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

by Roberta Gately

  Jessie’s eyes grew wide with feigned surprise. “What did his texts say? Do you have his phone?”

  “Not with me. Crime Scene Unit has it, but the gist of his messages was that he didn’t trust Hart and he thought the police were helping him.”

  “No names?”

  “None. I think if he had a name, he planned to tell you that in person.”

  She wondered if he was telling the truth about Bert not naming names, and if he was, why wouldn’t he bring the phone to show her? A tic pulsed behind her eyes; she blinked it away. “Do you think now that Hart was involved in his wife’s death and maybe Bert’s as well, or that a policeman was helping him?”

  “Right now, that’s a stretch, but I will tell you the whole thing’s starting to stink. Bert, the whole Ramos thing…” He shook his head. “We did a profile, searched similar MOs and came up with Ramos and a handful of others. When his tattoos matched, it seemed like a score, but in retrospect, we landed on him too quickly, too easily, almost as though it was a set-up. We don’t have a strong case against him, and he swears he has an alibi. Once that checks out, we’ll move on in the case.”

  “Who was the first one to name him as a suspect? Or is he an accomplice?”

  “We named him as a suspect based on Hart’s description, and Ramos’s history, his MO, his accent and his tattoos. And before you ask, there’s no connection there to suggest that Ramos knew Hart. Nothing at all. Anyway, why would Hart turn an accomplice in? Ramos is not exactly a stellar citizen. Why would anyone with a brain team up with him? Ramos could turn on a dime. No,” he said almost to himself, “there’s nothing to suggest that.”

  The waitress slid their coffee cups onto the table. Jessie wrapped her hands around her mug, the heat seeping pleasantly into her fingers. Sam added cream and sugar to his coffee and seemed to take forever to stir it just so. He took a slow, lingering sip.

  “So, what now?” Jessie asked, impatience adding an edge to her voice. “What did you want to ask me?”

  “Anything at all you can tell me about Bert. Anything.”

  She recited what she knew of him once again. “I told you how he’d harassed me after I refused his advances, but then it just stopped, and I thought that was the end of it. But he got in touch again after the Hart shooting. He was a total jerk. He was arrogant, I guess, but not in an arrogant way, if you know what I mean. His arrogance was an act. I know that sounds crazy. He just pushed the envelope, you know? He wanted to be successful, make a big name for himself, and he almost did that once, but then he plagiarized an article, and he was fired. After that, he fell on hard times, or so he said. He was trying to get his reputation back. He said he’d written a book that would be published soon, and he had a job he was heading to in London.”

  She took a sip of her coffee as the waitress returned with their food. She speared the potatoes with her fork. “I don’t think he killed himself. It’s not just that things were turning for him. I mean, look at the evidence. It looks to me as though he fought back.”

  “It does,” he said, smiling. “You have a pretty good sense of this stuff, Jessie. The ME confirms that Bert fought back. He says that you pointed out the abrasions on his fingers.” He paused and took another slow sip from his mug. “We’re running the prints we picked up at his place, and we’re trying to get any videos of the neighborhood. See if we can spot anyone coming or going to his apartment.”

  “That didn’t work so well with Hart.”

  “Those were city surveillance cameras that were out of order. In this case, we’re asking homeowners for access to their security footage. They’re a more reliable lot than government officials.” Sam nibbled at his toast. “Not to change the subject, but I just have to say it’s unusual to eat with someone while discussing the minute details of murders and bodies.”

  Jessie swallowed a chunk of bacon. “I’m an ER nurse. We can eat through anything.”

  “Apparently.” Sam laughed. “So, does this mean you believe me? That Bert may have meant the police were involved, but it’s someone else? You don’t seem to be nervous around me.”

  She shrugged. “Daylight, even on this miserable cloudy day, gives me courage.” Not to mention last night, she thought, remembering Nick’s drunken break-in. She just couldn’t picture Sam ever behaving that way. “I’m not saying I believe you, but just suppose I do. If not you, then who?”

  Sam shook his head. “That is the million-dollar question, but you cannot repeat any of what we’ve discussed, or Bert’s texts to you. Not a word. If Bert was killed because he knew something about Hart or the shooter, or because someone thought he did, then you could also be at risk.”

  An icy finger ran along her spine, and she shivered. She wondered if she was sitting across from the man who posed the greatest risk to her, but she couldn’t let him know that. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, and you have to take this seriously, too. Tell no one. Understand?”

  She shook her head. “No. If you let some of this information out, maybe you could flush out whoever was involved.”

  “I don’t want any of this information to get out. One person speaks up, and then it spreads like wildfire. Best to just be quiet.”

  She used the last of her English muffin to soak up the runny bits of her egg. “Then why are you telling me so much?”

  “Well, you’re involved for one thing, and besides, an outsider’s perspective can have real value. As an ER nurse, you might see things that I don’t see.”

  “Have you spoken to Hart?” she asked through a mouthful of food.

  “I’ve called his home number a few times. Stopped by and left messages asking him to call me. But nothing yet.”

  “Can’t you pick him up?”

  “For what? He’s the victim, the grieving husband, and the DA is still not convinced that he was involved. Aside from that, he doesn’t seem to be at home. We’re not sure where he is.”

  Jessie pushed her plate away. “Are you kidding? Shouldn’t you be tailing him?”

  “That’s a little dramatic, but yes, we’d like to know where he is and what he’s up to.”

  “Ahh, you don’t sound so certain of his innocence anymore.”

  Sam raised a brow, his gray eyes losing some of the coldness that had settled there. “Hmm… the investigation isn’t nearly over yet. If you hear anything, no matter how insignificant it seems, call me. Agreed?”

  She nodded.

  “And if Hart contacts you, stay away from him, and call us right away.” Sam leaned closer and she caught the acrid scent of old cigarettes, and she remembered noticing that same smell the night they’d first met in the Trauma hallway. “You smoke?” she asked, leaning back.

  “Only at work. I found that a cigarette at grisly murder scenes calms me and helps me to focus, and a cigarette after a visit to the ME clears my airways of the smell of bodies and formaldehyde.” He sniffed the collar of his suit jacket. “Probably should have changed this. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I smoked in nursing school when exams were especially tough. I quit once I graduated, but there are those moments after a particularly rough trauma room case that I wish I still did.” She inhaled deeply, imagining the rush of a cigarette once more. “Actually, a cigarette might make the ME’s office more tolerable. Thanks for the suggestion.”

  “ME’s office?”

  “Roger Dawson asked if I’d be interested in working with him as a forensics nurse. He hasn’t worked out the details yet, and my boss will likely say no, but it is intriguing—and still a secret, so please don’t say anything.”

  Sam’s eyes, ringed by deep bags, suddenly sparkled. “So, I think we have a deal. You keep my secret, I’ll keep yours.” He reached across and gripped her hand, holding it tighter and for longer than their simple agreement required.

  And despite her own misgivings, she felt drawn to him once again.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Your friend came by while you were gone,” R
ufus said later as he slid into her car.

  “Friend?” She checked her rearview mirror and pulled into traffic.

  “That young policeman. Don’t know his name. He said to tell you he’s sorry, and he’ll call you later.” Rufus smiled. “Ahh, young love.”

  “Well, young foolishness, anyway. Not sure I’d call it love just yet.”

  “Seems as though he does, Jessie. That fella is quite smitten, I’d say.”

  She laughed. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds pretty good. Smitten. I like that word.”

  At Home Depot, Rufus quickly found the right lockset, while Jessie browsed the Christmas decorations and chose a tiny artificial tree decked out in lights and ornaments for her table. They headed next through the crush of early holiday shoppers to Stop and Shop for groceries. Finally, laden with plenty of bags, they headed home. Good to his word, Rufus appeared at her door with his tools. Despite his seeming frailty, he worked effortlessly, replacing the old lockset with a new one, and handing Jessie the keys.

  “Try it,” he said and she did, marveling at the smoothness of the tumbler in this new lock. It was sturdy and tight and impenetrable.

  “It’s perfect,” she declared.

  Rufus nodded. “I’d keep that second key hidden somewhere. Don’t give it away just yet. Let’s see what’s going on with that door of yours.”

  “I’d like to give it to you, Rufus. That way, if I lose my key, I’ll know you have one.” She dropped the key into his hand and kissed his cheek.

  “I’m going to go sort my groceries. See ya later, Jessie.” He slid the key into his pocket and headed back downstairs, his feet padding soundlessly on the stairs.

  When Nick called later, Jessie considered hitting decline, but her Christmas tree, tiny lights ablaze, was in her direct line of sight, putting her in a forgiving kind of mood. She paused before hitting accept.

  “Oh, Jessie, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that. I was drunk. I’d been celebrating. I drank too much…”

  He continued to prattle on, but she’d stopped listening. She was locking and unlocking her door, jiggling the knob, and working to see if she could loosen the lock, but it wouldn’t give. It was secure, just what she needed. “What?” she asked, sensing an awkward pause in the admittedly one-sided conversation.

  “Just say you’ll forgive me. Please.” He drew out the syllables, taking longer to say the word than it would to write it out in cursive. “It’ll never happen again. Yesterday was such a big deal for me. I’m a patrolman, but all that attention gets me noticed and might help me to move up.” His words continued to pour out in a rush and she was sure she could hear a sniffle or two. “Please?” he whispered again.

  She heaved a noisy sigh so that he’d know she meant business. “You have to promise you’ll never do anything like that again. That includes drinking so much. Promise?”

  “Yes, Jessie. Of course, I promise. I’ll do anything.”

  She paused, the sincerity in his tone convincing her that he was at least trying, and she supposed that should be enough. But was it? A tiny seed of doubt sprouted in her brain. The silence between them grew until Nick spoke up.

  “Can I stop by tonight after work?” he asked.

  “No, midnight’s too late. Call me later and we’ll figure something out.”

  “I miss you, Jess,” he said again just as she hung up.

  She spent the afternoon helping Rufus to clear some of the clutter from his apartment. “You know, Mary and I moved here right after we married,” he said wistfully. “I always thought we’d move on once we had kids, but kids never came and we never left, so here I am surrounded by more than fifty years of stuff. I know that a lot of it is junk, but a lot of it is precious, at least to me, so we have to be careful what we throw away. Agreed?”

  Jessie nodded and sat on the floor, fishing through large boxes and holding up items one by one. “This?” she asked, holding up a cracked and dingy plaster knick-knack. It seemed to her to be just junk, but it might mean the world to him.

  He wavered before agreeing she could toss it. Next, she held up an old, moth-eaten blanket. “Ahh,” he said, fingering the edges. “Mary bought that for me our first year together. She said I needed more than her to keep me warm. She was like you, a little bit of a thing. I know it’s worn and well past its time, but I think I’ll hold onto it.”

  For the first time, Jessie began to understand why people held onto stuff. This stuff wasn’t junk—it was the mementoes of a long life, of memories that might be erased without these reminders. She hoped that someday, she’d be sifting through mementoes of her own. They continued to work slowly.

  He did agree to throw out all of his old phone books and bus uniforms, except for one faded work shirt, his name embroidered on the pocket. “I’ll just keep it in the closet. Just one. For those days when I want to remember.” He sorted through an old photo album, pointing out Mary and describing the moments the photos depicted, the corners of his eyes filling up at the yellowed prints taped into the fraying pages. “We aren’t getting much done, are we, Jessie?” he asked with an impish grin.

  “How about I start to go through those old newspapers? There are piles of them, and they’re a fire hazard. I should have tackled them first.” She motioned to one of the too-numerous-to-count piles of old papers.

  Wrinkling his brow, Rufus looked longingly at the piles of old newsprint. “Well…” he began to shake his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Rufus, you can’t possibly want those. They’ve got to go.”

  “I understand that, Jessie. I really do. It’s just that I saved some of those for the stories I found. I know I should have kept them in separate piles but I didn’t, and now I’m not ready to part with the pictures and stories, and sometimes obituaries, of my old friends. Just let me go through them.”

  A warm flush rose to Jessie’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, Rufus. I didn’t mean to take over. I just want you to be safe here and to have room to move around.”

  “I understand, Jessie, and you can help, but I’d like to go through the newspapers first before I get rid of them.”

  Jessie squatted by a pile of papers, a quiet sigh slipping from her lips. “What are we looking for?”

  “Well now, that’s the thing. Any story that mentions me. I was hailed as a hero driver once for snatching a small boy out of the road.”

  “Wow. That’s impressive. You should have had that story framed.”

  His shoulders slumped. “I guess, but I can do it now, if we can find it.”

  “When was it? If you remember the date, it will be easier to find.”

  “That’s just it. It was about eighteen, no—maybe it was twenty—years ago. My memory’s not what it used to be.”

  She sat cross-legged and started going through old newspapers, page by page, obituary by obituary. She read headlines from President Reagan’s visit to Boston and the Eire Pub in January of 1983. “Hey, isn’t that the pub over on Adams Street?” she asked, holding the paper out to him.

  Rufus nodded, a gleam in his eye. “That’s a keeper,” he said, his hands smoothing the crinkling pages. “You weren’t even born yet, but what a day that was. The president coming to Boston and having a beer with the regular working folks at the pub.”

  “Were you there?”

  “No. Although that was a pub I frequented in my day, I was at work the day he came. Still, it was pretty exciting for the city, and it’s pretty nice to remember it now.” He folded the paper neatly and placed it behind him. “That’s exactly the kind of paper I want to save. Thanks, Jessie.”

  She continued to pore through the piles, none of which was organized in any rational way. Old news was piled on top of new, so she wasn’t surprised to find the most recent headlines staring her in the face. Rob Hart, one story noted, had had plans to run for Congress, and the writer mused about his future now that tragedy had struck him. On her second read, she remembered what Nick had mentioned the night of the shoo
ting. “A wunderkind,” he’d said, describing Hart. No one had said that since, and she’d forgotten all about it. And though the mayor was disenchanted with him for luring away donors, would a guy considering a run for Congress really arrange to have his own wife shot? It didn’t seem likely, despite her own theories. Maybe she’d run this by Sam. “Can I keep this one?” she asked.

  Rufus nodded. “Help yourself, but be careful. In fifty years, you’ll be like me.” His eyes bright, he chuckled at his own joke.

  When dusk was settling over the city, Jessie stood and stretched the kinks out of her back and knees. “Rufus, I’m going to put this pile in the recycle bin, and this pile I’ll take upstairs and go through later, if that’s alright.”

  “It’s fine with me. Things are looking better already. Thanks, Jessie.”

  She filled a recycle bin, and climbed the stairs, clutching a stack of old papers, to her own apartment where she brewed a cup of tea and turned on the news. Jose Ramos was still the lead story, his family shedding noisy tears and shouting expletives for the camera—even the guilty could manage to muster that kind of support. She clicked off the news, plugged in her little tree, and streamed some Christmas music. Her mood was the best it had been in days, and when a knock sounded on her door, she rose quickly, assuming it was Rufus. She pulled the door open, her smile quickly fading.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked icily.

  Nick pulled a bouquet of roses from behind his back. “Trying to make it up to you,” he said meekly.

  Jessie exhaled noisily. “Aren’t you working?” She opened the door wider and he passed her the flowers.

  “I am. I’m on my break. I just wanted to apologize in person. I don’t deserve for you to forgive me, but I hope you will. I care about you, Jessie. I’d do just about anything for you.” Tiny pools of tears welled at the corners of his blue eyes, making the color all the richer and his words somehow more believable.

  She leaned into him, the familiar fresh scent of him as comforting as a hug. He wrapped her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I just want to make you happy, Jessie. That’s all.”