Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  “Step away from—”

  “Shut up, Whittle,” yelled an EMT. “That’s Mercy Watts. Secure the damn scene!”

  I recognized him from Mom’s attack and felt a surge of warm relief. Jason was good, very good.

  “Let’s roll him,” said the other EMT that I didn’t recognize.

  They worked on Calabasas and I pushed down Catherine’s hood. She was glassy-eyed and panting.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “She’s in shock,” I said. “Do you have a second unit en route?”

  “Yes,” said Jason, clicking the walkie on his shoulder. “We’ve got a forty-year-old white male with multiple gunshot wounds. Through and through upper abdomen and wounds to the left shoulder and upper thigh. Pressure dropping. ETA five minutes.”

  They had Calabasas on a gurney. I don’t know when that happened. Catherine fell over. I got her rain coat off. So much blood underneath. Not Calabasas’s blood.

  “She’s got one, no two wounds!”

  The second unit came screaming up and I was shoved out of the way. Cops were everywhere. Catherine was on a gurney and gone. There was such frantic activity it was like being in a swarm of bees and no one noticed me for a minute, sitting on the sidewalk and shaking.

  “There she is!” Ameche was next to me, checking me over. “She’s clear!”

  “How’s Donatella?” My brain was so full. I don’t know why Donatella popped out.

  “Um…she’s fine. The kids are fine. Tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t here.”

  He took me by the shoulders. “You’re here, Mercy. You’re at the scene.”

  “Did you get the shooter?”

  “Not yet.” He got me up and the next thing I knew I was sitting on the back of an ambulance with an oxygen mask on, getting my pressure taken. The scene was still chaotic, but evidence markers were down and the area cordoned off. People were talking about me. I could hear my name repeatedly. I was so tired, so shaky. I couldn’t stop shaking and then there was nothing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I CAME TO in the back of the ambulance and we were rolling.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  The EMT looked up from his clipboard and said, “Guess.”

  This is when it’s bad to know most everyone. They feel free to be sarcastic, even when you’re strapped to a gurney in an ambulance. I knew Zach from my many shifts in the ERs around town. He acted like he wanted to date, but I wasn’t his style. He liked biker babes and kept telling me I’d be hot if I dyed my hair black.

  “Disneyland,” I said.

  “Close. Disney World.”

  “Awesome. I’m totally in the mood for the teacups.”

  “That’s a barf-a-thon,” said Zach, putting down the clipboard and checking my numbers.

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re nausated?” he asked.

  “A little.” And with that, I threw up and I did it so fast Zach didn’t have a chance to grab an emesis bag. I threw up all over my chest because that’s my life.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s not ideal.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem. You’re in shock.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Pressure was in the basement, but you’re coming up now.” He used a blue pad to wipe me up, not concentrating on the breast area, which I appreciated.

  “Is Calabasas still alive?” I asked. “Catherine?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “What about the shooter?”

  Zach wiped my face and shook his head. “He got away clean.”

  “Seriously? Broad daylight and there had to be people around,” I said.

  “There were.”

  “And?”

  The ambulance stopped and the back doors were yanked open.

  “Zach?” I asked.

  “Silver sedan, possibly a four-door,” he said as I was slid out and then rocketed through the ER doors.

  Silver sedan. That narrows it down. Everybody and their brother had a silver sedan. You’d think car makers didn’t offer other colors. But I was no better. I didn’t remember anything from arriving on the scene. If I crossed paths with a car, any car, I had no memory of it. I was going to hear about that from everyone, but I was more worried about Calabasas and Catherine. What had I said to Uncle Morty when he said someone wanted to hurt her? Get in line? I was such an asshole.

  The staff assessed me and I got a room super quick. My shaking was nearly gone and I got out of bed to peek out my door. The ER was fairly quiet considering it was a Saturday afternoon. The desk was empty with only one patient in a wheelchair patiently waiting next to it. That’s when I realized where I was, the same ER Mom went to. Of course, it would be. Lafayette was too close to go anywhere else, but still a kind of panic came over me. Mom with half her brain shut off, the scrapes on her legs, her confusion and then Tiny lying gutted next to radiology. There was blood on my hands, up my arms, and splashed on my chest. I could taste it in my mouth.

  I’m so out of here.

  I was halfway to the exit before I realized I was missing a shoe. Those Bobs were new and so comfortable. I was pissed. The one shoe I did have was blood-stained beyond hope. Despite that and how I must’ve looked, I believed I could get out of the ER and home without anyone noticing. Shock and memories are powerful, but not powerful enough to get me out the door.

  “God dammit!” someone yelled behind me and I was quickly surrounded.

  A nurse got me by the arm and turned me around. “Where are you going?”

  “Anywhere but here,” I said, pulling away.

  “You need to rest. The doctor will be in in a minute.”

  “I have to leave.”

  She tried to push me back in my room, but I braced myself against the doorframe. “I’m leaving. You can’t make me stay here.”

  “What’s wrong with here? We’re trying to help you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve thrown up twice since you got here.”

  I didn’t remember that, but her words made zero impression. “I’ll go somewhere else. Shriner’s.”

  “You can’t go to the children’s hospital,” said the nurse.

  “Did she hit her head?” asked someone. “Might need a CT.”

  Then Ameche was there, taking over. “She didn’t hit her head. Her mom was in here two months ago with a stroke and her cousin was the one who got knifed. Back off. I’ve got her.”

  He got me through the door and in bed before I could protest. The nurse piled warm blankets on me and got some ginger ale for my stomach.

  “I’m sorry I freaked,” I said.

  “Understandable,” she said. “Your mother and cousin are doing well I understand. What happened won’t happen again.”

  “You obviously don’t know me,” I said, attempting a smile.

  “You’ve had some interesting luck. Today isn’t an exception.”

  Ameche grinned at me. “I’d call this a pretty average day for you.”

  “You suck,” I said. “Is Donatella really okay?”

  The nurse raised an eyebrow at him and he explained about his older sister, her husband’s murder and my involvement in the case. He left out my shooting Richard Costilla in the face in New Orleans. Thank goodness. That was the last thing I needed to think about.

  “I didn’t know about that one,” said the nurse. “Your life is fascinating.”

  “If by fascinating you mean train wreck then yes,” I said.

  “You’re DBD’s cover girl,” she countered.

  Why do people think that’s a good thing? It was useful but ultimately embarrassing. I didn’t want to be pinned up in man caves. Gross.

  “Yeah, well, it’s something,” I said.

  She gave Ameche a puzzled look and left, saying the doc would be in in a moment. And he was, quickly declaring me fine and ready to be released. The paperwork took longer. He wouldn’t tell me anything about Calabas
as and Catherine other than they’d gone to surgery and weren’t, ya know, dead.

  “Do you want me to call your parents?” Ameche asked. “I’m surprised they’re not here.”

  “I’m relieved. My dad’s not doing great after Mom’s thing. This won’t help.”

  “Your parents would want to be here.”

  “You want to call someone?”

  He got out his phone. “Yep.”

  I’m going to regret this.

  “Call my Aunt Miriam,” I said.

  Ameche went pale. “The nun?”

  “You know her?”

  “She whacked me with her cane when I wouldn’t give the location of a prostitute I arrested.”

  “Yeah, she does that,” I said. “But she always knows what to do.”

  He grimaced. “She might hit me again.”

  “She’s elderly and weighs ninety-seven pounds. You’ll live. I do and she whacks me all the time.”

  “What is up with your family?”

  “I’ve been asking that since I was four. No answer yet.”

  Ameche tried to talk me out of calling Aunt Miriam, but gave up on the condition that he could leave and I wouldn’t make another break for it. I agreed, but I lied. You can’t trust me. Come on, Ameche.

  The minute he left, I liberated a pair of scrubs, borrowed a phone from the guy in the wheelchair, and made for a different exit. That time I made it. I was in an Uber and on the road before my discharge paperwork came back. Suckers.

  A half hour later, I was home, showered, and poking Li Shou to check for signs of life when my landline rang. Dad insisted I have one in case of, I don’t know, Armageddon.

  I could’ve pulled the cord out of the wall as I frequently did, but I felt better. Being blood free can have that effect so I answered. Big mistake.

  “Hello.”

  “Where are you?” Chuck yelled.

  “Home. Where are you?” I asked calmly.

  He started cussing like he was my dad and Uncle Morty combined. Between the foulness I caught words like scene, investigation, and witness.

  It’d take more than that to get me excited. I’d been a witness so many times I should have my own form.

  When Chuck stopped for breath, I said, “How are Calabasas and Cabot?”

  Another mistake. He started peppering me with questions. How did I know them? Why was I at the scene? Blah. Blah. Blah. It made me tired. I had no clue who the shooter was. Yelling at me wouldn’t change it and I said so.

  “You left the hospital before you were interviewed,” he accused.

  “So what? You know where I live.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “It’s exactly the point. I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to be where Mom and Tiny were. They were releasing me anyway so I left. End of story.”

  “It’s not. You have to be interviewed.”

  “So interview me.”

  “It’s not my case.”

  “Then why are you bothering me? Go find another serial killer to electrocute.”

  “Merc—”

  I hung up on him. It’s amazing how much easier that gets with practice. The phone rang and I yanked it out of the wall. If he wanted to yell at me, he could come do it in person. And as if on cue someone rang my doorbell.

  Crap on a cracker. That was fast.

  I waited. They might go away. I don’t know why I thought that. They never go away.

  I looked out the peephole and no one was there. I groaned. Only one person was that persistent and short. Aunt Miriam.

  I opened the door and the world’s angriest nun marched in. “So you left the hospital without permission.”

  “They were releasing me,” I said.

  “I meant my permission.”

  I trotted behind the breakfast bar. It’s always good to have fixed objects between you and Aunt Miriam. “I didn’t need permission.”

  Don’t say that, stupid.

  She gave me the stink eye. “You don’t think so?”

  “Er…I saw a doctor.”

  “Doctors,” she scoffed. “I’m family.” She cornered me in the kitchen and gave me the once over. “You look alright.”

  “I am alright.”

  “Good. Who shot those people?”

  “Beats me.”

  The stink eye was so strong my skin started to sizzle.

  “I really don’t know,” I said.

  “Try again.”

  “I don’t.”

  She looked around and announced that my kitchen was dirty. It was, but I didn’t think that was so important. Aunt Miriam disagreed. She ordered me to clean the kitchen while she got on the phone to find out how Calabasas and Catherine were. There were advantages to being related to someone people were terrified of and getting medical info I wasn’t allowed to have was one of them.

  I started cleaning my kitchen with gusto while Aunt Miriam haggled—i.e. threatened—someone on the surgical floor and my landline rang again.

  “What the crap!”

  Aunt Miriam glared at me and pointed at the phone. She’d plugged it back in. You had to watch her every minute. Now I had to answer. She had the cane and the purse. Sometimes there were bricks in her black bag.

  I almost said hello. Almost because I didn’t manage to get it all the way out.

  “Mercy, good you’re alright. Dana here. Your mother is sleeping. Tommy is working Denny’s life insurance payout. I’ve turned off the scanner and they won’t know that anything has happened until you’re ready to tell them. I’ve informed both sets of grandparents, your aunt, and the rest of Tommy’s stable.”

  That wasn’t the end. Dana kept going and she did not require oxygen. Maybe she had gills because she did not stop. I thought Dad could talk, but Dana was a true professional at it. Somehow, we went from the shooting to a case of Benedict’s about bullfrogs and sewage to the proper care of cucumbers.

  I broke in after fifteen minutes to say, “It’s Saturday. You don’t have to be there.”

  “I know Claire has been here almost constantly since the unfortunate incident and you will get no less from me. Big Steve contacted me about your security concerns regarding Catherine Cabot and I chose a bodyguard from your father’s notes. Big Steve concurred, but obviously we were too slow and I apologize.”

  Then it was a steady stream of voice about the weather in Copenhagen to the right flame color on Viking ranges. Then she circled back around to when I would do my interview and did I want someone with me.

  Dana paused for a reply and I was so surprised I didn’t answer.

  “Mercy? Are you there?”

  “Er…no. I’m okay alone.”

  Aunt Miriam pointed at me. “Hang up now.”

  But Dana had started again about me being deposed and perhaps it would be advisable if Big Steve was with me.

  Aunt Miriam marched over, took the phone out of my hand, and said, “Mercy has to go now,” and hung up on Dana. “I told you to hang up,” she said.

  “Wow.”

  “She likes to talk,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “I think she used all the words. Every single one.”

  “Yes. Would you like to know about your victims?”

  I pointed out that Calabasas and Catherine were certainly not my victims, which got me a whack. I never learn. On the upside, Aunt Miriam got every ounce of information and probably before their relatives did. Both were alive. Catherine’s injuries were relatively minor. Her chest wound broke a rib. It would’ve killed her if it hadn’t passed through Calabasas first. The second was shrapnel. They thought it had bounced off the sidewalk before hitting her shoulder. Both bullets were off to ballistics and she was in recovery.

  The bullet that went through Calabasas before hitting Catherine did major damage to his stomach and nicked his spine, but the cord didn’t appear affected. There was severe swelling and only time would tell. The hit to the shoulder lodged in the joint and the one to the thigh broke his leg. He would be in surgery
for at least another two hours, but they expected him to recover.

  “So this is your case,” said Aunt Miriam. “I suggest you get moving.”

  “The cops have got it.”

  She tapped her cane on the floor and I retreated to the kitchen. “It was your case first.”

  “Criminal cases aren’t finders keepers,” I said. “Do you want a snack? I have caramel corn.”

  “No snacks, Mercy. These are your people. They could’ve and very nearly died.”

  “I met Catherine for the first time today. That hardly makes her my people.”

  “Tommy would think so.”

  “We’re not going with what my dad would think. Have you been over there lately? He’s playing with a trick deck.” I tried to open the fridge and she slammed it closed with her cane.

  “Have you seen the letters?”

  I just want to eat. Can’t I eat?

  “What letters?” I asked, rubbing my hands.

  Mom and Dad had been getting letters, cards, emails, and even tweets from people all over the world. Get well cards and thank yous for what Dad had done for them. The cases stretched back thirty-five years. Parents didn’t forget the gangly redhead that worked twenty hours a day to find their child’s murderer or wife’s or their father’s. What Dad did mattered. I didn’t need a stack of letters to tell me that, but it didn’t make being his kid any easier.

  “What’s your point? Dad’s an awesome detective. Got it.”

  “You could do with being like him,” she said, squinting up at me with watery blue eyes.

  “I’ve seen that up close and personal. I’ll pass. I’d like a life.”

  “Your father has a life of purpose and you would be—”

  Someone knocked on the door. I was never so grateful to be interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” I said, scooting around her. “That’ll be the detective coming to get my statement on their case.”

  “Chuck will expect you to do your part,” said Aunt Miriam.

  “It’s not Chuck.” And that was a good thing. I didn’t want any more yelling. Sid was great and calm. Jacobs. Ford. Whoever. It didn’t matter.

  “Who is it then?”

  “I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Anybody’s better than Chuck right now.”