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

by Roberta Gately

  “What hasn’t been?” Jessie couldn’t help but smile in turn. “Just say it.”

  “I’m the new acting nurse manager.”

  “You are? Where’s Sheila?”

  Donna shrugged. “Who knows? Administration said they’re not sure when, or if, she’s coming back. You know how close-mouthed they are. They didn’t say anything else. We heard through the grapevine that she’s a no-call, no-show, a fact that would have gotten any of us fired, so who knows? Maybe they did fire her, and they don’t want to say it. Whatever it was, she’s gone, and for the time being, I’m your new boss.”

  Jessie pulled her into a hug. “Congratulations! Things feel better here already.” And they were: Donna was a straightforward, no-bullshit nurse, respected by everyone—a just do your job kind of nurse.

  “So, because the day charge position is open now, I have a question for you.”

  “Don’t even ask. I’m not interested in working days. Too many bosses.”

  “True, but I’m one of the bosses now, so at least say you’ll think about it.”

  “I will say it. It’s a lie, but I’ll say it.”

  “I had to ask, and I wish you’d said yes. But since it seems you’re not interested in being the day charge nurse, I have another offer for you. You know the ME put in a request to have you work part-time for him as a forensics nurse?”

  “He’d asked. I didn’t know he’d made the request.” She felt a warm flush of pride. At least he thought her opinions were worthwhile.

  “He had to go through the mayor’s office, the police and the DA first. Pretty impressive, Jessie. They all signed off. So, the only question is—do you want to do it? You’ll do part-time here, part-time there, depending on needs. You’re still in the union, your pay will stay the same including overtime. What do you say?”

  “Are you kidding? Yes! Hell, yes!” She felt validated, light as air; her theories would carry weight now, no matter what Sam or anyone else thought. She hugged Donna. “Thank you. I know you had to agree to this, too. I’m so excited.”

  “Don’t be too excited. You still have to finish out the December schedule. It ends after Christmas. You okay with that?”

  “I’m okay with anything you say. You’re already a great manager.”

  She called Nick to tell him, and she could almost see the frown on his face. “I don’t know, Jessie. You’ll be hanging around those detectives.”

  “I won’t be hanging around with them. I’ll be working with them. Sometimes. And I’ll be with the ME as well. I’m excited about this, but you seem… I don’t know, disappointed or something. Are you?”

  “No, no. I’m happy for you. A little jealous, that’s all. But we can celebrate tomorrow. We’ll do dinner. How’s the Top of the Hub sound?”

  “Expensive, Nick. It sounds expensive.”

  “We have a lot to celebrate—your new job and my arrest of Ramos. I’d say we deserve this.” This time, she could almost hear the smile in his voice.

  “Ohh, Nick,” she whispered. “This will be fun.”

  That evening, a bouquet of white roses arrived in the ER for Jessie. The card said simply “R”, nothing else. Rufus, she thought, inhaling the fresh scent. He shouldn’t be spending his money on her; she hadn’t even thanked him for the earlier bouquet. She made a mental note to stop by in the morning to see him. She needed to get back to work going through his newspapers, too. A part of her just wanted to toss them out; there likely wasn’t anything in any of them that mattered to him. But she’d promised him. She’d tackle that tomorrow too. Maybe she’d even get a manicure, clean up her raggedy nails.

  Nothing could break her mood that night. Not the drug seekers who demanded pain medicines, not the seemingly endless line of people who needed primary care, not emergency care, and not even the gangbangers who pulled out guns ready to settle some score in the ambulance bay. That one was easy—a quick call to the nine-one-one dispatch center and the ER was inundated with cops, the idiot instigators hauled off to jail. All in all, it wasn’t a bad night.

  The next morning, she went for a run, and stopped for coffee and a muffin at Patrick’s store. At home, she knocked on Rufus’s door to thank him for the flowers.

  “Good morning, Jessie,” he said. “Want to come in?”

  She hadn’t really wanted to, there was so much to do today—hair, nails, maybe buy a new dress for tonight. Still, Rufus was her friend. “Yes,” she answered. “Sorry, I only got the one coffee.”

  “No problem there, Jessie, I prefer a cup of tea.”

  She passed him the muffin. “Hope you like blueberry.”

  “Why thank you,” he said, slipping his bony fingers into the bag and drawing out the muffin.

  “None for you?”

  “I’m all set.” She wished she’d had more sense and thought to get an extra. “Anyway, I stopped by to thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful, I love them, but please—I don’t want you to spend your money on me.”

  He scratched his head. “I’m not sure what you mean. I haven’t sent any flowers, though now I wish I had. Must be that boyfriend of yours. Nice fella, that one.”

  Jessie nodded, trying to ignore the knot tightening in her belly.

  If not Rufus, then who was R and who was sending the flowers?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Nick wore a dark suit, Jessie a tight black dress that hugged her in all the right places. She’d pulled her curls into a loose knot, swiped a swath of bright red color along her lips, draped pearls around her neck and a smile on her face. Her mirror confirmed that she looked pretty damn good for a last-minute fancy date, and when she opened her door at his knock, he whistled his approval.

  He glanced towards the white roses Jessie had brought home from the ER, a small crease appearing in his forehead. “Flowers again?” he asked. “Who sent them?”

  “Rufus,” she lied, not sure what to say, the knot in her gut tightening a little bit more. She wasn’t sure who’d sent them, though she was leaning towards Roger as the enigmatic R. Still, she didn’t want to share the puzzle of the flowers with him right then. “Don’t say anything to him. I already told him he spent too much, and I think he’s feeling sensitive.”

  “No worries,” Nick said, draping his arms around her. “As long as he knows you’re my girl.”

  They parked in the Prudential Center garage and took the elevator to the fifty-second floor, stepping into the reception area where a crowd milled at the entrance. “Reservations?” the maître d’, a smiling young woman in a cocktail dress, asked. Nick shook his head.

  “No, didn’t even think of it. Any chance we can get a table?”

  The woman shook her head. “Sorry, I could seat you at ten if you want to wait.”

  Nick sighed, a long frown almost making the shimmery blue of his eyes wilt.

  “The lounge is available,” the woman said, seeming as though she wanted to please Nick. His eyes, his appearance, had that effect on women. Jessie smiled to herself. She wasn’t jealous, just amused. She ushered them to the lounge, where they slid into comfy, upholstered seats with a view as grand as any in the city. She passed two menus to them. “You can order appetizers and small plates here. Enjoy your evening.”

  They feasted on shrimp, oysters and crab cakes as well as a bottle of champagne while the city’s lights and snow-topped roofs glistened an arm’s length away. When a jazz trio began to play, Jessie leaned into Nick. “This feels like heaven, Nick. Thank you.” He kissed her then, his lips and tongue sweet with the taste of champagne. “Let’s go,” she whispered, taking his hand.

  The rest of the night was a blur of lovemaking and laughter and joy. He was sensitive and gentle and kind—holding open doors, pulling out her chair, slipping her coat over her shoulders, sliding his hand into hers every chance he got. He was the Nick she’d been drawn to, the Nick she wanted, the one she needed in her life.

  In the morning, he nudged her awake. “I have to go, Jessie. I’ll call you la
ter.” She curled under the covers, thoughts of the night before swirling through her brain. It was almost noon when she finally woke, the midday sun filtering through her blinds.

  She rose, showered, pulled on sweats, brewed some coffee and watched as sudden rain began to pelt against her windows. Damn. Too wet to run, she turned to Rufus’s pile of old newspapers. At least she could get through those. She sank to the floor, clicked the television on and began to sift through the pile, flipping through the pages in search of a headline, or a story with Rufus’s name. Six newspapers in, every word seemed to fade into the next. She took a coffee break and started again, this time focusing her eyes and her attention to the task at hand.

  Her eyes scanned every page of every newspaper, the pages yellowed, the oldest issues brittle. The last newspaper in the pile was dated Saturday, May 14, 2005. The paper was thinner than most—less news on Saturdays, she supposed, all the better for her. She’d be done soon enough, the day ahead of her. Maybe even time for a late lunch with Nick.

  Her fingers, stained with the black dye of newsprint, skimmed through the pages, her eyes searching the words. Then she saw the headlines and the photo and she froze, the paper fluttering from her hands. Her breath caught in her throat as though she’d been hit in the chest; her brain had somehow short circuited. None of this was possible, none of this was true. She picked up the paper, raking her eyes across the story once again.

  Best Friends Forever Heading in Different Directions

  Nick Dolan and Rob Hart, recent graduates of Charlestown High School, have been best friends since they sat across from one another in kindergarten. Now one is headed to Harvard and the other to the Army. Both say they want to make the world a better place, and they expect to be friends for a long time. Such different futures, but such good friends. “I want to be a cop,” Nick said. “Keep people like Rob in line.”

  The photo below the story was small and grainy and faded, but it was impossible not to recognize Nick, his eyes shimmering even in black and white, and next to him, Rob Hart—his round, boyish face, his tight smile, his eyes closed against the flash.

  She dropped the paper again and stood perfectly still. This can’t be, she thought. It’s some kind of mistake. A different Nick? “No,” she said out loud. “That was him.” He knew Rob. It was here in black and white. Why wouldn’t he say something? She shook her head. “Damn it!” she shouted. She’d have to tell Sam. She couldn’t keep this a secret. She reached for her phone and began to scroll through her contacts, before she stopped. Shoulders sagging, tears welling in the corners of her eyes, she sank onto her couch.

  She couldn’t make any sense of this. Nick had come to the ER that night. He’d been at the scene… or had he? He’d said something about the victim being someone important. She remembered that he’d said to have security lock the place down, and keep reporters out. He had to have known it was his friend. She ran her fingers through her hair. She felt as if her head was spinning.

  She tried to remember the details of that night, but it was Rob Hart she remembered best, his coolness, his worry about himself instead of his wife. She tried to focus on Nick. He’d wanted to go for a drink at the private club the police ran after hours, but she’d turned him down. Maybe he didn’t realize the victim was his old friend; but he should have learned that the next day at least. Why not say something? Why the secrecy? What the hell was going on? She let out a long, slow breath. She’d just ask him. That’s what she’d do. She’d ask him first. She owed him that, and he owed her an explanation.

  She gathered the papers into a pile. She’d get rid of them, all of them. She dropped the pile by her door and stopped. What was she thinking? She tore out the page that held the story, and placed it on her table. She’d drop the pile into the recycle bin, come back up and decide who to call first—Nick, or Sam. This whole thing was probably nothing. Nick was a good cop, a good man. He could explain this away. She was sure of it. She collected the pile and pulled open her door.

  Nick was standing there, a lopsided grin on his face. “Hey, you,” he said.

  And Jessie’s heart stopped.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Why so quiet?” he asked. “What’s wrong? Not hungover, I hope. That champagne was great though, wasn’t it?” He continued to prattle on and Jessie just stood there, her mouth hanging open. “What is it?” he asked again, leaning into her, the familiar scent of him, the touch of him, a salve to her fears. “Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with worry.

  She smiled. This was Nick, her Nick. This was okay. Or was it? “A little hungover, I guess,” she said, her voice sounding uneasy, even to her.

  “Come on then,” he said, pushing her gently back into her apartment. “I’ll get you some Motrin.” He started for the kitchen, and she could see it—the article lying face up on the table. Suddenly, she wasn’t ready for him to see it, for him to know what she knew. She needed time to think about it. That’s all—she just needed time.

  “Hey,” she said. “Will you bring these downstairs first? To the recycle bin?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed the papers at him. “Please, I can’t relax if there’s clutter in here. I’ve finished going through these for Rufus.”

  “Alright,” he said, taking the pile. “Lie down. I’ll be right back.”

  She folded the news story and stuffed it in a kitchen drawer. By the time Nick returned, she was lying on the couch, one hand draped dramatically over her eyes. The truth was she wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t the flu or a hangover, it was the fact that Nick knew Rob, and he’d never said a word. The very thought that he’d keep a secret like that made her stomach churn and her mind race.

  “What can I get you, Jess?” Nick asked as he knelt by the couch and stroked her hair.

  She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t risk tears or anger or both, so instead she shook her head and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. He got her a glass of water and set it down beside her. “You look as though you just want to sleep.”

  She nodded in the affirmative. He kissed her forehead. “I’ll let myself out. Get some rest, babe. I’ll check in on you later.” He left, pulling the door shut behind him. A sharp click and the thud of footsteps on the stairs signaled that he was gone. Jessie pulled herself up, slid the deadbolt lock on her door, and retrieved the article from the drawer. She smoothed the page and read it again, and she wondered if it was possible to forget a best friend. The article had been written fifteen years ago, and she tried to remember the name of a friend from those years in her own life. She could only come up with one name—Tracy Something-or-other, and as for high school, her best friend had been Emma, the same friend who’d stolen her fiancé. Of course, she remembered Emma, though she hoped that someday that would just be a name, a person she couldn’t recall. Ever.

  Maybe that was the case with Nick. She shouldn’t be so dramatic—she should have just asked him. She sighed heavily. She’d call him, and do what she should have done—ask him.

  That evening, she had her opportunity. They’d decided on a quiet Saturday night. Nick would pick up pizza and beer and they’d stay in, and after her second slice of pizza and third beer, she was feeling ready. “Hey,” she asked, an uneasy squeak in her voice. “Did you say you knew Rob Hart in high school?”

  Nick’s head snapped up. “What? What are you talking about? Rob Hart? The Rob Hart? No, I don’t know him. Jesus, where’d you get that idea?”

  “Actually, from an article in the Globe. You were best friends, it said. He was heading to Harvard and you to the Army.”

  He hesitated a beat too long. “What article? Do you have it?” he asked, his voice shaky, his face pinched. He wiped his hand across his brow.

  “No,” she said almost too quickly, not even sure why she’d decided to lie. “It was in that pile you put into the recycle bin. They’ve already been picked up today. It’s gone.”

  “Ahh,” he said, leaning back into the couch, the tension seeping from h
im like a layer of dust blown away. “I grew up here in Boston, over in Charlestown, and I think I heard that he did, too, so I might have run into him, but I didn’t know him. At least, I don’t remember him. Must have been someone else in the story.”

  Jessie seemed to absorb the tension that Nick had released; her neck felt stiff, and a thin thread of worry, or maybe it was fear, wove itself into her mind. When the beer was finished, they headed to bed, where he wrapped himself around her, falling asleep quickly. It took Jessie a bit longer, but finally, sleep brushed away the last bits of unease, and even Bert’s warning that the police must be involved in the shooting that had taken over her mind, and now maybe her life, and she slipped into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

  She woke early to the creak of her door as Nick pulled it open. “Morning, sweetie. I didn’t want to wake you.” He turned back and kissed her softly. “I’m working a double today. I have to get going. Can I get you anything before I go?” His eyes were shimmering pools of blue, the gentle eyes of the Nick she liked so much. She nudged his chin down and kissed him full on the lips, lingering there, wishing she knew him as well as she’d thought.

  “Have a good day. I’m back to work today, too. See you later?”

  He backed away, blowing her a kiss as he went. “You will, you absolutely will.”

  With that he was gone, leaving Jessie with a yellowing, old news page and too many questions. She did what she did best when she had to think. She went for a morning run, and tried to picture Tracy What’s-her-last name and she couldn’t, but Emma—who’d betrayed her only a few years before, came quickly to mind. Tracy was in her long-ago past and Emma was still fresh, so maybe it did make sense that Nick wouldn’t remember Rob. They’d gone their separate ways and lived quite separate lives—Nick in Iraq and Rob in Harvard. By the end of her run, she felt better. Friendships and memories were fleeting things.