Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1)

by Roberta Gately

  Jessie moved in front of the gurney. “Not to me it isn’t, and not to my patient. What’s going on?”

  “Sorry. I’ve been told to keep everyone out. I wasn’t even looking. Reporters tried to sneak in earlier.” He moved to the side. “Go on.”

  “This is crazy,” she muttered to herself as she and her little band moved towards the ICU. Another policeman stood guard at the entrance to the ICU. She showed him her ID and moved aside so he could see her patient. “We’re going in there.” She pointed to the closed door and swiped her badge across the blinking light. The door swung open and she stepped inside, the familiar hum of monitors, ventilators and beeping infusion pumps filling the small space.

  “Room eight,” the clerk said, nodding her head to a room at the end of the nursing station. A nurse appeared. “I’m taking him. Transport and the aide can get him set up. Want to give me report and have some coffee? We have donuts, too, courtesy of the mayor’s office.”

  “God, I’d love some. I’m starving.” And though she didn’t say it, she knew what every nurse knew—that there wasn’t too much that was better than free coffee and donuts on a busy morning. She followed behind to the nursing station and into the small office. Several boxes of donuts and muffins were piled alongside a tall chrome pot that exuded the scent of fresh coffee. Jessie poured herself a cup and plucked a chocolate-frosted donut from the box on top. “I had to pass two policemen to get in. Are the Harts both still here?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a sigh. “I know it’s sad, but I long for the routine of a regular day without all the interruptions and calls—from the mayor, reporters, you name it. I’d even give up the donuts.” She smiled and picked one out, taking a bite. “Well, maybe not the donuts.”

  Jessie gave her report on her patient and followed the nurse out to the corridor, where all the rooms were surrounded by glass so staff could watch their critically ill patients even from the desk. But the first room, right across from the nursing station, held Rob Hart, who was sitting in a chair, a newspaper on his lap, a smiling intern by his side. It was a bizarre scene considering his wife’s condition. “He’s a jerk,” the nurse said, catching Jess’s glance. “He doesn’t need the ICU. Should have gone from Recovery to a floor, but politics reign supreme.”

  “Has he seen his wife?”

  She shook her head. “We rolled him down to see her, but he just looked in, said the machines and pumps overwhelmed him and he didn’t want to see her like that. He asked about her later, but only after I mentioned that she’d had surgery for a decompression craniectomy to help relieve the pressure on her brain, not that it will change the outcome. Poor thing. Like I said, he’s a jerk.”

  “I guess he is. Hey, thanks for the donut,” Jessie called as she turned to go. Rob Hart looked up at the sound of her voice, catching her in his gaze, and smiled. He actually smiled! Or was it a smirk? Her face flushed red, and she forced herself to walk away. Something was wrong here, very wrong. She knew everyone processed things differently, but this was too much, no matter how you looked at it.

  She headed back to the ER, restocked the trauma room, went out to Triage, which was a waste of time considering how few walk-ins were showing up, or maybe being allowed in, and sat there evaluating only a handful of patients until it was time to go. A waste of a day, but the easiest overtime she’d ever do. At two o’clock, she grabbed her sweater and her keys and headed home, her thoughts still consumed by the curious behavior of Rob Hart. She chided herself. Maybe he didn’t understand the gravity of his wife’s condition, but the poor woman was pregnant. Why wasn’t he at least asking about the baby? She caught herself and tried to shut off those thoughts. It was none of her darn business; she just had to stop being so judgmental.

  With overtime pay in her future, she stopped to pick up a sandwich for dinner. Her good luck continued when she found an open spot not far from her building. Once home, she changed out her scrubs for sweats, surveyed the pile of dirty laundry in her bedroom and felt her shoulders sag. It was now or never. She stuffed her clothes into a garbage bag, plucked quarters and detergent from her counter and headed to the basement laundry room where her luck held. Both machines were available; she sorted towels from her clothes, slid her quarters into the slots and as soon as she heard the washers click on, she headed back upstairs.

  With her laundry out of the way, she tidied up, before clicking on the television just in time for the early news. Once again, the Harts led the broadcast, their smiling photos on full display as reporters tried to craft “exclusives” out of thin air. “Both victims remain in critical condition,” one anchor droned. Another focused on the robbery, though since more was left behind than taken, that seemed to Jessie an unlikely motive. Rob Hart had become the center of attention, an almost-hero just for calling nine-one-one. He’d apparently spearheaded a group for inner city youth, and photos of him shooting hoops with the boys flashed across the screen. She could only shake her head. Seemed as though everyone else thought he was some kind of prince. Ann Hart was described briefly as a beloved first grade teacher, but mostly she was referred to simply as Rob Hart’s wife, as if she didn’t really exist beyond that.

  Jessie clicked through to another channel and a different perspective. “Aside from a Spanish accent, there is little to go on. Police report that surveillance cameras in the area were being changed out. Few were in working order and only one caught the young couple as they walked to their car, a block from the shooting. In those shots, there is no glimpse of the shooter, who was likely lurking in the shadows. Whoever he is, the police assure us they will find him. For the victims, and for the rest of us, perhaps it’s time to reconsider the death penalty in Massachusetts,” he finished.

  Another news report described the police harassment of young Hispanic males. The police commissioner and the mayor were both quoted as saying that getting the shooter off the street was the city’s first priority, but that they remained mindful of everyone’s rights.

  Jessie finished off her sandwich, took a quick shower and curled up on her couch with a cup of tea and a new book—a mystery, her favorite. She was engrossed in her book when her iPhone rang and without checking, she hit accept.

  “Oh, Jessie, you finally answered,” a familiar and unwelcome voice crooned.

  Damn it! She almost said it aloud. It was Bert, her stalker; at least, that was how she thought of him when she was forced to think of him at all. He’d been a reporter with the Associated Press when he’d shown up in the ER one morning after a large airliner had slid from the runway, its nose smashing into one of the concrete barriers along the perimeter during an ice storm. The only injuries had been to the pilot who was admitted to the ICU. The ER had been deluged with phone calls, requests for interviews and queries about the pilot, and then Bert arrived, looking rumpled and weary. His gray hair was combed over but did little to hide a shiny, balding scalp. “I’m here about the plane,” he’d announced.

  “Yeah, you and everyone else,” Jessie had answered, her hand on her hip, her impatience with all of the questions surrounding the incident clear. “No information is being released. You should have called. The operator could have saved you a trip.” She’d turned to walk away when he spoke up.

  “You don’t understand—he’s my brother,” Bert had said.

  She turned back, the half-smile on his face telling her it was a lie. She hesitated, thinking how to get rid of him. “Really?” she asked. “He’s black,” she said, to call his bluff.

  Bert cringed. “Caught,” he said. “Touché. Won’t you take mercy on a reporter and just give me a crumb?”

  She’d laughed. He seemed like a decent guy. Still, she shook her head. “You’ve heard of HIPAA, right? The privacy act? I can’t tell you anything. I can’t even tell you if he’s here.”

  Bert had handed her his card and boldly asked for a date. “No,” she’d answered too quickly, his droopy eyes drooping even more. He was too old. He must be fifty, or more, but she didn’
t want to hurt his feelings. “I have a boyfriend.”

  “So, you’ll call me if you break up with him?”

  She flashed him a mischievous smile—a move that would turn out to be a big mistake. But she didn’t know that then. “You’re the first person I’ll call.”

  Bert called the ER regularly over the next few months, and finally Jessie gave in and accepted his invitation to have a drink after work. He’d been overjoyed, and she didn’t quite get his eagerness to impress her. He was a national reporter after all, and though too old for her, he also seemed out of her league.

  Until she got to know him.

  Chapter Six

  Over drinks, Bert had said he was just back from a professional break after years as a war correspondent covering conflicts in Afghanistan, Iraq and too many other dicey spots to remember. He’d won a Pulitzer Prize and then fallen on hard times, and was just now, he’d said, working his way back up, writing a novel, too. Jessie had been intrigued and accepted a second date and then a third to hear more of his story. But it was after that third date, when he’d tried to force a flurry of wet kisses on her, swearing loudly when she’d rebuffed him, that she knew he was a creep. She’d stopped taking his calls, told security at work about him, and he’d finally seemed to take the hint, disappearing for almost a year.

  When Jessie had googled him, she’d found his story wasn’t quite true. He’d won some awards but not the Pulitzer, and the hard times he’d mentioned were actually episodes of plagiarism for which he’d been fired. These days, he was a freelance reporter, scrambling to get back into the business, but he apparently had lots of free time. Her phone regularly lit up with his messages, at first declaring how much he cared for her, then saying she was making a big mistake by avoiding him. She tried blocking him, but he changed his number so frequently, it just seemed easier to ignore him.

  But here he was once again. “Bert, please don’t call me again.” She moved to end the call.

  “Don’t hang up,” he pleaded. “I won’t bother you again. I just wanted you to know that you’ve helped me to move on. With everything. I’m freelancing for the Associated Press, I have a publisher for my novel, and I’m moving to London for a job. I just wanted to say goodbye. That’s all.”

  “Good luck,” she said softly, though what she wanted to say was good riddance. At least he was going away, and she’d be free of his endless calls.

  She slept soundly, waking to the calming patter of rain on her windows. She rolled over intending to go back to sleep, and then her phone began to ring. She pulled a pillow over her face hoping to block out the sound, but it was no good. Whoever was calling wasn’t about to give up. She reached one arm out from under the covers and picked up the phone. “Hello,” she mumbled.

  “Oh, thank God you answered,” Donna said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten. Hate to ruin your last day off but Sheila’s having a debriefing, and you have to be there.”

  Sheila was their ghost of a nurse manager, invisible on most days except for the edicts she issued by email—no acrylic nails, no eating or drinking in patient areas, no cell phone use on duty, sign your notes by the end of your shift—all rules well known already by staff. But Sheila liked to think she was a force to be reckoned with, and so the emails continued. A tallish woman with brassy, overly processed blonde hair and a little too much eyeliner, she walked with a haughty gait, her shoulders back, her head high, a click above anyone else. Or at least, she liked to think that she was.

  “Not coming. You’re right. It’s my last day off and I’m sleeping.” It was no secret that she hated the touchy-feely flow of those damn debriefings. And what was the point of them anyway? Debriefings were held after major traumas so those involved could get in touch with their feelings and share any angst they felt. Wasn’t that what Foley’s was for? “I don’t need to be soothed. I’m fine.”

  “Sheila says it’s mandatory. Sorry. She asked me to call you.”

  “So, tell her you couldn’t reach me.”

  “Can’t. You have to come in. We’re headed in shortly. Just get here. You’ll be paid.”

  “You can’t pay me enough, but I’ll be there,” she said, reluctantly pulling away her blanket and clicking on her television as she shivered her way to the shower. She was just drying off when she heard it.

  “The Associated Press is reporting that an ER nurse has told them that Rob Hart’s last words before being rushed to the OR were, ‘Please forget about me. Just save my wife!’ Heart-wrenching words from a loving husband whose own life hangs in the balance. The Boston Police Department plan to hold a press conference later today to update their search for the shooter. We’ll bring you that update as it happens.”

  Jessie fumed. That lie must have come from that little weasel, Bert. She threw her towel to the floor and dressed hurriedly, grabbing her rain slicker as she wrenched open her door and raced to her car. She navigated the roads by memory alone, slipping through one red light and nearly going through another until a car horn blared loudly, breaking through the narrow pulse of anger that shut out everything else. She pulled into the garage and walked swiftly through the corridors and into the main entrance before turning into the ER, swiping her ID across the sensor to gain entrance.

  “Whoa! Slow down, where are you rushing off to?” It was Cheryl, the infinitely kind clerk, always smiling, always reminding staff to take it easy.

  “The debriefing. A command appearance.”

  “Poor you,” Cheryl sympathized. “They’re all in the conference room out back.”

  “Conference room?”

  “Brace yourself. There’s a crowd in there.”

  “Oh, hell,” Jessie mumbled to herself. “I should have stayed home.” She hadn’t even had coffee yet. And now this. She sighed and headed for the conference room.

  The conference room doors were wide open, people spilling into the hallway. She could hear voices from within but, at the back of the crowd, she was too far out to make any sense of what was going on. She elbowed her way through the crowd of strangers, not a familiar face among them until she spied Donna in the center. “Ahh, here she is,” Donna said, relief dripping from her words.

  The room fell silent as Jessie made her way to a chair that Donna held out for her. Finally, she saw a few familiar faces. Besides Donna and Sheila, there were Carol and Elena, nurses who were also working the night of the shooting, Tim Merrick, the surgeon, Neil Doherty, the surgical resident, a few administrators and, tucked into a corner of the room, the detective from that night. He smiled broadly, and raised a brow as if they were in on something together. He’d given her his card, but she couldn’t remember what she’d done with it. It was probably in the pocket of her scrubs. What the heck was his name anyway?

  “So, to bring you up to speed,” Sheila began, looking around the room, leveling her razor-sharp gaze on Jessie. “We know,” she continued, her prissy voice grating on Jessie’s ears, “that this type of case can wreak havoc on our staff’s personal lives, and we’ve brought you all together, in this safe place, to share your feelings.” She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, a look of genuine concern on her face. The ER staff knew that look was contrived, designed to fool onlookers. The real Sheila didn’t care what the staff thought. “Jessie?” she asked. All eyes were suddenly trained on her. “Anything you’d like to share?”

  Jessie folded her arms across her chest, and sank further into the chair. “No,” she said shaking her head to emphasize her answer.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I’m just here to listen.”

  “Well, Dr. Merrick, will you continue?”

  The surgeon cleared his throat, mostly to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “As I was saying, the Hart shooting was a tragedy. The victim believes the shooter was an immigrant, and that affects all of us since, as you know, the community we serve includes a large number of Hispanic immigrants.”

  He droned on, and Jessie
let her mind wander, her gaze falling on the detective. He sat stiffly, his fingers drumming on his leg, his eyes scanning the room.

  “What about the wife?” Carol asked. “How is she?”

  “Hanging on by a thread,” Tim replied. “Neurosurgery says it’s only a matter of time—days, maybe hours.”

  “So, no chance of speaking with her?” The detective sat forward as he spoke.

  “None.” Tim’s voice was harsh, dismissive as though he’d had enough, and as if to underscore that, he stood, pushing his chair away from the table. “I have to get back to the OR. You all know where to find me.”

  The room went quiet. “Any questions, thoughts?” Donna asked, her eyes scanning the attendees’ faces.

  Jessie raised her hand, her curiosity getting the better of her bad mood. “Why all the attention for this case? I understand that they’re a nice young couple, but we have shootings almost every day. It seems, I don’t know… unfair maybe, to make this case a priority when there are so many others we forget about the next day. I know that sounds weird to ask, but, well, that’s my question.”

  The detective, whose name still eluded her, nodded. “Last night’s victim is the mayor’s chief of staff. The mayor has personally pushed this up to the highest level. I wish we had these resources for all of our victims, but the reality is we don’t.”

  Jessie felt a flush rising from her neck. She hadn’t meant to put him in the hot seat, and she wondered if he was trying to put her in her place. “I didn’t mean to direct that to you. I just, I don’t know. This whole thing…”

  “I understand. Can we have a word after the meeting?”

  “Uh, sure.” There were days she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Today was one of those.

  “Okay, everyone,” Donna said. “If there are no more questions or comments, that’s it. If anyone has trouble sleeping, or dealing with their feelings, we have help for that. Okay?”