CHAPTER NINE
Nicole sat in the living room and watched the cops go up and down like there's been a murder case in the house. It took the cops about fifteen minutes to get to the house. They set to work immediately, taking pictures of the crime scene, dusted almost everywhere for finger prints and all that.
As they worked, Nicole doubted if they could be able to crack the case anytime soon because of the complicated nature of the stolen property.
Nicole recalled the moment she got into the cellar. It was the first time she sets foot in the stuffy room and she observed that nothing seemed untypical about it.
A part of it, to the left, had been turned into a mini library with about two dozens of old book arranged in a small brownish shelf nailed to the wall. A chair and a small table stood bellow the shelf.
But something seemed to be missing by the right hand side of the room; there was a big rectangular, greyish-brown mark on the wall that could pass for space of a 3 by 4 foot picture. The mark seemed to be made due to the accumulation of dust over a long time behind the picture.
Normally she could’ve ignored it but then she found broken pieces of picture frame on the floor right below the mark. There were also pieces of small pins and nails scattered on the floor. She didn't want to believe it but it seemed the thief had gotten away with a picture; or painting.
But she's not sure yet. She had told the cops she didn't know what was stolen. She had never been into the cellar before to know what’s in it in the first place, how then could she know what exactly was stolen?
"Here; have some coffee." Abby handed her a mug.
"Thanks."
"I just got paged from the hospital so I got to be leaving now. Are you going to be alright?"
"Sure. I'll be fine."
"Do you want me to call someone for you; Dr Fleming, perhaps? I don't like the idea of leaving you alone here. If you want, I can..."
"I'll be fine Abby. You should go." Nicole said. Abby hesitated. "Look, the guy has gotten what he wanted and I don't think he'll risk coming back here again. So just go, nothing is going to happen. Go!"
"Ok; I'm sorry cuz this whole breaking and attacking things kind of freaked me out. Please be careful doc. Promise that you'll call me later?"
Nicole nodded. Abby gave her a hug and went to the door.
"You were great with the bike. I'm glad you got it." Nicole said before Abby opened the door. Abby just smiled and walked out.
"Doctor Nicole Ingermanson?"
Nicole turned from the door to the person talking to her. Standing above her was a man in a black suit, a black tie and a boyish face. His hair was brown and long, cascading down to his shoulders. If he was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, she would've sworn he's a rock star.
"Yes." she said.
He raised his jacket a bit to reveal the metallic badge stuck in his pants. "I’m Detective Ruben McNeil; Nevada Police. I need to ask you some questions regarding what happened here. I gathered that you were attacked earlier this morning by a masked man who got away, is that correct?" She nodded. "I think there's some kind of connection between the two, because the stealing was done in the same room where you were attacked. We think the person that attacked you is the same person that came back."
"I thought so too, that's why I had to leave the hospital because I was afraid he might come back. Too bad he did." Nicole said
"Hell of an experience. I see the cellar has a security door and I was wondering how he got the code."
"That's what's puzzling again, because I don't know the code myself. Margaret Fletcher died two days ago and I think she died with it. So the question is how he got it?"
"Best guess; he used a code breaker"
"A code breaker?"
"It's a device that's attached to the keypad wiring; it reads the code and breaks it"
Nicole had seen it in the movies. Criminals or agents use the nifty technology to break into safes or security doors, even briefcases just to have access to whatever is inside.
The detective scratched his nose and walked closer. "Did Margaret Fletcher ever tell you anything about a painting she had?"
"No she didn't. But I know she was a lover of the arts; you can see that yourself if you look around"
"Right; do you think she might tell someone— anyone— about it; maybe another family member, a close friend?"
"I don't think so. Her only family is her granddaughter who lives in Seattle; they haven’t spoken or seen for like two years now. She had no friends that I know of..."
"So the only family she had is a granddaughter; then who are you?"
"I’m her doctor and close friend."
"How close were you?"
"Close enough."
"Our preliminary investigations have confirmed that the only item stolen in that cellar could be a painting hung on to the wall. The thief must've brought it down, removed it from the frame and the stretcher and took away the canvas; which explains the broken wood, the nails and pins found scattered on the floor. We don't know what kind of painting it is, but we are positive that it's valuable. My men have taken samples of the broken frame and the mark on the wall to the lab for analysis, but before we get the results, I suggest you rest now because I can see you're in a pretty bad shape." His eyes went to her knee.
"I'll get back to you as soon as I get the results." He fished out a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "This is my number; call me anytime you think of something; anything."
"Sure; thank you." She took the card.
He nodded and went back to the garage.
Nicole sighed. A lot of pressure seemed to have been lifted off her as a result of what happened. Her hopes for protecting what Maggie obviously wanted her to protect has been dashed and the valuable item had been stolen. But since the cops have taken over the case, she will now have time to take care of herself.
She looked at the wrap on her knee; it's intact, but the knee was breathing pain again. She needed some pain killers to help relieve it. Maybe she could have some sleep afterwards; she really needs some.
The house was empty an hour later. It was such a huge relief. Nicole could use the solitude to clear her head and relax even though her mind was still disturbed over the stolen painting.
Another thing she's worried about was the information about 'PABLO' she held back on the detective. Though she's not very sure it was the real password but maybe telling him could’ve helped in some way.
The only two people she told were Joe and Owen Craig. She believed neither of them had the time to go digging in an old woman's house to know what it's all about. She even wondered how the thief came to know about the painting in the first place. It's complicated and she hoped the cops will crack it fast enough. She's not good at been patient or waiting.
Nicole took a warm shower and got back into her clothes. Her knee still hurt a little so she went to the little closet where Maggie usually keeps her drugs to see if she could get some painkiller. She opened it and her eyes fell on one.
Aspirin; good.
She took it; her eyes rummaged through the drugs in the small closet. There were close to two dozen of them, arranged neatly. She remembered most of them because she's the one that prescribed them for the old lady.
Nicole was once told that drugs were the powerful tools to battle diseases. She agreed. But years later, she came to the realization that drugs were meant not to battle diseases but mortality as a whole.
Mortality is more powerful and fearsome than even the most powerful drug created by the most talented scientists. It makes drugs suck sometimes. Mortality and medicine will forever be mortal enemies; she always says.
She closed the cupboard, stared at her reflection in the mirror on the door of the closet. She's a mess. The fact that things have not been going on too well after Maggie's surgery, eats the crap out of her. She noticed faint lines have appeared beneath her eyes which she could tell, were due to tremendous pressure and stress.
She kept looking
; deeper. And right there, she saw a fragile Nicole broken by loss and imperfection. Sometimes she felt too independent to seek for a helping hand or some comfort from anyone. But there's weakness in every brave heart; she knew that. She knew the natural existence of a soft spot that neutralizes the strength in a mortal human. Sometimes, her arrogance shut it out that she appeared not to have any form of weakness. But just like everyone else; she has it, and hers is fear― the fear of not getting it right; the fear of the wrath of imperfection and failure; the fear of mortality.
Nicole's cell phone wailed from the living room and she jolted.
"Dr Nicole In.... Ok."
She took the remote and pressed the power button. And to her greatest surprise, she discovered she was in the news! That fact nearly stopped her heart.
How she got in there she didn't know. But the bald-headed news reporter, a Greg Jackson, stared directly at her and spoke with the left side of his mouth:
"We have confirmation that a valuable painting was stolen from the house behind me late this afternoon."
Nicole's mouth hung open as the camera displayed Maggie's front porch.
"What the hell is this?"
"The owner of the house and the painting died two days ago following a heart attack. Her Doctor and close friend, Dr Nicole Ingermanson, was attacked and wounded in the same house by an unknown suspect earlier this morning. While she was taken to the hospital, the suspect was believed to have sneaked back into the house again and stole the painting. As at the time this report was..."
Nicole turned off the TV and buried her face in her palms. The worst has happened; now she'll await her crucifixion by the press; and the public again
Who the hell called the press? There's only one answer to that; the detective!
Enraged, she took her cell phone and began looking for his card.
"I never knew detectives could be such jack asses." Where the hell is it?
And just when she saw the card, her cell phone rang again.
"Hello"
"Is this Dr Nicole Ingermanson?"
"Yeah"
"Right; this is Terry Nicholson from Chanel 7 news. Miss Ingermanson is it true that..." She flipped the phone shut and sighed in frustration.
Nicole flipped it open again to dial the detective’s number and another call came in. She rejected the call and dialled again until it went through finally. But to her utmost dismay, she got the answering machine. She grunted; about to explode with rage.
My Favourite Muse Page 44
