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

by Roberta Gately

  Within minutes Roger appeared, drying his hands on a towel and throwing it into a laundry bin when he was finished. “Sorry,” he said. “That was insensitive. I forgot that you knew him.”

  “It’s okay.” Roger seemed somehow disconnected from the real world unless he was talking about bodies.

  “Hmm.” Roger fished in his pocket for a mint. “Want one?” he asked, holding the container out.

  She took one and popped it into her mouth, the taste of bile and the overwhelming scents fading as the mint dissolved on her tongue.

  “My trick to make this more bearable.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I forgot to tell you that Bert knew Rob Hart. I know it’s a stretch, but it got me wondering. Do you think Bert’s death is connected to Ann Hart’s?”

  He made a tsking sound. “Because Gibbons knew Hart?” He shook his head. “That’s a big leap, I’d say. That’s for the police, not me, but I did find something interesting.”

  “What’s that?” Jessie asked, her nausea, the foul scents all but forgotten.

  “His hyoid bone, the little bone beneath the chin, wasn’t just fractured, it was crushed. While a person might break his hyoid bone while hanging himself, it’s just as likely—if not more so—to be the result of strangulation. His cricoid cartilage—that ring of cartilage around the trachea—was fractured as well. That also happens with strangulation.” He rubbed the side of his head as if to help with his reasoning. “Combining the two fractures with that deep wound on his neck, and the small pinpoint hemorrhages in his eyes, I’d say that Mr. Gibbons was most definitely murdered.

  “He probably put up a good fight judging by the defensive wounds on his fingers and hands. He had a large bruise on his abdomen, too, as though someone had to kneel hard on him while he had the life choked out of him.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, I’d say he put up a hell of a fight. The bleeding from his neck wound, and from his ears and mouth and even that bruise, happened before the hanging. He was hung only after he was dead.”

  “Oh, God,” Jessie said stumbling back, the door breaking her fall.

  Roger reached out and grasped her elbow. “Do you need to sit?” Jessie shook her head.

  “No. I’m alright,” she said though of course she wasn’t. It was one thing to think something, even to be convinced of something, but to be proven right—there was no satisfaction in that. Not this time.

  “It is pretty shocking what one human being can do to another, isn’t it? I’m sorry this happened to your friend.”

  She picked at her fingernails and nodded. They stood in silence until she knew she could speak without breaking down. “The thing is,” she said, “he wasn’t my friend. I didn’t even like him, and I was pretty mean to him myself. Now this. I just can’t wrap my brain around it.” She shook her head as if to clear the memory. “Will you tell the police?”

  “Of course. This is a homicide now. I’ll call them to let them know my findings, and so they can pick up his belongings and his phone—that might offer up some information. I’ll tell them as well that they should speak to you, that you may have information.”

  “But I don’t really,” she said, her tone higher than she’d meant it to be. Once the police had his phone, they’d see his calls and that last text before she’d blocked him. Her stomach knotted up.

  “Don’t worry. The police will take care of this.”

  She leaned forward and let her head fall into her hands. How the hell did she get involved in this? In any of this? She took a deep breath. Bert knew Hart, he’d even helped him, and now he was dead too. It seemed too much of a coincidence. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything. If I can answer it, I will.”

  “You did the post-mortem on Ann Hart, right?”

  He tilted his head. “Very sad, that one.” He sank into a nearby chair. “I’m old-fashioned. I still write out my reports. It helps me to remember my findings. My secretary transcribes them into the computer. I’m not sure I can share that information, though.”

  Jessie pulled up a chair and sat down. “I took care of her the night she came in, and I took care of him in the ICU. I just have one question. I know that Ann Hart was pregnant, about ten weeks by the numbers.”

  Roger pushed his eyeglasses onto his forehead, and sat back. “And?”

  “Is it possible for a man who’s had a vasectomy to impregnate a woman?”

  “Are you saying that Hart had a vasectomy?”

  “It’s a HIPAA violation if I answer that, but theoretically, is it possible?”

  He shook his head. “Less than one percent chance, despite what you see on television.”

  “So she died from the single gunshot wound to her head? Nothing else?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. But that one bullet caused her death—it ricocheted around her skull. A horrific injury.”

  “I’m not even sure why I’m asking this, but did her family—her parents—did they know about the pregnancy?”

  “According to the medical record, they did. A nurse documented that they’d asked how far along the pregnancy was, and as you know, it was early. She was still in her first trimester. So, the answer to your question is yes. They knew. I’d rather you not share that information.”

  “I won’t. The police have this information, too, right?” she asked, thinking of Sam. She knew that he did, but he hadn’t seemed interested in the pregnancy—or her thoughts on that case. She couldn’t help but wonder why.

  “I’m only assuming here, but if I’ve read her chart, it makes sense that they would, doesn’t it?”

  Jessie smoothed her scrubs and stood. “There’s so much that doesn’t make sense, but that does.” She heaved a slow sigh. “I have to get back to work. Thanks, Dr. Dawson. Roger.”

  “I’ll call the police to pick up my preliminary report. I can get one for you as well if you’d like.”

  “I guess so, but can you hold onto it? I just don’t want to keep thinking about this. I need to clear my head, but I’ll come by another time for it. I just need a break.”

  “No problem,” he said. “It’ll give me a chance to convince you to come work with me. We could fix it so you work part-time in the ER and part-time here.”

  “I don’t think my boss would let me.”

  “I like to think I have a little clout. Just say the word.” He smiled, showing off his perfectly straight, shiny white teeth.

  Jessie lingered in the morgue’s entry, the thought of the police seeing Bert’s phone somehow disturbing. She pulled her own phone out of her pocket and scrolled through her contacts. At least she hadn’t deleted Bert, she’d just blocked him. She pressed voicemail and then blocked messages, releasing any messages Bert might have left. And there they were, four of them.

  The first call was last Sunday, just five days ago and only an hour after he’d sent the text that she’d deleted.

  “Jessie, please call me back. This is important. I have to speak with you. Please.” There was a pause as though he was about to say more, and then a click. The call had ended.

  Jessie leaned against the wall, a sudden chill running through her. With trembling fingers, she hit play and listened again. “Dear God,” she said out loud, “what the hell is wrong with me? Listening to these?” But she couldn’t help herself and she scrolled to the next voicemail.

  Left on Monday morning, the day of Ann Hart’s funeral, the next message was quicker, a total of four seconds: “Jessie, call me. It’s important.” His voice was firm, demanding, the old Bert, certain he could convince anyone to do anything.

  Later that same day, he’d left another message: “I’m leaving for London tomorrow, but before I go, I have to warn you about someone. I might have my biggest story ever, but I’m not sure I can ever use it. Just don’t trust anyone. Call me as soon as you can.”

  His final message came on Tuesday morning. “Call me, Jessie. Please. I think the police might be involved in the Hart shooting, or the cover
-up.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, and she held the phone to her ear. “There’s more, but I need to speak with you. Be careful. Don’t trust the police on this. Just call me.”

  Jessie clutched her chest and slid down the wall to the floor, the phone in her hand. The police. Of course, it made sense. Sam was in charge of the investigation, but he wasn’t looking at Rob Hart the way it seemed he should. She considered for only a millisecond that Bert might mean Nick, but he had nothing to do with the investigation, or the shooting for that matter. He meant Sam. She was sure of it. Something was very wrong here, and Bert had been on to it.

  “Hey, Jessie,” Tony said. “You still here? You okay?”

  She slipped her phone into her pocket and stood. “Yeah, sorry. Just a shock, you know.” She couldn’t tell Tony about the messages—if she was smart, she wouldn’t tell anyone. Her legs felt wobbly and she felt herself sway. Tony reached down and she let him help her up.

  “Come on,” he said. “It’s not easy to see someone you knew like that. I’ll walk you across the street.”

  She let him guide her back to the ER, gulping in fresh air, hoping to clear her head. Her shift wasn’t over yet. “Hey, Elena,” she said. “I’m sorry that took so long.”

  Elena, her brow wrinkled, took a step closer. “What’s wrong, Jessie? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Have you been crying?”

  She swiped a hand quickly across her eyes. “It was those damn chemicals over there. I didn’t realize how toxic they are. I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna fix my makeup.” It wasn’t just her makeup that had suffered; she was suddenly exhausted, drained, as though she’d run a marathon and then worked a double shift. In the staff bathroom, she surveyed the damage. Her eyeliner and mascara were intact, but she was pale and ghostly. She splashed water on her face, dried off with a paper towel and re-applied a fresh coat of lipstick and swipe of blush to her cheeks.

  Reassured that she could pass for normal, she pulled open the door and stepped back into the ER and right into the path of Nick. “Hey,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.” He tilted her chin up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said, not wanting to tell him about Bert or the morgue, or the voicemails. “It’s just that it’s been busy, I guess.”

  “Really? It’s quiet on the streets. A few shoplifters, and that’s about it. That might all change later, but I’ll be long gone.” He smoothed his hand over her hair. “How about Foley’s after work?”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight. Another time?”

  He grasped her hand. “Last night your eyes sparkled a bright green. Tonight, they’re a dull brown. Come on, Jessie. Let me put that sparkle back in your eyes.”

  And despite her dismal mood, she laughed.

  “I’ve convinced you, haven’t I?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Let me show you off, let everyone there know you’re my girl.”

  Her misgivings melted away. It was probably a good idea to go, to do something that would take her mind off Bert. And Sam. “You know what? Yes. I’ll see you there.” She made a quick check to be sure no one was watching and planted a kiss on his mouth. “See you later,” she whispered, dragging her fingers across his lips.

  Nick raised a brow mischievously and strode off, humming.

  Just like she had, a lifetime ago.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  At eleven-thirty, Jessie gave report to the night charge nurse, gathered her things and headed to Foley’s. It was almost twelve when she arrived, the bar’s overflowing crowd spilling into the street. She elbowed her way through and stood on her toes looking for Nick, but try as she might, she couldn’t see him. She squeezed by a large group at the bar and felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned, smiling, and then her mouth dropped open.

  It was Sam. He gripped her shoulder firmly, and he was speaking, shouting really, to be heard above the noise.

  Her heart racing, she shrugged his hand away and shook her head.

  “Come outside for a minute,” he said. He tugged at her hand and started to lead her through the side door, which led to an alley.

  Jessie pulled back. There was no way she’d let herself be alone with him in an alley, not after Bert’s messages. She just didn’t trust him anymore. There was too much that he’d dismissed, too much about him and his investigation that didn’t make sense. “No. I don’t want to go out.”

  A sudden look of confusion clouded his eyes, and he stood for a minute before pointing to the back of the bar. “Down there, then. It’s a little quieter. I won’t have to shout.”

  She followed him to the back corner, where the noise wasn’t quite as loud, and you could actually be heard without hollering.

  “Hey,” he started, “sorry for not answering your text. I was at my sister’s house for the holiday. Just got back and planned to call you tomorrow. So, what was so important?”

  She struggled to remember what it was she’d texted him about. Though it was only yesterday, it already seemed light years away.

  “Hart,” he answered. “You mentioned him in your text.”

  And then she remembered she’d wanted to share that Bert had snuck into the ICU and had probably been helping Hart by planting stories favorable to him in the press. But it didn’t seem to matter now. Bert was dead. Sam hadn’t seemed focused on Hart anyway, and if Bert was right, then maybe Sam was involved. What she needed to do was to unravel herself from this mess, and so she shook her head. “I don’t remember. Maybe it was to let you know he’d been discharged.”

  Sam raised a brow. “The text seemed, at least to me, to indicate that it was more than that. And what’s wrong with you? You’re so distant. Are you angry that I didn’t answer your text right away?”

  “No. It’s not that. I’m just tired, that’s all.” Worried that he’d sense her fear, she focused her gaze on the wall behind him.

  “Want to get out of here? Find someplace quiet?” He smiled, his gray eyes shimmering in the dim light, and for a moment, she wondered if she was wrong about him. But it was only for a split second, and then she remembered again that he’d been almost too protective of Hart and too quick to blow off her thoughts about his involvement in his wife’s death. Then there was Bert. She was with Nick now, anyway. It was a good choice, for once in her life. And she needed to stick with it.

  “No. I’m meeting someone here.”

  “Oh,” he said, surprise in his voice.

  “Hey, Jessie!”

  She turned to see Nick and relief swept over her. “He’s here,” she said, turning back to Sam. “See you later.” She backed away, the confusion in his eyes stealing the shimmer, making it seem that he was glaring at her.

  Nick pulled her into his arms and kissed her, almost too slowly for such a public place. “Why were you talking to him?” he asked, tilting his head toward Sam, who still stood alone at the back of the bar.

  “Just work stuff. It’s not important.”

  “It looks as though he thinks it’s important. He’s staring at us.”

  “Don’t pay attention. Buy me a glass of wine.” She didn’t have to turn to know that Sam was watching her. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head.

  “Stay right here,” Nick said, disappearing back into the crowd.

  Suddenly, Sam was beside her once again. “Are you seeing him, Jessie?” he asked.

  “What if I am?”

  “Be careful. He’s a cowboy, a rogue cop some say. I’m usually a pretty good judge of character, and I just don’t trust the guy.”

  Jessie stepped back. “You’re a good judge of character,” she said, raising her brow and her voice. “This from the man who believes Rob Hart? Listen Sam, Nick is a stand-up guy. He’s as solid as they come. Just leave me, leave us, alone.” Her tone, her attitude, was sharper than she’d meant it to be. It was Bert, and Ann Hart, and everything else. She slipped her hands behind her back so he couldn’t see the tremors. She wasn’t sure
she was doing the right thing, but she had to take a stand.

  Sam’s jaw went slack and he shook his head sadly. “I don’t understand where this is coming from. I don’t get it, Jessie, but if that’s what you want, I won’t bother you again.”

  “That’s what I want,” she said softly. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes scanning the crowd for Nick. When she saw him, she waved and watched as he made his way toward her and handed her a glass of wine. She took it and guzzled almost half the glass, the alcohol like lightning in her throat. She hadn’t eaten. God, she’d be lit in no time.

  “You’re trembling,” Nick said, taking her hand. “Come on, let’s sit.” He led her into an empty booth and slid in next to her, draping his arm over her shoulder. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Just cold,” she answered as she watched Sam, his head bowed, his shoulders sagging, leave the bar.

  Nick waved over a couple of his policeman friends, their uniform trousers topped by sweatshirts and jackets. The men smiled over their beers, giving not so discreet thumbs up to Nick, who winked at her. They made small talk, the usual stuff about nothing, the weather—too cold, or maybe too warm, work—too busy, or maybe not busy enough, the new iPhone—pricey, but what isn’t? Thank God for Foley’s, they all agreed, tapping glasses in unison.

  “Another round!” someone shouted, and a third, or was it the fourth round, arrived. Jessie pushed hers away and looked at her watch. It was after one a.m. and she was dead on her feet, the wine sloshing around her brain making her words slur and her thoughts blur, and she laughed aloud at her own cleverness. She nudged Nick and tilted her chin toward the exit.

  “You ready?” Nick asked, and after too many goodbyes to count, she settled into her car, Nick at the wheel, and noticed the first of the season’s Christmas lights along the way. This year though, would be different. She had Nick. At home, he inexplicably poured another drink for each of them.

  “Oh, God, Nick, none for me. I have to get some sleep. I want to run tomorrow.”