The detective stood. Jessie hadn’t realized until just then how tall he was—well over six feet—with the muscular, angled build of an athlete. “Just one more thing,” he said, “a quick reminder—we don’t want any information about the Harts, or any description of their wounds, released.” He paused, probably for effect, Jessie thought and then he nodded.
“Hey, Jessie, right?” The detective came up behind her.
She nodded. “Hate to admit it, but I forgot your name.”
“Sam. Sam Dallas, Homicide.” He loosened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair, a tiny tuft at the back standing straight up, which made him seem somehow boyish despite the holster and badge on his belt.
“Jessie? A word?” Sheila’s eyes bored into her.
“Sure.” She turned to Sam. “Sorry, maybe later?”
She didn’t have to wonder what Sheila wanted to say. She was only surprised that she didn’t get a public lashing at the debriefing. Grateful at least for that, she followed Sheila to her office, a room larger than the staff lounge and just a tiny bit smaller than her apartment. A polished mahogany desk rested on an ornate Persian carpet, and a tiny desk lamp gave off a gentle glow as if to soothe anyone who was invited in. Jessie slid into a straight-backed wooden chair.
Sheila flicked on the bright overhead lights just before she dropped into one of those cushioned ergonomic chairs that had become so popular. “So,” she leaned forward, tenting her hands as if about to pray, “can you tell me about this morning’s headline?” She held up a copy of the Boston Globe with the headline: Please forget about me. Just save my wife! “Do you know anything about this?”
Chapter Seven
Jessie fidgeted in her seat. “No. I just heard it on the news.”
“Really? It says here that the reporter’s source is an ER nurse. Is that you?”
“No, and it’s not Carol or Elena either.” She sat a little straighter, folding her hands in her lap.
“And how would you know that?”
“Because Hart never said that, or anything even remotely close to that.”
“Mr. Hart is not denying that he said that. In fact, he said he has no complaint with that headline. But we in Administration, of course, do.”
“Just speak to the reporter then. Whoever it is will have to admit that he, or she, was never told that.”
“We did speak with him—Bert Gibbons. I believe you know him?”
A flush rose to her cheeks. “I knew him. I don’t see or speak to him these days.”
“Really? What would you say if I told you he showed me the call thread on his phone?” Sheila leaned back in her chair, her gaze tight on Jessie.
Hmm, Jessie thought, now there’s a perfect pair: Bert and Sheila. A match made in heaven, or more likely, hell. “He is not even remotely a friend. I do not pick up when he calls.” And then she remembered: she had picked up—just last night. He was a devious son of a bitch.
“Well, obviously, we have to deal with this. This is a HIPAA violation, but because the patient was pleased with the headline, and confirms that he said that, the hospital will not be fined. Still, we must make it clear to all of the staff that violating HIPAA is a grievous act.” She picked up a pen from her desk and held it as if poised to sign a document. “I could suspend you.”
Her words hung in the air, the threat clear. Jessie had almost no savings and no idea how she’d even pay her rent. Her mouth felt dry as cotton and her mind raced trying to formulate a plan. It would probably take longer to find a job than to wait this out. She sat perfectly still; she neither frowned nor smiled; she didn’t react at all. Not reacting was the only way she knew to fight back. Her dad had once said, “Never let them see you cry, honey. You just gotta toughen up.” And she’d made it a point to follow his advice. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and remained silent.
“But I won’t,” Sheila finally said after a long, dramatic pause. “I will, however, transfer you to the ICU for a week or two. I’ll check with the critical care team and see where you’re needed.”
Jessie could only nod, afraid that if she did try to speak, she would cry. She was a damn ER nurse, not a friggin’ ICU nurse. Administrators never seemed to understand the difference.
“Report to the ICU manager at seven a.m. She’ll be able to assign you then.”
“I work evenings, three to eleven, not days.”
Sheila stood then, dismissing her. “Seven a.m.”
The first stirrings of a headache pricked at Jessie’s eyes. She blinked at the harsh lights as she stood. She considered, only for a moment, saying something snarky, but decided against it. She’d only make matters worse. She didn’t deserve this, but at least she still had a job.
She pulled up the hood of her slicker, and exited through the ambulance bay hoping that Sam Dallas had hung around. She wanted to share her lingering questions about Hart. She stepped out of the ER and into a glare of cameras, the bright lights bouncing off the nearby puddles, almost dissolving the day’s steely grayness. The mayor and police commissioner stood under the building’s overhang away from the rain facing a crowd of reporters. Sam was just behind them. The reporters were huddled under shared umbrellas, the rain drumming softly, in contrast to the rapid-fire pelting of questions they aimed at the commissioner and mayor.
“Who was first to arrive on the scene?” one reporter shouted, holding her microphone out. The police commissioner, Jim Conley, a thin, almost frail man who seemed lost in his suit, motioned to Sam to step forward. “Sam Dallas, our chief investigator on this case, can best answer those questions.”
Sam stepped up and cleared his throat. “A patrolman was the first to arrive. He confirmed immediately that we needed two ambulances for two critically injured victims.”
“Where were they?”
“As we’ve said, they were in the alley behind the theater on Warrenton Street.”
“I actually meant, were they sitting, standing, sprawled on the ground?”
“Mr. Hart had pulled himself up to a sitting position. Mrs. Hart was lying face down next to him.”
“He hadn’t turned her? Tried to help her?”
Good question, Jessie thought, heaving a satisfied sigh. But then there was silence. No one else dared to follow that line of questioning.
“Do you know any more about what happened?” another reporter asked.
“Not much more than what we’ve already told you. Mr. Hart and his wife were heading to their car after a night out when a man walked up behind them and forced them into the alley where he shot and robbed them.”
“Just one shooter? Do we have any description?”
“Well, we’ve been told he had a Spanish accent, and Mr. Hart thinks he caught sight of a tattoo on the man’s face and right hand, the hand which held the gun. So, it’s not much, but it’s something.”
A tattoo, Jessie thought. When did Hart remember that? He hadn’t mentioned it that night. Which now that she considered it was actually thirty-six hours ago, though already it seemed a lifetime. She folded her arms against the chill and moved closer.
“A Hispanic man with a tattoo on his face and right hand? Won’t that description fit hundreds of men in Boston? Are you going to target the Spanish community?”
“We’re going to go where the evidence leads us,” Sam replied stonily. “This is a fluid investigation.”
“Is there any physical evidence?” a reporter shouted, holding her cell phone out to catch his reply.
“The gunman shot three times. One shot hit Mr. Hart in the side, the second missed him as he fell, and the third hit Mrs. Hart in the head. Mr. Hart’s fall, by the way, likely saved his life. That bullet that missed him was found lodged into a window casing in the alley.”
“And the Harts. How are they?”
“Still critical,” the mayor replied.
“Was there any evidence at the scene?”
“We have the third bullet and the one that struck Mr. Hart. Unfortunatel
y, the doctors were not able to remove the bullet that struck Mrs. Hart.”
“What about surveillance cameras? Anything valuable from them?”
“Again, unfortunately, the city was in the process of upgrading cameras in that area. The only footage we have is from a block or so away, and that video only revealed images of the Harts walking towards their car. No sign of a gunman.”
“Isn’t that a bit of a coincidence? Could the gunman be a city employee? I mean most days those cameras capture everything. Kind of convenient for the shooter that they were out of commission on that night.”
Jessie wanted to raise her hand. She had questions, too, but asking them here risked her job, and that was a chance she couldn’t take. At least not right now.
The mayor stepped to the center of the crowd. “I want to announce that a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to the arrest of the shooter has been posted.” He paused and turned to the police commissioner. “We all thank you for coming today and for any help you can provide in this investigation.”
“That’s it,” the commissioner announced as he stepped to the microphone.
“Nothing else?” someone else called.
Sam nodded. “We continue to develop information and will release what we have when that is appropriate.”
The group began to break up. One reporter and a cameraman headed towards the ambulance bay for a live shot. Jessie moved out of the way quickly, shoving her hands in her pockets. She’d have to go through the walk-in entrance to find her way back to the garage.
“Hey, Jessie! Wait!”
She turned to see Sam Dallas approaching her. “I was afraid I’d missed you,” he said. “Were you watching?” He motioned back to the area where the glut of microphones was being cleared away.
“Just the last bit.”
“What did you think?”
“Interesting.” She adjusted her hood to keep the rain from her hair.
He opened a large black umbrella and held it above both of them. “I’d like to speak with you about the case. Off the record. I have a feeling you have something to say. I could be wrong, but my gut is usually right.”
“I probably shouldn’t say anything. I’m already in trouble.”
“The headline? That was you?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t any of us. Hart never said that. But I knew that reporter, and he apparently told them it was me.”
Sam’s jaw dropped open. “What a louse.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“How about you tell me the rest over at L Street?” He flashed an easy grin, the rain failing to dampen his smile or the sudden sparkle in his eyes.
Once again, she was charmed. At least they weren’t outside a trauma room while lives hung in the balance. This seemed more natural. She nodded. “I’ll meet you there. My car’s in the employee garage and I live just around the corner from L Street.” They arranged to meet in thirty minutes, giving her a chance to untangle her curls, apply some eyeliner and a splash of color on her lips. Sam Dallas would be a nice change of pace.
And maybe, just maybe, he was just what she needed.
Chapter Eight
Jessie found an empty spot right in front of her building. She raced upstairs, inserted her key in her lock, expecting the usual tussle with the aging tumbler mechanism, but instead she’d barely turned the key and the knob when the door eased open. She froze. She’d locked her door this morning; she was sure of it. It was almost second nature—turning to lock up before she left. Every time.
Had she forgotten, or was the lock just loose again? It wouldn’t be the first time the lock had failed to engage. But today, with everything going on, it seemed somehow more than a lousy lock. She pulled the key out and gently pushed on the door and peered in while she stood outside. That was the beauty of a small apartment; she could see almost everything from the doorway. But there was nothing to see.
“Hello?” she called out, her voice echoing back to her. She stepped inside but kept the door open in case she needed a fast escape. Nothing seemed to be missing or even disturbed. She looked around the corner and into her bedroom and inhaled deeply. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath.
She retraced her steps, closed and locked the door, and flicked on the light in her windowless bathroom. She didn’t want to overdo her makeup; after all, this wasn’t really a date. It was just lunch, but there was nothing wrong in looking good, because maybe it would turn into something more. She lined her eyelids with a smoky black pencil, applied a sweep of mascara to her lashes and ran a wash of pink color over her lips, then stood back to have a look. The liner brought out the gray flecks in her hazel eyes, the mascara made them sparkle just a little, and the lip color somehow gave her skin, usually so pale and dull, a dewy appearance. She pulled her hair into a high ponytail, leaving a few tousled curls loose to frame her face. Not bad, she thought, heading to the kitchen for a bottle of water.
She reached for the refrigerator handle and stopped, puzzled. Her work schedule, which she always kept under a magnet on her fridge, was gone. She wouldn’t have thrown it out. That was how she knew week to week what days she was working. Without it, she’d be lost. She searched the floor, the wastebasket, even the inside of the refrigerator, but it was nowhere. Inexplicably, it was gone. She shook her head. She must be losing it; she may have forgotten to lock her front door and she’d lost her schedule. At least there was something of a bright side. She wouldn’t need that schedule. Tomorrow, she’d start days in the ICU.
She took a long swig of water, grabbed her slicker and headed out, careful to check that the lock on her front door was secure this time. Outside, she took a deep breath and turned towards East 8th Street, the familiar streets lined with brick rowhouses and narrow three-deckers, perfect little neighborhoods tucked into the heart of the city. From there, the L Street Tavern was just a block away. She assumed that was the place he meant. At least the rain had stopped. Despite her banishment to the ICU, this day just might turn out okay after all. There was a decided bounce to her step as she turned onto L Street, but it was there that she stepped into the street without thinking. A horn blared, someone shouted and a screech of tires filled the air. “What the hell, lady!” someone screamed.
“Sorry,” she said, backing away, willing herself to pay attention. She stuffed her hands in her pockets. Maybe the day shift would turn out to be a good thing after all.
Sam Dallas was standing outside when she arrived. “You weren’t waiting long, I hope?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure if you meant the Tavern or the Diner.”
He laughed. “And yet, here we are—at the Tavern.” He held the door open and then led her to a pub table along the side wall. The lights were dimmed; there was a hum of conversation, the tinkle of glasses, and a small group of older men huddled together at the long mahogany bar, speaking in hushed tones.
“Handy that you live so close,” Sam said, pulling his stool next to hers. “Do you come here often?” Then, before she could answer, he laughed, the hearty laugh of a man comfortable with himself. “I don’t think I’ve ever used that line before.” He raised a brow in amusement and motioned for the bartender, who nodded. “Beer?” Sam asked.
And Jessie was charmed once again. “Yeah,” she replied, trying not to sound too eager. “That sounds good. I’m not working today, so yeah—a beer.”
The bartender served their beers and nodded towards the group at the bar. “They’re calling in an order to Sal’s. They wanted to know if you wanted to order, too.” One of the men turned and waved.
“Pizza?” Sam asked. “We won’t have to leave.”
“Perfect.”
Sam strode to the group, placed his order and peeled off some bills from his wallet. He turned back to Jessie and reached for his beer as he sat. “So, back to business. I was watching you today during the press conference. It seemed to me as though you didn’t believe a word.”
/> “I’m that easy to read, huh?” She took a sip of beer, studying him over the rim of her glass.
“No, not at all, except where Hart’s concerned. You seemed a bit cynical at the staff meeting, too.”
She licked the foam from her lips. “Skepticism is healthy, right?”
“Won’t deny that. But why are you skeptical?” He raised a brow.
“The question is—why aren’t you?”
“Maybe I am, but I’ve been doing this for a long time, and my gut tells me Hart is a victim. You seem to think otherwise. Tell me why. I’ve learned enough to know that sometimes an observer sees things more clearly than me.” He put his hand on her knee. “I want to see what it is that you see.”
Jessie’s thigh was hot where Sam had placed his hand, and he made no move to pull it away. She wasn’t sure she could pay attention to his questions just then, and she wanted to—no, she needed to share her thoughts. Even if it was all for nothing. At least she’d have shared what she knew. “You were there. You saw him in the trauma room. Elena said he never asked about his wife. The only person he was worried about was himself.”
“He was in shock. You gotta give the guy a break.”
“Everyone’s giving him a break. How about giving his wife a break?” Sam moved his hand from her thigh and reached for his beer, and Jessie couldn’t help but notice that there was something almost graceful in his movements—his long, tapered fingers, like those of a pianist, and the way he held his glass, his hands wrapping around and gently caressing the bottle. It was hypnotic. She forced her eyes away.
“Tell me what you mean,” he said.
And she was grateful to get back to the subject at hand. “So, a robber forces them into an alley. Tells the husband to hand over his valuables and then shoots him in the side. He falls to the ground. Then, without asking for anything from the wife—tell me if there’s something I don’t know here—he turns to her and shoots her in the back of the head. As a parting shot, he shoots one more time, but apparently just into the air. You said today that bullet was found in the window casing. Correct?”
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 5
