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

by Roberta Gately

  Jessie’s eyes welled up. “Thanks, Pat. I owe you. Have a good day.”

  She checked her watch. Twenty minutes to seven. She couldn’t be late, and she was cutting it too close. She sprinted to her car, pulled into the damn pricey garage and raced to the elevator. She pressed hard on the up button. “Come on,” she panted.

  “You’re not late, are you?” a familiar and grating voice asked.

  She turned to see Sheila, a tight smile stretching across her thin lips. “No, actually, I’m not.” She hit the button again.

  “Well, I’m glad I caught you. You’re in the Surgical ICU today.”

  “Thanks for letting me know,” Jessie replied as the elevator door slid open, allowing her to beat a hasty retreat from Sheila. What she wanted to say was, What the hell? Can’t you let me get used to one ICU before sending me to another? But she didn’t. Instead, she took a sip of her coffee as the doors closed.

  The surgical ICU was strangely quiet when Jessie buzzed herself in. She found the charge nurse—Ellen, according to the name on her ID—at the main desk peering at a computer screen. “Hi, Ellen,” Jessie said and introduced herself. Ellen pulled away from the computer. “We’re pretty quiet today. I’m not sure why they sent you to us, but I guess you can take Hart. Everyone else is pretty sick of him. He’s over there.” She pointed to the room right across from the desk.

  “What’s he still doing here?” Jessie whispered.

  Ellen shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. But it’s Merrick’s decision, and he seems intent on protecting this guy.”

  “From what?”

  “From the press, from his in-laws. From the police, most of all. Hart does not need to be here, but no one is going to overrule Merrick, especially since the wife died yesterday.”

  “He must have been pretty upset, though, right? I mean, it’s his wife.”

  “One would think so, but he never went in to see her. Just stayed outside and looked in. And the only tears I saw were crocodile tears. I could do better if I learned I had to work Christmas.”

  Jessie stifled a laugh as she put her things away and sat down to read Hart’s file. Ellen was right. This guy really was fine. The bullet that caught him had only grazed his kidney, accounting for the bloody urine that first night, but the injury was so minor, he didn’t even require a major repair. The nursing notes described a difficult patient who wanted the ICU nurses to rub his back, get his coffee, and hold his hand—literally—as he walked the halls. “Give me a break,” Jessie murmured as she tried to ready herself. This really was going to be punishment, but if she wanted to get back to the ER—and she did—she’d have to just suck it up. She stood and walked the six feet to Hart’s room. She paused, pulled her shoulders back, forced herself to smile and rapped on his door before entering.

  “Morning, Mr. Hart. I’m Jessie. I’m assigned to you today.”

  He pushed himself up in bed and set aside the newspaper he’d been reading. She hadn’t noticed before how young he looked. His full, round face framed by a crop of brown hair, the trace of a blush on his cheeks, the scant bit of fuzz on his face, all made him seem younger than his thirty-two years.

  “Good morning,” he said cheerily, though Jessie couldn’t see what he had to be cheerful about.

  She hit the button on his monitor and the blood pressure cuff tightened around his arm. “Ooh,” he said. “You could warn a guy before you do that.”

  “Sorry, just getting your vital signs, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Please don’t. Have a seat. Talk to me. Tell me about yourself.”

  What was this? A dating bar?

  “Hey, that came out wrong,” he said as if he’d just read her mind. “I’m just hungry for company. It’s been a tough few days.”

  “I’m sure. I’m so sorry about your wife.”

  He nodded but looked right at her. Almost right through her. “Do I know you?” he asked. “There’s something so familiar about you, or maybe it’s just that you look so like Ann. You do, you know.”

  Jessie cleared her throat, hating that he’d noticed the resemblance. “I was in the ER the night you and your wife came in.”

  “Ahh, so this is you.” He held up the newspaper with today’s headlines.

  “Well, it’s…”

  “Thank you for being Ann’s angel. And now for being mine.” His voice cracked, but only for a second before he regained his composure and flashed a friendly grin.

  “Do you want to get up, maybe walk in the hall?” Jessie asked.

  “Not yet, but how about a back rub?”

  This is a damn ICU, she wanted to shout, not a massage parlor. She caught herself and forced a smile. “Let me see what I can do.” She backed out of his room and went in search of Ellen.

  “What did everyone else do about the back-rub request?”

  Ellen chuckled. “Tell him we’re out of lotions, and the gloves you’d have to wear will only irritate his skin.”

  Jessie nodded and headed for the break room where she poured herself a second cup of coffee, and nibbled on her muffin. When enough time had passed, she went back to Hart’s room and, suppressing the smile that threatened to break through, she repeated what Ellen had suggested.

  “I’ll have to have someone bring lotion in, I guess,” he said.

  “Well, maybe you’ll just be discharged,” Jessie replied. “You don’t really need to be here.”

  He frowned. She could have kicked herself. She’d gone too far. Again.

  He shook his head. “No one understands what I’ve been through. I’m just not ready to go home. To go anywhere.”

  Jessie forced herself to keep her mouth shut. She only nodded in reply. Assuming that her nod was a sign of understanding, Hart continued. “I’ve lost my wife. We were planning a future together. I’m just lost.” His tone was flat, his face expressionless. He did not look or sound like a grieving man should, not that she’d really know what a grieving man should look like. Still, there was something not quite right about Rob Hart.

  “I’ll see if I can find some lotion,” she said, though she had no intention of looking for lotion or anything else.

  “Thank you, Jessie. You’re really very sweet.”

  What the hell was she supposed to say to that? She retreated to the nursing station, where she pulled up his chart again and scrolled through his past medical history. There must be a psychiatric diagnosis in there somewhere. His medical history was pretty benign: appendectomy, ear infections, and then she reached the final entry, dated two years earlier. VASECTOMY—patient had no complications.

  A chill ran up her back. After she’d discussed it with Sam, she’d somehow forgotten about Ann Hart’s pregnancy. She took a long, deep breath. There were just too many strange twists to this story.

  She stood up straight, willed herself to be calm and walked back to his room.

  He was sitting in a chair by his bed, a plush robe draped over his shoulders, the picture of relaxation, despite the fact that his wife was across the street lying on a cold, hard slab in the morgue. “Anything else you need?” she asked, hoping to draw him out, to learn something, anything, about that night.

  He smiled. “Just sit with me.” He patted his bed. Jessie pulled a plastic chair up instead and sank down.

  “It must be hard. Losing everything so unexpectedly. Do you want to talk?”

  “Aside from the police, you’re the first one to ask me if I want to talk about it. The truth is, I’m not sure talking will help.”

  “It might,” she said, a false worry in her voice. He was silent. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Tell me about her, your wife. What was she like?”

  He sighed. “She was the love of my life,” he said. “She made every day better. I’m not sure what I’ll do without her.”

  Jessie sat silently. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say. He hadn’t described her at all—just his own feelings. He was the center of this drama, not his wife. On the other h
and, she hadn’t expected this—the soft tone, the loving words. Maybe she was wrong after all. God knew, she’d never been a great judge where men were concerned. She reached out and gripped his hand. “It must be hard.”

  He squeezed back and flashed a tentative smile. “Knowing there are women like you out there gives me hope for my future.”

  What the hell? Just when she thought she might be wrong. Why weren’t the police looking at him? She wanted to dig deeper, but that wasn’t her job. She was supposed to provide nursing care—nothing more, nothing less. But didn’t she have a duty to his wife as well? She cleared her throat and pulled her hand away. “Do you have any children?” she asked.

  His eyes seemed to glaze over and he shook his head. “We never wanted children. I guess it’s for the best now. I don’t think I could raise a child by myself.”

  “Did you know…?” She paused, not sure she could ask about the pregnancy, but he must have known. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

  “I’m your patient. Ask whatever you’d like.”

  Right, she thought, and then I’ll be fired for sure. Violating HIPAA once again. She shook her head, changing her tactic. “Is it hard for you to think about that night?”

  “I don’t think about it,” he said. “It’s behind me now.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The day dragged. Hart was a royal pain. Jessie forced herself to hold her tongue and to smile when she really wanted to scream. Just before three—as she was getting ready to hand Hart off to the evening nurse—the mayor, clad in a black overcoat which barely hid his bulk, and his entourage appeared, all looking solemn and dour. They went into Hart’s room, closing the door behind them. This is it, she thought. They’re closing in. But where were the police? Where was Sam? As if he’d heard her, he appeared as well.

  “Hey, you,” he said, stopping at the nursing station. “How’s it going up here?”

  She shrugged. “I’m doing my time. How about this case?” She nudged her head towards Hart’s room.

  “We have a suspect that we’re looking at. The DA likes him, the rest of us aren’t sure yet. We’ll be announcing it outside. The mayor just wanted to speak to Hart first, make sure he knows we’re close.”

  “Who is it?” she whispered. “Is Hart involved?”

  “You’re still suspicious of him?”

  “Yes. He’s my patient today. I’m pretty sure he’s involved.”

  He raised a brow. “Really? Tell you what. I’ll call you after the announcement. Dinner?”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  She watched through the window as the group spoke to Hart, his face an unreadable mask as they gave him their news. She turned away, gave report to the evening nurse, retrieved her jacket and keys and headed for the garage.

  She arrived home just in time to click on her television and watch the early news. The mayor spoke first, thanking the police for their hard work and inviting the police commissioner and Sam to the microphone. The commissioner revealed the suspect was one Jose Ramos, a twenty-five-year-old Salvadoran and a member of MS-13, the most dangerous gang in the world.

  Sam stepped forward next. “He has a long rap sheet, including an active warrant for the murder of a young man in Lawrence, which is less than thirty miles north, last year. He has the tattoos on his face and right hand which Rob Hart noted.”

  A hand shot up in the crowd of journalists. “But how does that get you to Jose Ramos? Surely there are others that fit the description?”

  Sam nodded. “We haven’t released the description of those tattoos but the details of those really narrowed it down for us. That’s all we can say right now. If anyone knows of the suspect’s whereabouts, please do not approach him. Please call the Boston Police.” A number flashed on the screen. “Our call line is anonymous. Thank you for your help.”

  The report ended and Jessie jumped into the shower. Tomorrow was Saturday. She was hoping to be back in the ER in a few days. Things could only improve. Sam called and offered to pick her up. “I’ll never find a spot, so I’ll call when I’m close.”

  She pulled on a suede pencil skirt, a pair of boots, a slinky buttoned sweater, and her soft-as-butter black leather jacket. If she looked good, she’d feel more courageous about sharing her thoughts on Hart. When Sam called, she grabbed her purse and her keys, locked her door and raced down the stairs. His car, a police-issue black Crown Victoria, idled at the curb. He beeped and waved and opened the door. “You look great! How about the North End?”

  “Sounds perfect,” she said, taking in the dashboard computer, radio handset, Bluetooth phone and GPS. His suit jacket, badge and gun rested on the backseat. “This car is pretty impressive.”

  “It is, isn’t it? I’m on call tonight, but I’m hoping things stay quiet.”

  “Don’t you think there’ll be a lot of calls after your press conference?”

  “There will be, but most will be junk calls and texts. Still, they’ll all have to be checked. We’ll sift through them and my team will have a second look at the most promising.”

  “So, you won’t be the one to go through them?”

  “Not at first. Too many for one person. And we are pretty sure this guy is the one. So, you saw the announcement?”

  “I did. Did you speak to Hart?”

  He nodded as he navigated the backstreets to the North End. “I did. He’s not much of a talker, though, but you gotta give the guy a break. I mean, he’s been through so much.”

  Jessie grunted. “Have you looked at his medical records?”

  He nodded again.

  “And you saw the description of his gunshot wound?”

  “I have. Are we going to go over this again?”

  “Just listen to me, that’s all I ask.” And she recounted again Hart’s attitude regarding his wife, first in the ER, and then in the ICU. “He’s just too calm. He told me he’s looking to the future and not to the past.”

  “Being a jerk doesn’t make him a killer.”

  “What about his gunshot wound? Pretty benign. He could have done that himself, you know.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “We did consider that, but Dr. Merrick says that although it’s possible to shoot yourself there, he thinks it would take an experienced gunman. And he should know—he served in a couple of war zones. I served in the Marines in Afghanistan, and I tend to agree with him, but I’ll take it a step further. As someone very familiar with guns, I think there’s no way that wound is self-inflicted.”

  This time, Jessie shook her head. “It absolutely can be self-inflicted. I’ll show you!”

  The car swerved as he slowed and pulled to the curb. “What the hell do you mean? Do you have a gun?” A trace of anger flashed in his eyes.

  “No, calm down, I don’t have a gun.” She twisted in her seat and held her hand against her right side at the area where Hart suffered his wound. “See. It’s easy to hold something—including a gun—right there and press the trigger. Merrick is wrong about this. He gets up on his high horse about one thing or another and no one has the courage to disagree with him. Well, I disagree. Just say you’ll look into this.”

  “We are looking into that, believe me, and we’ll continue to, but remember he might just have been lucky.”

  “No one’s that lucky. No one. And a shot missed him as he fell? I agree with her family. None of it makes sense. None of it.”

  “OK, so where’s the gun, the wallet, his phone? They’ve disappeared. You think he committed the crime, raced to a dumpster, got rid of the evidence and went back to call nine-one-one? We have looked at that. There’s just no evidence right now to support Hart as the shooter. That doesn’t mean we’ve cleared him—it means we have no evidence that it was him. And ultimately, that is what the DA needs.”

  “When you say it that way, it does sound absurd, but I don’t trust him. I think he was involved. I don’t know how. But I’m sure of it.”

  “I promise we searched all the nearby
dumpsters and trash cans and alleys. We searched the whole area and came up empty. The shooter has Hart’s stuff. When we find him, I think we’ll find it all.”

  She hugged her arms around herself and sank further into her seat. “I know I’m not trained in this, but I know I’m right.” She could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice; he was convinced there was a bad guy out there. She was equally convinced the bad guy was in the ICU.

  Sam pulled back into traffic and placed his hand on hers. “I understand that you believe this, Jessie. I do. There’s just no proof of that, no motive, and the fact is when husbands kill wives, it’s usually in a moment rage. None of that is here. None of it. He’d just bought her flowers. How many men do that before shooting a wife?”

  She shrugged. “There’s one more thing, though, and since you have access to his medical records, you’ve probably seen it, so I’m not violating HIPAA. He’s had a vasectomy.”

  “Yeah? Him and about a million other guys.”

  “His wife was pregnant.”

  “I remember. When was his vasectomy?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “But couldn’t they have that fixed? Reconnected, whatever you call it?”

  “It would be in his chart.”

  “Hmm. Well, that’s interesting.”

  “It’s more than interesting, don’t you think? It’s a motive. She’s pregnant. He’s not the father.”

  “Hmm,” he said again. “I’ll have a look at his chart, talk to him. See what he says. He may not have known about this, especially if he’s not the father.”

  “He lived with her. Men know women’s cycles. He had to know.”

  “Okay, okay. I get it.”

  Jessie finally relaxed. “Sorry for bombarding you. Maybe I watch too much CSI.”

  “Maybe.” He grinned. “Your comments got me wondering, though. Are you married?” Sam asked as he turned down a side street, his gaze shifting back to the road.