dislike her intensely. You're not the best judge."
"Don't you think I have reason to dislike her---and her dead husband for that matter?"
"Well, I . . . Listen, you have to do business with her until your townhouse closes. It's about time you set aside your hatred. It's wasted energy, and you're going to make yourself sick."
"That just makes me madder. Every time I talk to her, and it seems like almost daily now, it's always something. Now she says that maybe we can get it closed next week. She's selling her agency to the guy down the street from her, and he'll handle the rest of the deal."
"That's Mike Wiley, and it's a good thing for you. He's reputable at least and will straighten out the mess Hutchinson made for you."
"I hope so." She didn't sound hopeful.
"What's wrong? It'll work out."
"I hope so."
"Has she set a date for the closing?" I said.
"Next Tuesday, but it's tentative at this point."
"See? That's good. Then we can get you moved and settled, and maybe you can get your life back on track."
"Yes."
"Have you heard from the handsome broker again?"
"No." Her tone ended the subject.
"You ready to go soon? The day is beautiful, full sunshine, a gentle breeze. I'd like to get to the beach and home before the early afternoon sun gives us skin cancer."
Might as well get moving, I thought. The conversation stalled. I'd continue it when we were face to face, and I could see her expressions. Something seemed amiss.
"Sure, pick me up in an hour."
"Okay, an hour it is. Want to meet me somewhere?"
"No, come here. Can you? My car is still out of service."
I parked in front of her apartment building an hour and fifteen minutes later. I'd stopped to buy a six-pack of soda for the cooler, discovered I needed gas, and poked along. The strange car from the other day was nowhere in sight. Maybe I was wrong about Craig moving in.
Taking advantage of the opportunity to exercise, I walked the three flights to her apartment, then peered into the apartment through the screen door.
"Van, you here?" I tried the door. It opened. "Van." I called out, louder this time. Maybe she had the same idea and went for drinks. She often supplied the soda for our little trips to the beach. "Van." Again no answer.
I remembered her comment about the car and decided to go in and look around. It wasn't like her to leave the place open, but she had been acting a bit unusual. If Craig had forced himself back in her life full-time, she had cause to act unusual.
I dropped my bag and car keys on the kitchen counter. Something didn't feel right. I wanted to see if a man inhabited the apartment.
The living room looked tidy. Van had arranged the meager furnishings to their best advantage. She'd been replacing her old furniture with things she liked, taking time to acquire good pieces at low prices.
Seeing nothing wrong, I decided to check out the bedroom. I knew if she came home and found me snooping around, she'd be pissed.
"Van," I called.
That's when I heard a moan and a rubbing sound. I hurried into the bedroom and didn't see anything at first except the king-sized bed centered on the wall to the right and the usual furnishings. The duffle had disappeared from the floor near the dresser. I glanced into the bathroom. Empty. The signs of a man in residence gone.
Still searching, I hurried around the bed, not seeing see her at first.
Van lay crumbled in the corner. Nursing intuition told me she hadn't been there long. Blood seeped from her wounds, but little soaked her clothing or the carpet---yet. I missed the assault by, perhaps, ten minutes---the time it had taken me to stop for soda.
She wore a swimming suit under an ankle length cover-up. Had her intent to go to the beach enraged her attacker?
I knelt next to her and touched her face in the only spot that didn't look battered and swollen. She withdrew even further into the corner. A long gash next to her right eye dripped blood. Her left arm bent at about thirty-degrees between the elbow and the wrist, and her left leg lay at an unnatural angle as well. Several smaller wounds required stitches.
"What happened?"
"Craig." A murmur.
"Craig did this to you?"
She didn't respond.
That was why she covered the mouthpiece and why she whispered. Craig had prompted her conversation. I had given her an excuse to deny his presence by suggesting she had a sore throat.
"Van, I'm going to call 911. Don't move."
She opened her left eye and looked at me. Recognition flickered.
"He's not here. The car is gone. It looks like all his stuff is gone, too."
"Craig did it."
"I know."
"Craig did it," she said again, her voice almost inaudible. She shivered.
I held her cool, damp right hand a moment as she went into shock. Time to get moving.
First, I called 9-1-1. Then, supporting her neck, I eased her down so her head lie on the same level as her chest, pulled the quilt off the bed to cover her, and raised her good leg on a couple of pillows. It was as close to a shock position as possible under the circumstances. I didn't know about other injuries, and I didn't want to risk moving her. I'd keep her warm and wait with her.
I called Ray.
He said, "I'm on my way, but it'll take a few minutes. You're out of my jurisdiction. I'll call Tamarac while en route."
I sat next to Vanessa on the floor to wait for help to arrive. I squeezed her hand. "Sweetie, help is on the way. Hang in there."
The paramedics arrived first. I heard the male voices outside the door and saw Van shudder and pull closer to the wall. She looked terrified. This appeared to be the worst beating he'd ever given her. So much for faith, I thought, going out to meet the medics.
I watched from a distance as they applied a neck collar, coaxed her from the corner, and fitted splints to her broken limbs. With the use of a slim board, they lifted her onto a stretcher, then paused to inspect her for other obvious injuries. Healing bruises covered her arms and legs, and a huge swollen, purple mark distorted her abdomen. Her belly went rigid when they touched her.
"Internal injuries." The taller of the two paramedics said. "Let's get moving."
From bits of overheard conversation, I surmised her blood pressure was low. They needed to hurry.
As Ray pulled into the parking lot with two Tamarac patrol cars following, the medics whisked her out the door. When I leaned over the balcony and waved, he signaled me to stay put. He'd talk to the paramedics and get a look at Van before coming upstairs.
I hung around the apartment while the cops talked and added the small amount of information I could. At noon, I grabbed her keys and locked the door, following Tamarac's finest to the parking lot.
Ray and I headed toward the hospital in our separate vehicles. The Tamarac detectives would be there, attempting to get a statement from Vanessa. I decided to stop by my house and change clothes. Van was safe, and I didn't want to arrive at the hospital in my swimwear and skimpy cover-up. The side trip wouldn't take long.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I climbed out of my Mini in the driveway. Even with the windows and front door closed, I heard Sunshine barking. Odd. As far as I knew, there was no reason to bark. Maybe he saw a cat in the backyard, but that would be a stretch from his crate. The cat would have to be in the right spot, intent on staying put.
I moved my car across the cul-de-sac and into the neighbor's garage. I knew the code for the door since I watched their cat when they were on vacation. I exchanged my sandals for a pair of tennis shoes from the trunk and decided to work my way around to the back of the house to see if there was anything there to alarm the dog---or me for that matter.
My immediate neighbor's fence extended to the lake. Thanks to the drought, I walked around the end, avoiding both water and mud in the process. I proceeded around the bushes and into the cul-de-sac south of mine. From there, I traversed the neighbor's property and claimed a good view of my empty back and side yards without being visible myself. With some difficulty from cramping in my right hip, I climbed the fence in the corner of my yard, behind the allamandas.
All for nothing.
I didn't hear Sunshine yapping. Maybe his tormentor was the neighbor's cat.
I peeked into the back bedroom window. Ray's clothes hung over a chair. As I focused on the closet, I noticed a hint of movement. Shadows. I moved a bit more to the side, out of view, and stood on my tiptoes waiting for more action. Muffled footsteps signaled someone's presence behind me.
\*\*\*
I felt someone shaking my shoulder.
"Sophi," Ray's deep voice penetrated my foggy brain, "Sophi."
"Huh? What happened?" I opened my eyes to his perplexed smile.
"That's what I'd like to know." He helped me to a sitting position.
My head pounded with the worst headache of my life. It felt as if my eyeballs were popping out of my ears. I put my hands over my eyes, blocking the light, lessening the throbbing.
Ray ran his hands through my thick hair.
"Ouch," I yelled when he hit a tender spot.
"You, my dear, were hit on the head. Huge bump."
"No shit, Dick Tracy." I rubbed the spot, then looked up at him. "Look in my eyes. Are my pupils the same size?"
"Seems like it to me."
"Good. Help me up." I struggled to my feet.
"Now, wait a minute. Don't you think we should take you to the hospital? You probably have a concussion."
"I'm not about to spend the rest of the day in the damn emergency room. I have things to do." I felt dizzy and grabbed for his arm. After steadying myself, I said, "Just give me a minute to get my bearings."
"What were you doing out here anyway? Where is your car?"
I told him about the episode, ending with the shadow in the closet. "Somebody was looking for something. There must have been more than one, because I was spying on a moving shadow when I was hit."
"Let's go inside. You can rest while I look around."
I swallowed two Tylenol, then sat on the sofa with an ice bag on my bump while Ray went from room to room. He didn't find anything out of place. When I recovered a little and checked the rooms, there wasn't anything missing that I could tell.
"It wasn't the same guys as last time Sophi," Ray said, sitting on one of the kitchen stools. "They're in lockup."
"At least not those two. We don't know for sure how many were here the last time. You said so yourself."
"You neighbor saw two. Logic would have it that the same two guys who killed together and were arrested together, broke in together."
I snapped, "If they were logical, they'd have jobs instead of leading a life of crime."
"Let's see if anyone in the neighborhood saw anything."
We went from door to door. No one was home. "Can you dust for prints?" I asked, stepping onto the walk leading to my front door.
"We will, just to be sure. I don't expect we'll come up with much," Ray replied. "Stay here a minute. I need evidence bags from my car."
I watched as he popped the trunk on the S2000, then used his pen to hook two pairs of disposable gloves from my bushes. He dropped them into the brown paper bags and wrote identifying information on the labels. "We'll have the crime scene tech check these. You don't dispose of your gloves in the front bushes do you?"
"No, just used condoms." I giggled in response to his frown. "Saves money on trash pick-up."
I keyed in the code for the garage door opener. "We haven't checked here." The cluttered space held long-term storage and yard equipment, with room in the middle to park a small car or two. I pointed to the suitcases stored on the freezer on the back wall. "Did you move those?"
"No, why?"
"Nothing really. They don't look right."
Ray inspected each suitcase inside and out, then returned them to their place, aligning the edges. "They look fine."
I shook my sore head. "I guess I'm just looking for monsters." I felt my bump. "I'm going to take some more Tylenol and change clothes. I want to go to the hospital and give Vanessa moral support."
"Maybe you'll have a doctor check your head while you're there?" he asked, his tone hopeful. He followed me into the house and toward the bedroom.
"Nah. I wouldn't think of it." I closed the door behind me, leaving him to wait.
I heard Ray talking to Sunshine, who made growling noises in his throat. Without looking, I knew the dog lay on his back, and Ray sat on the floor next to him rubbing his tummy. Ray is Sunshine's second favorite person, next to me.
When I reappeared, dressed in light gray slacks and a gray and mauve print blouse, Ray was sitting on the living room sofa with Sunshine in his arms. "I'd rather be holding you, you know." He smiled, his eyes awash with suggestion.
My head hurts, I thought, picking up my purse. "Ready? Put him in his crate, please."
He bent over, allowing the dog to step out of his arms onto the floor. "Crate up," he said, then followed the dog across the room. I heard the treat jar open and close, and the gate click into place.
"You going back to the hospital?" I asked when he met me at the door.
"No. I'm going to talk to Wiley again. He's pretty much off my list of suspects. He had slim motive, and he apparently wasn't all that anxious to take over Hutchinson's book of business."
"Why do you think that?"
"There didn't seem to be anything in it for him. We think Hutchinson planned to dump the business anyway, and Wiley knew it. There would be no reason for him to do anything drastic since Hutchinson's departure would hand him all the walk-in trade. Several of his employees substantiated the frequent meetings between Hutchinson and Wiley, and they overheard the conversation about closing the agency and taking on Amelia. No motive."
"Then why the special trip to talk to Wiley?"
"I need to see if he remembered anything else Barry Hutchinson might have said and if he decided to hire Amelia Hutchinson. And I want to firm up the timeline of his hospital visit, where he went after, who might have seen him. I'm covering the bases, closing the holes."
"It sounds like only Amelia and Jamel have motive. No other active suspects." We walked across the cul-de-sac to my neighbor's garage.
"That's about it, except a couple of people at the hospital who had the opportunity to disconnect the ventilator---nursing staff, your friend, Connie, and Vanessa."
"Vanessa met me for lunch. We responded to the code together, and I talked to Connie. I can't believe she stepped over the line." I paused. "I have a thought, though. I'll check it out when I get the opportunity."
"Let me know what you find out." He touched my arm. "Word has it Jamel Hutchinson is back in town. I'm going to bring him and his mother in for questioning again. I figure that'll about wrap things up."
"Something still doesn't sit right with me." I punched in the code, and we stood back as the door opened, revealing my Mini. I'd brought my tennis shoes with me, so I opened the trunk and returned them to my bag.
"What's that?" he asked with an obvious lack of interest.
"If the family decided to finish him off, why didn't they do it in ICU when fewer questions would be asked? Amelia's an LPN. She'd know how to make it look natural."
"Maybe they hoped he would die without further assistance, or maybe they couldn't get a chance to do it unobserved. There are staff and nurses everywhere down there."
"There's always an opportunity to do a little something, pinch a tube, slip in some extra morphine, something. If he died in the unit, no one would have questioned it. He was close to death. It would have been easy."
"I think you're chasing shadows. Motive, money and revenge. Method, contract. Then they finished the job. Cut and dried."
I slammed the trunk and turned to him. "I'm going to the hospital. Will I see you later?"
"Without a doubt. I don't intend to let you stay alone until this thing is settled. You're at risk, though I can't guess why. You're no threat to anyone."
"Time will tell."
He pointed. "Why do you have a suitcase in your trunk?"
"Vanessa's. I forgot to put it in the house. I'll need to take it to the hospital for her when she's discharged, so I might as well leave it where it is. She'll need to go into hiding again."
\*\*\*
At the hospital, I found Vanessa in the emergency room. Neat gauze dressings covered her wound's---I presumed the physician has stitched several of them. She had a cast on her arm, and the cervical collar was gone. Craig sat next to her stretcher.
I stepped back out of sight, taking a moment to regroup. Craig's presence came as a shock. I'd expected him to be in jail. Either Van refused to press charges, or Craig slipped in after the Tamarac officers left.
"Hello," I said, stepping into the cubicle. "Van, you're looking better."
"Yes, she is, isn't she?" Craig answered for her.
I hadn't seen him in a while, and his appearance reminded me of what attracted her to him---not handsome, but strong features with a lean, sinewy body. A lock of blond hair fell over his brow, making him look innocent and approachable. He moved with the grace of an athlete. I remembered her giving me a recitation of the various sports he excelled in over the years. Once a successful upper level manager at a local electronics firm, he'd hung Van on his arm as his trophy wife.
"Vanessa, are they going to keep you in the hospital for a few days?"
"I don't think so. Do you Van?" Craig said. "I can take her back to her apartment and keep an eye on her."
"Yes, I'm sure you can." I stared into his eyes, daring him to continue. "Craig, let Van answer. Please."
"Fine. I'm just being helpful."
"So helpful you beat her to within an inch of her life."
"Listen lady, I didn't beat her up. I don't know who did, but I didn't do it. I moved out two days ago. She asked me to leave, and I did."
I looked at Vanessa for confirmation. She nodded her head in agreement, but she crossed the fingers protruding from her cast. Juvenile, but effective.
"What about your leg?" I said, pointing.
"It's only bruised, not broken," Craig said.
I frowned at him. "I'll be back." I opened the curtain, denying them privacy, then went to the dictation room.
I found Dr. Shulman busy with Van's chart. He listened to my explanation of the circumstances.
"Their behavior is typical of an abusive relationship. I've seen it a lot," he explained. "The abuser beats the victim, then stays with her in the hospital, being very attentive and making sure she doesn't tell the truth. Later he's remorseful, promising it won't happen again, but it does. If we keep the victim in the hospital and manage to get her talking, we can find out what happened and maybe intervene and break the cycle of abuse." He tapped his pen on the table. "I'll tell the ex-husband we saw a shadow on the CAT scan, a possible bleed, and she needs careful watching."
I called the admitting department and arranged for a private room across from the nurses' station on Five Northeast. I planned to take Vanessa as part of my assignment when I came to work the next day. I'd have an opportunity to talk to her in private at some time during the shift, and we'd be able to keep her out of harm's way.
On Thursday, the last day of May, I arrived at work early, intending to request Vanessa as part of my assignment. With every bed occupied, it was the only way to spend time with her. Then I organized myself for the shift. I had Vanessa, but I also had an overload of work. I needed to be at my sharpest to take care of my patients and my friend.
As luck would have it---mine, not my patients'---the surgeons rushed Juan Salazar, the man with a hot appendix in room five-eighteen, to surgery, and Edith Kramer, an ancient woman with a severe heart problem, crashed and earned a ride to ICU, leaving me with a few extra minutes. I headed in to help Vanessa with her morning care.
"Mornin'," I said, pushing back the curtain. "You alone?"
"Yes. Craig left."
"When?"
"Hours ago. Thank God." She kept her eyes closed. Tears glistened under her lashes.
"I'll help you get freshened up. There's a lot of dried blood stuck to your skin." I retrieved a basin from her bedside table and went into the bathroom to fill it. I wanted to sponge her face and bruised arms. It would give me a chance to inspect the wounds, and the physical closeness might encourage her to talk.
After pulling on gloves, I dabbed at her forehead, soaking off traces of crusted blood, revealing tiny scratches and a huge bruise. "What happened here?"
"I'm not sure. I think he hit me with the pewter lamp in my bedroom." She ran her fingers over the wounds. "It hurts."
"I'm sure it does." I continued to sponge. "Why'd you let him back into your life?"
"I didn't. He barged in, you know, like he does. Owns the world, or at least me. I didn't seem glad to see him. That made him angry. I'm doing okay without him. That made him angry. I had some money for a down payment. That made him angry. And, he thinks I stole it from him."
"Did you?"
"He made a lot of money, but he never gave me any, just enough for the bills. He wanted me in nice clothes, so he gave me a credit card. That way he saw where the money went. He even took my paycheck. When I was planning to leave, I saved some by putting away a little grocery money each week. Then when I'd go shopping with a friend, I'd put her purchases on my card, and she'd give me cash. Little things that Craig would never ask to see." She winced when I touched a sore spot on her left cheek. "I'm entitled. I worked for all of the twenty years we were married. He lived high. Did what he wanted while I took care of everything."
"That type never sees it that way."
"I know. I know." The tears flowed down the side of her face and sunk into the pillow, leaving pinkish, circular stains.
I continued to dab at the dried blood. "What are you going to do? You going to press charges?"
"I guess I have to. I don't expect it to do any good, though. I did let him stay." She opened her left eye and stared at my face---the right remained swollen shut. "I didn't force him to leave. I thought I could be better this time, not make him unhappy, but I'd already made him angry with the things I'd done."
"How long was he with you?"
"A few days, in the house anyway. He's been in town a couple of months. We went out to dinner a few times. It was nice, like old times before we started having problems. And, to tell you the truth, I'm tired of being alone, I liked the familiar company."
"We'll have to rethink your plans for company."
She laughed, then grabbed her chest with her good arm. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts."
"Ray said he'll help you get an injunction."
"What's that?"
"A restraining order. It's called an injunction."
"Tell him. Please."
"I will." I inspected the wound next to her right eye. The plastic surgeon did a beautiful job of suturing the cut, placing the stitches below the skin and sealing the outer layer with tiny adhesive strips. "This cut looks good. I don't think you'll even be able to see a scar when it heals. You'll have to cover it with make-up for a while though and use sunscreen."
"That's the least of my worries."
"I know." I continued to dab away at the various little cuts and huge bruises. When I finished, she didn't look so gruesome. "Have you given thought to your plans?"
"I can't go home."
"You can come and stay with me," I offered, knowing it wasn't the best solution. I, after all, had a big bump on my own head from yesterday's adventures.
"No, that won't work. It's the first place Craig will look."
"What then?"
"When the doctor came last night, he said he'd make sure I can stay in the hospital for a few days, until I get my strength back. My scans and everything are okay, but he's still claiming I need longer observation for internal injuries."
"A ruse, I assume." I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. I had a few more minutes to spend with her, then I'd have to get busy.
"Yes. It'll keep me here and out of harm's way."
She extended her right hand in my direction, and I took it in my own, inspecting the cuts and bruises along the underside of her arm and marveling that it, too, was not broken. After a moment, she pulled it away.
Van said, "Thanks for coming and helping me. I don't know what I would have done. I was afraid to move. Afraid he'd come back."
"What are you going to do?" She needed to go somewhere safe, and I knew better than to insist she stay with me. "Do you want to go back to the shelter for a while?"
"I need to go home first, get some things, and make sure the house is locked."
"Van, I locked your apartment. I have your key, and your suitcase is in my car. You can go anywhere you need to. If there is something you need from your place, Ray and I will get it for you."
She shrugged, grimaced, and looked confused, giving her head a slight shake. "That's where it is," she muttered.
"Where what is?" I asked, wondering what she meant.
Her eye popped open as she came back into the moment. "Oh, nothing. Just thinking, that's all." Groping with her right hand, she found the button controlling the intravenous pain medication pump. She pushed it and settled into the pillow, waiting for the tiny dose of morphine to take effect.
I arranged her bedding, tucking it around her shoulders.
"Craig did it," she muttered as she drifted off.
"I know, Vanessa." I checked her IV lines, made sure she could reach everything when she woke up, and left the room, planning to look in on her every time I passed.
I took a minute to call Ray and tell him to get the injunction. He said he'd also call Tamarac PD and advise them she'd press charges.
I finished the day with little additional conversation with Vanessa. She kept herself sedated with the patient controlled analgesia---IV morphine can do that. I didn't interfere because I believed she needed to rest and be pain free. The doctor would discontinue the pump tomorrow, and she'd rejoin the conscious world.
When I got home, Ray's S2000 sat in my driveway, surprising me. I hadn't heard from him since calling about the injunction. I felt peeved he presumed to go into my house without my being there, but since he volunteered to look out for my welfare, I decided to let it pass. It wasn't like him, though. Under normal circumstances, good southern manners were foremost in his mind.
"Hi," I called, opening the front door.
"I'm in here. Sorry about letting myself in, but the dog heard my car and pitched a hissy. I came in to rescue him from himself."
I peeked around the corner into the Florida room and saw Ray sitting on the recliner sofa with Sunshine resting in his arms. I was losing my dog to my ex-fiancé. Sunshine didn't move a muscle to greet me.
"Sophi," Ray patted the sofa. "Sit."
I glared at him. "What am I, the dog?"
"Please."
I relented and sank into the soft leather. Sunshine moved from Ray's lap to mine. I wrapped my arms around his neck, rubbing his soft fur. He snuggled close, making a satisfied rumbling sound in his throat.
Ray, who I noticed had showered and shaved, put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to him. He smelled good. The clean scent of Dial soap mingled with the compelling aroma of his Nautica. I felt exhausted and didn't resist resting my head against him. I opened my eyes an hour later and saw him shredding cheese. My omelet pan sat on the stove top. My favorite.
"Why don't you go ahead and get cleaned up if you want to?" he said, not losing his rhythm with the grater. "I'll finish cooking. You look like you could use a break."
"Wonderful idea," I said, stretching on my tiptoes and kissing him on the cheek. "You're a love."
"I hoped you'd think that."
I reappeared sometime later, scrubbed and dressed in short shorts and a stretchy crop top. By the time we sat at the table on the patio with our suppers and glasses of Pinot Grigio, it was late. A cool breeze drifted our way, brushing the hibiscus against the screen and making a soft background for our conversation. The omelets oozed sharp cheddar, complementing the grape and walnut encrusted focaccia. The man had done some serious shopping at the specialty market.
We chatted about my day and about Vanessa. He'd secured the injunction, but it wouldn't keep her safe. It would only provide a means to have Craig arrested should he decide to pursue her. The problem was he'd vanished.
"Probably more interesting," Ray said, "is we picked up Jamel Hutchinson today."
I raised a brow. "You did? Well now, where did you find him?"
"Hanging out in the neighborhood. Wiggins, the little snitch, called Lewis' line and left a message last night. We rousted Hutchinson and his girlfriend out of the sack this morning and took him in for questioning."
"And?"
"Wiggins said Hutchinson knew the two shooters on a personal basis. They were all members of the same gang years ago. Jones and O'Ryan remained loyal to Wright."
"Wright, he's the missing leader who probably set up the contract?" I leaned forward, over my empty plate.
"Correct." Ray smiled but his voice sounded serious. He was working.
"Jamel had the connections to set up the contract."
"He didn't admit anything. He flat out denied it, in fact."
"Based on what I saw in the hospital, I don't think there was much of a relationship between the kid and his father."
"You're right. He didn't profess any love for his father. He seemed angry about him cheating on his mother all those years. In point of fact, he implied as much." Ray sipped his wine and picked at the remains of his focaccia. "He also admitted being into Wright for almost ten large. Claimed he made some deliveries for Wright a year or so ago, then a dude from a rival gang robbed him. Wright didn't believe his story and wants him to pay it back."
"Hence, he had to hit his parents for spending money."
"Yup. Only, his daddy wouldn't give. That gave Jamel two things to make him angry." He sipped again, then grasped my hand. His skin felt warm. "He also 'fessed up that he knew all about his father's girlfriend. He knew where she lived, had followed them around some, and knew Daddy planned to leave his mother. Jamel's no fool. He knew his mom would be destitute, and she wouldn't have the means to help him out."
"You're convinced Jamel contracted to have his dad murdered, then finished the job himself?" I stared at Ray wide-eyed, then pulled my hand away. "The next thing you'll be telling me is Amelia was in collusion with the kid and they plotted together to have the old man shot, then they disconnected the ventilator."
"That's a distinct possibility."
"At least Vanessa would agree with you," I said. "I'm not so sure. I watched Amelia a lot and talked to her, too. She just doesn't seem the type to me. She's more dependent, needy." I stood and started gathering the plates and silverware. We still had half the wine, so I left the bottle and the glasses on the table.
"Go on." He sounded skeptical.
"One day I saw Jamel acting very tender with his father."
"Guilt."
"But if you feel guilty about contracting a hit, do you finish off the job?"
"You know how the Mafia is rumored to get very nice to a guy before they take him out. So nice, in fact, that it often tips off the victim," he said.
"But Jamel is gang related, not Mafia related."
"Details, details." He followed me into the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel.
While I washed the dishes, he dried them and put them away. He even wiped down the counter and the outside table. "I see you're feeling downright domestic."
"Trying to make you happy, give you a break." He gave the sponge a manly toss into the sink. I would have rinsed it and squeezed it dry. Then, he took my hand and led me back onto the patio where he refilled our wineglasses.
I held the glass by the stem, swirling the golden liquid, inhaling the essence. "You don't need to keep staying here and baby-sitting me. You have a life of your own, and this house is . . . safe."
"That would explain how someone broke into it yesterday while you weren't home."
I stopped with the glass suspended in the air about an inch from my lips. "Someone has to know the code. I'm sure I set it when I left the house yesterday morning before going to Vanessa's."
"Who knows the code?" he asked in his interviewing voice.
"You do." I raised a finger. "Connie does." Another finger. "Vanessa does. The neighbor across the street."
"Does it make sense to install a burglar alarm, then give it a code half the city knows?" He rolled his eyes. The edges of his goatee twitched. I knew the thought of what I'd done made him angry.
"Want to help me change the codes?" I said, my tone cheerful. "I have the directions handy. It'll only take a minute."
"Sounds like a good idea to me," he said. He emptied his glass before following me into the garage. Within a few minutes, we recoded both the garage door opener and the alarm, giving each different numbers to make it harder for someone to come in uninvited. When we came back into the house, he locked the doors to the patio and settled onto the sofa.
"Do you have any ex-boyfriends wandering around with the code? Maybe someone left something here and decided to help themselves."
I stood in the middle of the room, hands on my hips. "Ray Stone, you bastard! The only ex-boyfriend with that code is you. Did you hit me on the head?"
"Of course not." He laughed. "You look pretty fearsome standing there in skimpy clothes with your bellybutton ring shining." He patted the seat next to him.
By the time I got to the sofa, Sunshine had bolted across the room and jumped onto the cushion next to Ray. I decided to ignore the obvious and sat next to him, putting Sunshine on my lap so that I could properly cuddle him. The dog, I mean.
"That rules out several potential suspects."
"In truth---not that it matters---I've had few dates and fewer boyfriends."
"May I ask why?" I saw the surprise in his eyes, but more than that as well. What? I wondered.
"It doesn't matter. Just because." I massaged Sunshine's ears, and he nestled close to me. I slid a hand under his chest and worked my finger into the thick fur. He growled deep in his throat, telling me he appreciated the rub. "Meanwhile, I'm safe now. Like I said earlier. You don't need to stay here. I'm sure you have things to do."
"I can't feel responsible for you being hurt again. I know you don't want me anymore---"
"I never said that."
His brows rose almost to his hairline. Then he continued, repeating himself, "I don't want you hurt again."
"Ray, it's not your fault I was hurt. You didn't attack me." I massaged the sore lump on my head.
"I'm not talking about yesterday."
"Huh?" I slid to the other end of the sofa, taking Sunshine with me, and turning to see his face. "What, pray tell, are you talking about?"
He stared straight ahead, as if watching something on the patio, but I knew he wasn't. My neighbor's new yard light illuminated the deserted patio. "Sweetheart," he said, his tone tender, "the perp who murdered your partner and shot you . . ."
"Yes." I remembered all too well. In fact, as he referred to the incident, I felt my stomach turn, and my right hip and thigh spasm. "And?"
"We had him in custody that morning. We released him to see who he contacted, what he did, where he went. We could have held him, but we wanted him to lead us to the main man, an ass-wipe named Corker."
"It was coincidence Ralph and I pulled him over. You couldn't have known that would happen." I wondered about the burden he'd carried through the years and empathized with him.
"He was there when you stopped by my desk that morning. He knew about our relationship. I believe when you approached his car, he shot you for revenge. He wanted to get back at me for busting him." He continued to stare straight ahead. I saw the taut muscles in his face and sensed the depth of his guilt.
"You should have told me." I slid back over next to him and put a hand on his, rubbing it, offering comfort. "You had no way of knowing. You should have told me."
"Maybe. I hid in a meaningless affair instead. Then I couldn't face you about that either."
"You threw away our love, our life, rather than tell me? It wasn't even your fault. How could you have known?"
"I should have known. That's why I need to protect you now. It's my fault you're involved in this case. Someone is trying to warn you off, to shut you up." The big muscles in his leg quivered under my hand as he talked.
I eased Sunshine off my lap and turned to Ray, embracing him as best I could. He wrapped his arms around me and buried his head against my neck.
I felt his lips against my neck and his warm breath next to my ear. "I love you, my darling. I'll always love you. I can't bear for you to be hurt again. I'll leave the house if you want me to, but I'll still protect you."
I turned my head, and without design, brushed my lips against his. Then we were kissing. At first lips to lips, savoring the closeness. Then he was exploring my mouth with his tongue. I met his tongue with mine---the way we once did---and melted into his arms. Molding my body to his, feeling his warmth, tasting him, smelling him.
I felt his hands slide under my shirt. He stroked my back, tracing my ribs and backbone with his fingers. "No bra," he murmured.
I unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it free of his pants, then laced my fingers into the thick, dark hair on his chest and tugged at it gently. Then I moved over onto his lap, straddling him, and allowing my bare midriff to touch his abdomen. I craved body contact---his body contact.
He must have felt the same, because he pulled my top over my head. He leaned me back a little and looked at my body. "Simply beautiful."
"Good thing you're still not into breasts," I said and giggled.
"Oh, but I am." He lifted me until he took a nipple into his mouth.
I whispered, "We're sitting in front of a glass door.
"Oh." He kissed the other nipple, taking his time, using his tongue. I felt a gentle pull as he sucked. He slid his hands to my buttocks and massaged them through my shorts. Then he raised me higher and ran his tongue over the scar from the gunshot wound to my belly. "I'm sorry for this." He kissed the wound as if to make it better.
He was having an effect. A very definite effect. It was much too late to stick to my guns and decide I didn't want to go there. The strange thing was that it felt right. As he lowered me back into his lap, I became aware it felt right to him, too.
I slid off his lap and stood before him, my knees bracketing his as he sat on the sofa. He leaned forward and took my belly button ring between his teeth. Then he ran his tongue along the waistband of my shorts and slipped his hand under the hem. I felt the warmth of his hand against the skin on my behind. I tugged at his other hand, and he rose to his feet. He pulled me close to him, and I moved my hips from side to side, rubbing him. "Sophi," he murmured into my ear, "oh God, how I want you."
The door to the guest room was a few feet away. I led him by the hand into the bedroom, and he pushed the door closed behind us.
I slept until ten-thirty the next morning. Sunshine cuddled next to my head on the pillow, snoring like a drunkard. Ray's side of the bed was empty. I guessed he left at least four hours earlier. I remembered from the time we lived together, the longer we made love at night, the earlier he awakened in the morning. I was just the opposite.
On the way to the master bedroom, I saw a three by three inch square of paper on the counter in the kitchen. In bold block printing, the note read: Fed Sunshine, let him out, and locked up. An arrow pointed to the corner, directing me to flip the paper.
With my heart pounding fearing the worst, I turned the page. There, in his tiny, messy script---I held it close to my eyes and squinted. Sophi, I love you. Last night was wonderful. I only hope you didn't spend the night with me because you felt sorry for me. I'll call you later. Love, Ray.
I held the precious paper in my hand, tears of happiness and relief stinging my eyes. I said aloud what I'd felt all along, "Ray, I love you, too."
I punched the button on the coffee pot---he'd prepared it for me---and glanced around the kitchen. He'd emptied the dishwasher, cleaned the table on the patio, and rendered the kitchen and Florida room spotless. Yup, I thought, he had a very good night. I did, too. I smiled and headed for the bedroom.
After I showered and dressed, selecting a pale blue pair of slacks, matching sleeveless sweater, and white sandals, I called Connie. She wasn't working, and I thought we could go into the hospital together and spend some time with Vanessa. Connie was game, and we decided to meet for lunch first.
I was sitting on a bench in front of Sweet Tomatoes when she rattled in and parked next to my Mini. "Hi," she called, climbing from her battered old Ford. Connie had a modest life style, modest older home, modest wardrobe, and modest car. She believed in getting her money's worth, and the Ford, almost fifteen years old, had close to two hundred thousand miles on it.
When she was within earshot, I said, "Don't you think it's about time to get rid of that ancient clunker?"
"I think so, but both of the kids learned to drive in it. It's served me well, and I feel loyal."
"Soon you'll feel stranded."
She shook her head and shoulders at the same time, perhaps signaling who cares. Then she pulled open the door to the restaurant, allowing me to enter first. "You're sure dressed fancy today." She waved her hand indicating the length of my body, then pointed to the diamond earrings and gold necklace.
"I'll tell you about it after we grab our food."
"Your cheeks are glowing. I can guess." She smiled, raised her brows in Groucho Marks style, and picked a tray from the stack near the door.
We moved along the long salad bar, picking and choosing as we went, discussing the various choices. When we reached the cashier, my tray looked like it usually did. I piled it high with Caesar salad, then selected a smattering of other goodies---three bean, broccoli, and pasta salads, croutons and sunflower seeds, and a few cherry tomatoes. I added a cup of soup and a square of cornbread after we picked a table.
Connie emptied her tray and arranged her lunch. Then she looked at me and said, "You're getting it on with Ray again."
"Maybe it was someone else?"
"You love Ray, not someone else." She held up a finger.
"And, how do you know that?"
"Everyone knows that. It's only you who doesn't know that." She looked at me with a superior, perturbed expression.
"I do, too," I sassed.
"See." She raised a second finger. "And, you're all dressed up in the middle of a routine Friday and wearing the earrings and necklace he gave you."
"It's not routine."
"No, I guess it isn't for you. Just make sure he doesn't hurt you again."
"This is different. We didn't just fall into bed. We are spending a lot of time together, and we settled a few things."
"Like I said, be careful."
"Yes, Mother." I grinned. She hated it when I called her that. But she tended to offer parental advice---a genetic trait, I imagined, carried on her nurse-gene.
"What now?" She said, sampling her salad while staring at me.
I took a long time and several bites before replying. "I love him, but he doesn't know it."
"You could tell him," she said through a mouthful of salad.
"I suppose." I put my fork down, then told her about Ray's guilt over the shooting and his subsequent affair. "He said he loves me, and I believe him. He arranges for us to work together, but then he disappears for months on end. Then he reappears with another case or another problem."
"You think he'll maintain the pattern, or will he settle down?"
I shrugged, laughed, lowered the pitch of my voice, and said, "Only the Shadow knows."
We continued with the topic of my romantic interest for a while, concluding with me saying, "I'll be careful, as careful as I can be in any event. No future planning."
"Sounds smart to me." She pushed her salad plate away. "Want dessert?"
"Sure. You buying?" I grinned. The meal included the dessert bar. "I'll have a dish of frozen yogurt."
She returned with two mounds of vanilla yogurt in black, fluted dessert dishes. Chopped nuts and chocolate sprinkles covered mine, but not hers. "Here you go." She scooted onto the bench seat. "Now, what's up with Van? I haven't talked to her for a couple of days."
"She'll stay in the hospital until she's well enough to go to a shelter. She needs to get lost until Craig tires of the chase and disappears."
"What I can't fathom is why she let him into her life again," Connie said.
"Loneliness and loyalty are cruel masters." I tasted the cool, smooth yogurt. It glided down, leaving a lingering taste of sugar and vanilla. I smacked my lips. "Good."
Connie was quiet for a minute. "I'm thinking about asking for a transfer off the unit."
"Why is that?"
"The ventilator patients depress me more lately. I've been working with them for years." She stood up. "I'm going to get coffee."
"Sit." I held up a hand. "My turn."
It only took a moment to fill our cups. When I returned, Connie looked lost in thought. "As you were saying?"
"It's depressing. I find myself wondering why families put their loved ones through all the torture of long-term ventilation."
"What choice do they have?"
"They have choices. Believe me." She sipped her coffee and stared into space.
I stayed quiet, fiddling with my coffee as Connie visited her memories. We'd had this conversation before, and I knew she personalized the topic.
A long moment later, she continued. "My dad---it would have been easy to disconnect the vent. His wife wouldn't allow it though. We talked about it. The doctors wanted to. But instead, she let him suffer. Every case makes me think about it."
"In what way?" I spoke, my tone muted, a funeral voice.
"Look at Barry Hutchinson, for example. He suffered. It was time someone intervened."
"Who do you think did it?"
"Maybe Amelia. She and I talked about it."
"You did?"
"Sure."
"Did you tell that to Ray when he interviewed you?"
"Of course. I told her she couldn't disconnect him, that it would be the wrong thing to do, given the fact he still had a remote chance of recovery." Connie sipped her coffee, then pushed it away. "I don't think she did anything about it. I would have if it was Darrell."
"You would?"
"I wouldn't want my husband to suffer."
"Don't take this wrong, but did you disconnect Hutchinson?"
"What, are you accusing me?" Connie's tone sharpened.
"No, not at all. I'm asking, just saying, you know," I stuttered and stammered, "I mean. . . you feel strongly about people not suffering. Barry Hutchinson was suffering."
"Sophia, no I didn't disconnect Barry Hutchinson. I thought about it, more than once, but I didn't. That's why I have to transfer to another service. It's depressing me, making me think thoughts I shouldn't."
"I agree with you there. Let's transfer somewhere together." I moved to the end of the bench. "Meanwhile, let's go see Vanessa."
\*\*\*
Connie decided to leave her car in the parking lot and ride with me to the hospital. She climbed into the passenger seat and secured the seat belt, tugging sharply on the strap after the click. She'd ridden with me before. I zipped onto University Drive and slammed to a halt---stuck in traffic.
"I wonder if Van will ever get her townhouse." Connie said as we waited for the police to clear a small fender bender from the northbound lanes. "She was excited at first. When I went with her to the realtor, she even had me take pictures of her with them. It was a huge event in her life."
"When was that?"
She bit her bottom lip and looked toward the roof. "Oh, it was a while ago, the day she signed the original contract. She made a ceremony of it. It was like she finally had her independence from Craig."
I crept forward in traffic. The lane to the far right opened and cars were turning onto Royal Palm going east. I worked my way to the far lane and waited my turn. "It's too bad it turned sour for her. Now she's stuck with high payments. The house will be a burden rather than a pleasure. To make matters worse, with Craig in town, she'll have to stay in the shelter even if she closes."
"Some people have no luck."
I detoured through a parking lot, bypassed the remainder of the traffic mess, picked up a through street, and accelerated with gusto. We were at the hospital in no time, much to Connie's discomfort.
"You go on up," I said. "I want to stop by the Nursing Office and check my schedule. I'll grab two transfer forms while I'm there."
That only took me a couple of minutes, then I hurried across the first floor of the hospital to the information systems offices. I needed to research where people were when Barry died. Maybe the hospital's data bank could help.
Harold Rababinishantsky met me at the door. "Hi, Sophia," he said. "What can I do for you today?"
We'd talked a time or two when I was helping with a case. He provided the information I needed and never told his boss I asked.
"Hi, Brer."
Everyone called him Brer Rabbit. It wasn't only the last name thing---no one except his immediate family could say it or spell it---he looked the part. He wore loose fitting vests over baggy, mismatched pants. To add to the effect, his rabbit-brown hair accented his oddly shaped nose and jaw. He hung around in chairs and on desks looking lazy, but in actuality, he was industrious, clever, and knew the hospital information system better than anyone.
"Can the system give a listing of when a certain person made entries?"
"Sure." He pointed to a chair for me to sit in, hopped over a thick cable on the floor, and landed in the high-backed chair in front of his computer. "Who and what day?"
"Connie Kuhn. May twentieth. Mid-day. Five Northeast."
He punched the keys and a list of entry times and user names flowed onto the screen.
I pointed. "That's our unit secretary." I tapped a user name. "That's Connie." There were entries every few seconds all through the lunch period. I remembered leaving for the cafeteria with a full rack of orders awaiting the charge nurse's approval. She and the secretary cleared the rack while I was gone. No other Five Northeast staff signed onto the system.
"Is there any way to prove who made the entries?"
"No. Some people share their password."
"Not Connie. She's a real stickler on legal liability and rule following."
"Then, one must assume, Connie entered the system at those times. Remember, the system signs a user out after two minutes of inactivity."
True enough. We complained about it all the time. Our passwords were only four digits, but it seemed like every time we touched the computer we needed to reenter. This time, at least, it pleased me. "Brer, can you print the report and include a heading and your signature to authenticate it?"
"Sure." His fingers flew over the keys. The laser printer across the room cycled on, hummed a moment, and ejected a page. I retrieved it and handed it to him. He signed the top, then added the coding for accessing the particular segment in time. "Here you go." He stood up. "Anything else?"
"You've been more than helpful. Thank you." I left him to his computers, folded the page, and slipped it into my purse. Ray would agree Connie was no longer a suspect. I felt relieved but also disappointed with myself, first for not believing in my friend, and second for not checking with Brer earlier and saving Connie the embarrassment of my asking the question. Mentioning my visit with Brer to Connie would serve no purpose.
When I walked into the room, Connie said, "I thought you were lost," she said. "Did you get the forms?"
"Yup, after waiting a while. The staffing secretary was on the phone, and there weren't any in the box." The truth was, no one had been in the outer office, and I helped myself from a huge stack. My fib would protect Connie from knowing I doubted her, even for an instant. I turned my attention to the patient. "Vanessa, how you feeling today?"
"Good," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Can you help me get to the shelter on Sunday? The doctor said Utilization Management is giving him a hard time about keeping me here. He'll drag his feet until Sunday. Maybe by then Craig will be bored with his game and go back north."
"Don't count on it. I'll ask Ray to help you move. That way there won't be a problem with Craig getting involved."
"It'll keep him at his distance." She leaned against the pillow and stretched out her long, elegant legs with their scattered fading bruises. Her just washed hair shone. Each strand captured and reflected the sunlight streaking in through half-closed vertical blinds.
"Is there anything else you need from the apartment? Tomorrow is a good day to go there."
"I'd appreciate it. If you wouldn't mind . . . if you could . . . maybe . . . have the locks changed again."
"He has a key?"
She crinkled the side of her face in a grimace. "Gave the son of a bitch one a few days ago. Things were going well. Now, oh hell. Damn. Shit. Friggin' screwed. He's messed up my life---again."
"You can fix all that this time."
"But he's obsessed with me. And he forces me to do things for him. There is no choice."
"Then we have to make sure the charges stick this time. There's another injunction, though the judge wasn't thrilled about granting it after you refused to follow through last time. If he comes near you, they'll arrest him."
"When the bastard kills me, I won't be in any position to care if the cops lock him up." Vanessa laughed
"We'll try to prevent anything like that from happening." I stood, smoothing my sweater and slacks and facing Vanessa. "Connie, we need to get moving. Ray will help with the locks tomorrow. I don't want to be there alone. He'll come with me."
"Thank you. Craig will go off the deep end when he realizes I've disappeared. Last time he did a number on everything in the apartment, ruined all my clothes and trashed most of the furniture." She snorted as if stifling a laugh. "We can't let that happen again."
"New locks should help, though you might want to consider having your things moved to secure storage."
"A thought." She smiled and nodded. "Worth considering."
"Anything you want me to take to my house?" I took a spiral notebook from my pocketbook and made notes as she listed the few things she didn't want to lose.
In late afternoon, I pulled in front of my house with a load of groceries in the car. As luck would have it, I locked the door to the Mini and set the alarm, then jerked at the trunk, thinking I'd opened it from the inside. I jumped and gasped at the shrill alarm.
It must have caused the same response for the would-be intruder in my house. I caught a glimpse of a man with light hair jumping the fence to my east side neighbor's yard. Astonished, I leaned against the Mini. How many different people were trying to break into my house?
The odd thing was, without getting a good look at him, my intuition told me this intruder was Craig Vanderbilt.
My shaking fingers hit Ray's speed dial number on my cellphone.
"Stay where you are. Do not go in until I get there." He sounded emphatic and somewhat exasperated.
"All right." I said, agreeing, but with reservations. The intruder, if he was one, wasn't in my house. He ran away. I was anxious about Sunshine. Walking around the house and checking the backyard would save time and be safe enough until Ray arrived.
When I saw the man jump the fence, I noticed the closed gate on that side of the yard. The latch on the west side was in place as well. I found no tampering to the bedroom windows. When I stepped around the rear of the house, just beyond the screened porch, I saw the means of entry was the bathroom window. I remembered opening it to vent the steam from my morning shower. Maybe I'd forgotten to close it.
The bent screen lay on the grass several feet from the window, and fine scrapes marred both the screen frame and the window's edge. There was a possibility that the alarm installer created the damage. And, if my most recent intruder entered through this window, why hadn't the alarm gone off? I stood back, staring at the screen, trying to remember if I'd set the house alarm. Logic suggested I had not. Wouldn't the alarm have sounded if I'd set it?
The rest of the windows looked intact and the garage side door held secure. I jerked the door handle, hoping to set off the burglar alarm, but nothing happened. Not a good sign. Ray would be frustrated and angry at my carelessness.
I heard the roar of the S2000's engine as Ray cornered into the cul-de-sac, then the Honda entered the driveway. He called my name before opening the car door.
A wave of relief spread over Ray's face when I appeared from around the side of the house. "You had me worried. When I didn't see you, I thought you'd gone inside."
I hurried over to him and slipped into his arms, accepting his kiss, feeling safe and protected. "No, I'm worried about Sunshine, so I decided to speed things up and check around the back."
"You could have been attacked again. Did you think of that?" He released me from his hug and pushed me away, glaring, waiting for an answer.
"I . . . well, no. I didn't believe someone was still here."
He stuck out his hand. "Give me the key, please?"
"Sure." I handed it to him. "I'm capable of opening the door."
"You are. Too bad you didn't set the burglar alarm." He stomped toward the house. "I want to go in first."
"Why are you so sure about the alarm?" I hurried after him, my shorter legs struggling to keep up with his long stride.
"Did you set it?" He turned to me, waiting for an answer.
"No, probably not." I shrugged my shoulders and scrunched my face. "The bathroom window is open and the screen is off. If the system was set, it would have worked."
"Alarms don't do any good if you don't set them." The whiskers along the side of his goatee twitched, and the muscles in his cheeks twitched, too. He was pissed. He stuck the key in the lock and flung open the door. "Stay here," he said, raising his arm to stop my following.
I stood in the open doorway and watched him check the rooms. "Can I come in?"
"Yes. There's no sign anyone has been here." He stood in the middle of the Florida room with the dog in his arms. "He's fine," he said, rubbing Sunshine's head. "Look around and see if you notice anything amiss."
All the rooms, my closets, my jewelry box appeared intact. Everything seemed fine until I opened the door to the garage. Suitcases littered the floor, the top of the freezer swept clean.
Ray joined me in front of the open door. "That's twice someone disturbed your luggage. Strange, very strange."
"Unless someone is looking for the suitcase Van gave me to store."
He looked at me, eyebrows raised, eyes round. "You're not making a lot of sense."
I pulled the door shut and faced him. "The intruder might be Craig Vanderbilt."
"Why?"
"Maybe he realized I'm involved in Van's escape plan. Her luggage is in my car. I haven't bothered to bring it into the house."
"Do you think there is something in it he wants?"
"Wouldn't think so. I took a blouse to cover myself the other day at the police station. There was clothing and personal items, nothing else."
"We'd better bring it in. Maybe he wants to snatch it to make sure she can't take off again?"
"That would be just like him." Ray used my key to open the patio door.
"Stay here and don't be touching everything. I'd like to get the place dusted for prints again. We need to stop whoever's doing this."
I stood in the middle of the hall, feeling out of place and helpless, while Ray went into the backyard with the dog. He was rechecking what I already checked, and it made me mad. I was a competent adult, after all.
About a minute later, he appeared with a vinyl glove hooked over a pen. "We seem to be establishing a pattern here."
I handed him a brown-paper lunch bag.
He secured the glove, then retrieved my keys from his shirt pocket. "You said Vanessa's suitcase is in your trunk."
"Along with my groceries and ice cream." I stuck out my tongue. "Give me my keys."
"Stay here." He strode out the front door.
I ran after him, opening the door as Craig Vanderbilt took a swing at Ray. The trunk gaped on my Mini, and the suitcase sat open on the ground, the contents scattered. It appeared Craig opened it, and Ray caught him in the act.
Ray ducked as a right hook sailed over his head. He came up and planted a punch into Craig's abdomen.
Craig bent over.
Ray threw a jab, connecting to his jaw.
Craig stiffened and fell back a step, carried by the force of the strike, but he maintained his footing.
Ray evaded Craig's counterpunch, blocking with his forearm and throwing a strike of his own.
Ray was muscular and fought like a boxer, though he had some martial arts training. His blows were calculated and quick, relying more on offense than defense.
Craig appeared more interested in beating defenseless women than big, strong homicide detectives, but he was fast on his feet. He yelled something indecipherable. Ray stood back a step expecting, I imagine, that the incident was over.
With a split second's leeway, Craig bolted across the neighbor's yard, turning on the speed of an Olympic sprinter.
Ray stayed with him for about twenty-five feet. He's strong, not fast.
I ran into the yard in time to see Craig round the corner of the neighbor's house with Ray in hot pursuit, the distance between them increasing, then I hurried into the house and called 9-1-1. It was possible Craig was armed.
I returned to the yard and waited with the late afternoon sun baking into my back. Ray reappeared in a couple of minutes without Craig in tow.
Ray and I sat next to each other on my kitchen stools. Ray looked flushed and short of breath from his pursuit of Craig Vanderbilt. I gave him a tall glass of ice water.
"Thanks for calling it in." He wiped his brow. "I need to do more running with my workouts. Makes me feel like I'm out of shape."
"Craig's a sprinter. Vanessa told me about medals he won in college. At one time, he aspired to the Olympics, before he morphed into a scumbag." I rubbed Ray's leg. "Besides, you said you chased him for almost eight blocks before losing him. That's good considering he's so quick."
"I need to find out if the uniforms caught him," Ray said. He tapped a number into his cell phone. While he waited, he said, "We can't prove he burglarized the house, and I only caught him rifling through the suitcase, but there are laws against attacking a cop. We can pick him up on that. What I'd really like to know is what he was looking for and if he found it. It couldn't have been the whole suitcase he was after. He'd have just grabbed it and taken off."
I waited while he talked to Lewis, who had followed the patrol cars into the area.
He said, "Vanderbilt's gone. He's probably two cities south by now."
"Damn. Do you think Craig is behind the last breakin?"
"Same M.O., and Jamel Hutchinson has an alibi."
I nodded.
"Hutchinson also has one for when you were hit on the head."
"Maybe it was Craig then, too. Vanessa gave me the suitcase before that. Seems logical."
"I want to see what's in that suitcase besides personal items. You don't stop a woman from leaving you by stealing her clothes." He shook his head. "He's a wife beater and a stalker, but I don't think he's stupid."
"He's not."
Ray hefted the huge suitcase and set it on my dining room table. He flipped open the locks and laid the top across the table as I rushed to remove the centerpiece. I watched as he unfolded the first piece of clothing, shook it gently, then felt the seams and hems. He handed it to me.
Piece by piece we went through the suitcase. I refolded the items in Vanessa's manner, or as close as I could. "Let's stop a minute and look at those photographs."
"Where?"
I pointed to the pocket on the side of the suitcase. "They were between the blouses when I borrowed one the other day." I picked up the envelope and opened it. "I stuck it here on the side so they wouldn't get lost." After glancing at the first few, I handed them to Ray. "These are from the day Van signed her real estate contract."
There were also prints of the front of the realty office, the townhouse Vanessa contracted to buy, and Vanessa herself.
"Same stuff." I gave the remainder of the pile to him.
Ray flipped through the prints. Most of them were doubles. Then he stopped short and held up a print of Barry for me to see.
"That's a good snapshot of him, though I never saw him healthy," I said.
The photograph showed Barry Hutchinson standing next to his desk looking fit and trim. He wore a dapper three-piece suit, bright red and blue tie, and a crisp white shirt. Looking at the image of him in the glow of health, I understood better why he never had trouble getting women.
"It's also the picture we found in Michael O'Ryan's car. We knew there was a picture because Jones mentioned it. But we missed it during the first search. He stuck it under the lining in the glove compartment."
"Michael O'Ryan? As in one of the shooters?" I was incredulous.
"You have the characters right."
I dropped into one of my dining room chairs. I couldn't believe it. "It all fits. But I can't believe Vanessa would be capable of murder. My God. I thought I knew her."
"Let's not get carried away. It could have been Craig all along and not Vanessa."
I shrugged. "Van's been so hateful about Barry Hutchinson, insistent that Amelia was the killer, giving us all those details about their fighting. She went on and on." I shook my head, trying to make sense of what I was thinking.
"Don't jump to conclusions. There are many possible explanations. We need to step away and look at the whole scenario."
"For example?"
Ray began. "Let's keep in mind Vanessa had cause to be angry with the Hutchinsons. From what you've told me and she confirmed, they jerked her around with her contract and took advantage of her situation."
"Right. Just because she was angry with them doesn't mean she's guilty of murder."
"Now, her husband---what could his motives have been?" he asked.
"Trying to prevent Vanessa from getting her home. Seems far-fetched."
"Or maybe jealousy about the Hutchinsons' connection with her."
"Protectiveness." I held up a finger. "Maybe he thought he was the only one with the right to abuse his woman. Or maybe he was trying to retrieve the pictures for her. Doing her a favor."
"That has a ring to it." Ray flipped through the photographs for the third time. He removed the negatives from the envelope, held them by the edges, raised them to the light, angling them so I could see. "All of the prints came from the same camera and were shot in sequence." He tapped the stack of prints on the counter. "Vanessa is in some of them. I wonder who took the pictures."
"Connie went along. She told me Vanessa was so delighted she wanted to commemorate the contract."
"Where was Craig at the time?" he asked.
"I had the notion he was still out of town. Now, I'm really not sure. Vanessa may have been involved with him for some time. She wouldn't have told us. She knew we wouldn't approve."
Ray slipped the cell phone off his belt. "I'm going to turn the heat up a bit on Vanderbilt."
"Vanessa?"
"No, Craig. Then we'll go to the hospital and have a talk with Vanessa."
"I'll call the hospital and make sure she's there." I went to use the kitchen phone as I heard Ray ask for Detective Lewis. I dialed the number for the direct line to Five Northeast. The unit secretary told me Vanessa left the hospital with Craig a few minutes earlier. Another surprise.
"Did she look like she was leaving with him willingly?" I asked the secretary.
"She looked troubled. He had his hand on her elbow and was pushing her along."
"Did you overhear anything?"
"Just him saying something like, 'How could you give those to her?'"
I ended the call. The photographs, I thought. I tapped Ray on the shoulder. "Vanessa's gone with Craig."
He broadened the subject of the search to include Vanessa.
Ray slipped the picture envelope into his shirt pocket and headed into my bedroom. "I'm going to recheck the locks in this place, then I'm going to work. You stay here and keep everything locked tight, and set the damned alarm."
"I'm going along. She's my friend, and I'm the one that's being harassed." I stood in front of him, glaring into his eyes, the stubborn Irish portion of my blood boiling. "You're not leaving me here."
"Okay, Sophi." He raised a hand in surrender. "No use arguing with you."
He finished checking the locks, and I returned Sunshine to his crate, giving him his treat.
"I'm ready." I called from the front door. "I think we should check Vanessa's apartment first. I even have the keys so we can get in without breaking and entering." I held them up, jingling them.
We climbed into the Honda and roared from the cul-de-sac, then turned south on Coral Ridge, weaving through traffic as Ray shifted gears, extracting the best performance from the powerful V-tech engine.
When we pulled into a parking space in front of Vanessa's apartment, I knew we guessed right. The same unidentified car sat in her parking space. I glanced up at her apartment. The door was closed, but the kitchen window was open a crack. I hadn't left it open the last time I was there. Someone had been there, or maybe someone was there now.
Ray patted the holster clipped to his belt. A reflex move I'd seen him make on other occasions. I didn't think Craig would shoot us, but I liked the fact Ray came prepared.
He held out his hand, palm raised toward me. "You stay here. I'm going upstairs." Ray glared at me, warning in his eyes.
I waited until he was halfway up the first flight of steps, then closed the car door behind me, controlling the swing to prevent a bang. I started up the steps after him. He'd be angry, but there wasn't much he could do about it. A few steps later he turned and scowled. He didn't look happy.
I hurried to within a few feet of him. Screams ripped the air. I recognized them as Vanessa's. Ray bolted upward, taking two steps at a time. I couldn't keep up and watched from below. He yanked open the unlocked apartment door.
Craig appeared. His hands glistened red in the sun. The front of his shirt looked soaked in fresh blood. He planted both hands against Ray's shoulders and pushed, smashing Ray against the railing. The old wrought iron shuddered with the impact.
A vision of Ray falling through the air flashed through my mind. Thankfully, the railing held tight.
Craig glanced in my direction and took off running toward the stairs on the far side of the building.
Ray regained his balance and took off after him, racing at full speed. Craig did not appear to be armed. Ray kept his gun in its holster. When Craig reached the bottom of the first section of stairs, Ray grabbed the old railing and swung himself over it. He landed a few feet behind Craig. Ray leapt forward, hitting Craig's back with considerable momentum. This time the railing didn't hold. They both flew though the air, landing in a grassy area a few feet below.
I gasped in sympathy, then realized I couldn't waste another second. I needed to move. Ignoring my cramping hip and watching the men over my shoulder, I resumed the climb. I needed to get to Vanessa.
Craig struggled to his feet and, with strength he didn't look capable of, landed a right hook on Ray's jaw. It wasn't a good move on his part. Ray swung, clobbering Craig with a right hook of his own. Ray grabbed an arm, turning him and restraining him at the same time. I wasn't surprised when cuffs appeared in Ray's hand. Ray grabbed a piece of railing, shook with brutal force, and cuffed Craig to it.
I figured Ray's next move would be to call for backup and an ambulance. The whole chase and fight hadn't taken more than sixty seconds.
Out of breath and grabbing at my right leg, I used the railing to drag myself the last few steps. "Vanessa," I called, as I hurried through the apartment door. "Vanessa."
Nothing.
Stepping past the kitchen wall into the living room, I saw her lying on the floor. A kitchen knife with a six-inch blade lay in a pool of blood. The pool grew larger by the second. Picking the side with the least amount of blood, I knelt next to her.
"Vanessa."
She opened her eyes. "Craig did it," she whispered.
"We know."
"I did it." Her voice was so quiet I strained to hear.
Several wounds defiled her chest, and an artery in her arm ejected blood in little spurts. It looked like she had used her arms to fend off the attack. Ignoring everything I knew about blood-borne pathogens, I put my bare hand on the wound, applying pressure, hoping to stop her from exsanguinating. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"Hired killers. Gave picture. I had to." She rasped.
I grabbed a cell phone lying on a nearby table, laid it on the floor, and used my available hand to dial 9-1-1. Vanessa needed help fast if she was to have a chance of survival. When I finished with the call, I said, "Why did you want to kill Barry?"
"Barry pushed me. Abused me. Like Craig. Didn't want to. No choice. Couldn't take more abuse. Had to get out of the contract. Unfair what he did to me." She took several labored breaths.
"Oh Vanessa, we would have helped you."
"No. Couldn't get away. He told me I had to keep contract. No choice. Get sued. I knew."
"Did you disconnect Barry's ventilator?"
"Finished job. The men . . .screwed up. My fault. Finished job." Each breath made a rattling noise as her chest filled with blood.
"You're going to be okay," I lied.
"No." Her voice grew weaker.
I ripped her shirt away and found more stab wounds and knew she was right. The blood pooled under her. I let go of the bleeding artery in her arm. Holding it did no good. I watched as blood bubbled from her chest. Her eyes closed, and she breathed her last gurgling breath. I felt for her carotid pulse. Nothing.
I knelt there a long time, my friend's hand in mine, then looked up and saw a couple of paramedics staring at me.
"You okay, ma'am?" one of them asked.
"Yes, it's all Vanessa's." Then, without rational reason, I rubbed my bloody hands against my soaked sweater. "Guess this will never get clean."
The young man looked at me, shock in his eyes. I knew what I'd said was inappropriate. I was inappropriate. Tears ran down my cheeks as I sobbed, crying for my friend, for what she'd done, for what Craig did to her.
Then Ray was at my side, helping me to my feet. He took me into Vanessa's bathroom, stripped off my clothes, and pushed me into her shower. "I'll find you something to wear."
I stood there, water running red from my body, and watched as Ray bagged my clothing. He left the room, reappearing a minute later with some things of Vanessa's.
Ray stayed with me while I cleaned myself and dressed in Vanessa's shorts and top. I'd have to go barefoot. Her shoes were too large and mine were ruined.
He said, "I'm going to take you downstairs to the car. Stay in it until I come. Do you understand?"
I nodded.
He guided me past the room full of local police. The paramedics, I noticed, had gone. I recognized one of the Tamarac officers, but he said nothing to me, and I said nothing to him.
\*\*\*
It was dusk. I settled into the S2000 and waited as Ray lowered the top.
He kissed me on the forehead. "Please stay here. You don't need to see or hear what's going on upstairs."
I nodded.
He turned to leave.
"She confessed," I said, my voice almost a whisper.
"What did she say?"
I repeated her confession, her few guilt-ridden words. "I think she was powerless to do anything about it. She was afraid of losing everything. I think she saw no choice but to kill him."
A couple of Tamarac officers released Craig Vanderbilt from the railing and loaded him into a waiting squad car. He glanced in my direction, then looked away in apparent disgust. Remembering all the dinners Vanessa, Craig, and I shared, I wondered how I ever thought he was a nice person.
I sat there for what seemed like forever. Every so often, Ray peered over the railing, sometimes waving a hand, sometimes just looking. The medical examiner came and took Vanessa's body away. It was wrapped in a big zippered bag, then partially covered with a sheet. No one could see the damage to her beautiful body.
Ray returned and handed me the keys. "You look a little better."
"I'm okay."
"Go now," he said. "I'll be home later. You can go to the station tomorrow to make your statement."
He bent and kissed me.
"Home," I said as I turned onto the street. "He called my house his home."
I fell asleep when my head hit the pillow. I hadn't expected that. Much later, I heard the garage door open. I'm going to have to give him a key, I thought in my sleepy stupor. I listened as Sunshine greeted him. Then I heard the shower on the other side of the house. I wondered if he would join me in bed or use the spare room. I drifted off again, then became aware of him next to me.
"Ray," I said, snuggling. "I'm glad you're here."
"I'm glad I'm here too." He wrapped his strong arms around me and drew me close. "Vanderbilt confessed to abusing Vanessa. He even admitted harassing you. He wanted to scare you off. He thought Vanessa would tell you everything, and he didn't want that to happen."
"She did. Unfortunately, she was dying at the time." I thought for a moment. "Strange isn't it. He was violent enough to kill her, yet he protected her."
"He needed to be in control." He kissed me. "Sleep now. We'll talk in the morning."
It was early July, and the summer heat was unbearable. Connie and I chatted in front of the nurses' station on the pediatric unit, surrounded by murals of jungle animals, safari trains, and hanging vines. We watched a couple of toddlers explore the playroom across the hall.
Our supervisor granted our transfer requests within days of each other. I transferred to the pediatric emergency department, and she transferred to the pediatric inpatient unit. I had floated upstairs in response to a staffing crisis, and Connie seemed intent on catching up on the news.
She said, "You're telling me Craig Vanderbilt won't fry? Ah, come on. He killed her in cold blood, grabbed her from the hospital for the purpose."
"The deal was that if he pleaded guilty to the murder, the state wouldn't ask for the death penalty."
"It's too bad he took it. I would have enjoyed knowing the state was going to execute him."
"Not going to happen. Ray said he'll be sentenced to life with no hope of parole. At least he won't be exerting his control over another woman." I watched the toddlers playing, one on each side of the small playroom. We would discharge them later today into the arms of their loving families. "And the good thing is he'll spend the rest of his life thinking about and reliving what he did to Vanessa. I think he deserves to suffer."
Connie looked thoughtful. "What I can't understand is why and how Vanessa contacted the hit men."
"That's the strange part. Hutchinson was jerking her around, and she wanted out of the real estate contract. Hutchinson wouldn't budge, so she decided to take care of the situation. Craig came to town, showed up at her apartment, then offered to help. He knew some guys from the gym he used to frequent. They put him in touch with the right people. Then, after the shooting, Amelia told her the contract was still binding. By the time Amelia fessed up about the contract not being complete, Vanessa and Craig had decided to give their relationship another go of it. They planned to live in the townhouse. That's why Vanessa insisted Amelia push the sale through."
"But Vanessa was angry about being forced to buy the house."
"That was all show. She was concerned Ray would make the connection, especially after the shooters were arrested."
Connie knitted her brows. "So Vanessa didn't place the contract herself?"
"I don't know for sure. In his statement, Craig said he took her to the meeting and gave her the money she needed."
"That makes Craig guilty in Hutchinson's death, too."
I nodded, then glanced in the direction of the elevators and saw Ray exit when the doors opened. "Hi, Babe," I said after I buzzed Ray into our locked unit. "What's up?"
"Not a thing. I thought I'd come by and take you to lunch." He kissed my cheek and smiled at Connie. He looked spiffy in his navy blue sport coat and khaki slacks. "Connie, want to join us?"
"Can't do that," Connie said. "But thanks anyway. One of us has to stay with the kids."
I put my hand on Connie's shoulder. "Mind if I take first lunch?"
"No, go ahead. Enjoy." She flashed us a big smile, then hurried into the playroom to keep a closer eye on the toddlers.
As Ray and I stood waiting for the elevator, I asked, "What's the occasion?"
"I have an offer on my condo." He put his arm around my shoulders. I felt the warmth of his hand though the thin cotton of my uniform.
"Really?" I looked at him and smiled.
"You'll never believe who the realtor is."
"Try me."
"Amelia Hutchinson." He grinned. "She looks good. She must have lost forty pounds since her husband died, and she seemed full of energy."
"Who's she working for?" The elevator door opened in front of us.
"One of the big firms." He mentioned the name. "She said it wouldn't have worked with Wiley, so she sold what she could from the existing business and went on her way. She said she's doing fine."
"Did you ask about Jamel?" I asked, stepping onto the empty elevator.
"He's still having problems, but he's registered to go to school in the fall, and she thinks he's working regularly."
"That's something. She deserves a break." I turned to face Ray and took both of his hands in mine. "Was it a good offer?"
"Decent, not wonderful." He smiled and told me the details.
"You going to take it?" I asked.
"I'd like to. Are you sure you can handle having me around full-time?"
"I think so." I put my hands on his shoulders and stretched to kiss him. The elevator doors opened on the first floor. "I know so."
The End
Imperfect
Murder
A Sophia Burgess
and Ray Stone Mystery
Preview
Gregg E. Brickman
Imperfect Murder
The telltale buzz of a cell phone set on vibrate interrupted the condo closing. Both men patted their pockets, and Kathleen and I reached for our purses. Dick produced the offending device, flipped it open, and grunted a hello.
"I'm on my way," Dick said after listening in silence for thirty seconds. "Stone's here. We'll come together."
"What's that about?" Ray asked, rising to his feet.
Dick glanced at his wife then at Ray. "Woman and small boy dead. A young girl hurt."
"Sophi, I'll see you later," Ray said, bending to kiss me goodbye. "Dick, what you drivin'?"
"The Taurus." It was Dick's department-issue vehicle. It carried equipment they'd need at the scene. "We'll take it."
Ray tossed me the keys to his Honda S2000. "I'll call you so you can drop the car at the scene later."
Kathleen and I watched as the two men departed. Dick, whose full name was Richard Reeves Schneider, looked so much like Raymond Robert Stone they could have been brothers. Of the two detectives, my boyfriend, Ray, was slightly taller---six-two compared with six feet---and had blue eyes rather than brown. They sported trimmed dark goatees, short dark brown hair, and muscular builds with broad shoulders. Both used RRS to sign notes and mark belongings. Ray had tiny cramped script, Dick a distinctive scrawl.
Their similarities were a constant source of confusion on the job. Ray investigated homicides, and Dick specialized in child abuse. Sometimes they worked together when a homicide involved a child. It caused a stir in the Coral Bay Police Department when Dick and his wife decided to purchase Ray's condominium.
As had happened before, we stayed behind to deal with the routines of life while the two detectives went off to poke at the dirty underside of the world, which, in truth, was an area we dealt with regularly ourselves. We worked as nurses in the Emergency Room of Coral Bay Medical Center.
Though she still worked limited hours, Kathleen's multiple sclerosis made getting into the S2000 a challenge. I grabbed onto her right arm and supported her weight while she dropped into the car.
I slipped into the driver's seat and buckled up. Kathleen did likewise. She'd had more than one experience with my driving Ray's little red roadster. I turned the key in its cylinder, pushed the red start button, lowered the ragtop, released the parking brake, and slid the six-speed transmission into first gear. We were off.
The engine roared, and when I glanced in Kathleen's direction, I saw the wind sweeping through her long blond hair. The temperature was in the high eighties, and the sky was clear. It would have been a perfect Florida summer day except for the hideous crime that had wiped out a family in our community. Trying to force the horror out of my mind, I accelerated onto the Sawgrass Expressway, pushing the powerful VTEC engine to its maximum. We went from zero-to-sixty in six seconds. I timed it.
Having secured my adrenaline rush from rapid acceleration, I slowed to the posted speed limit. We were at the Mini dealership in less than ten minutes, where my own red car awaited me. I loaded Kathleen into the car and sent her to fetch her four-year-old son, Mikey, from day-care. Then I headed in the direction of the crime scene, having heard Dick tell Ray the name of the development as they hurried out of Quality Title. Kathleen would swing by and pick me up as soon as she could.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gregg E. Brickman was born the daughter of a North Dakota country printer. She migrated to Florida and completed her education, embarking on a varied career in clinical, administrative, and academic nursing.
Gregg started writing as a teenager, turning out pages of sappy poetry. In the mid-nineties, she bought a book about writing a novel and committed the story burning in her head to paper. She called that first novel a learner's effort, joined Mystery Writers of America, and actively pursued the craft.
Credits include Illegally Dead [Kindle and CreateSpace], Chapter 14 of Naked Came the Flamingo, a Murder on the Beach progressive novella edited by Barbara Parker and Joan Mickelson, and On the Edge, a short story [MiamiARTzine.com]. The Writers' Network of South Florida recognized On the Edge among the finalists in their Seventh Annual Short Story Contest.
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