Down and Dirty (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 9)

by A W Hartoin

  “I’ll give him one for all.” I grabbed a silk robe and dashed out to a racket that was bouncing off the high walls and ceilings. “For crying out loud.”

  I keyed my code in and found Chuck on the doorstep, sopping wet and furious.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled.

  “Right back at you!”

  “What?”

  “It’s two in the morning. Have you gone completely insane? You woke up Aunt Miriam. You never wake up Aunt Miriam,” I said.

  Chuck looked at his phone and said, “It’s two in the morning.”

  “I know. I told you.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  Hiding.

  “I was sleeping,” I said.

  “Here?”

  “It happens.”

  He tried to come in, but I blocked the door.

  “Why didn’t you submit to an interview?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  “Julia says you didn’t. This case is big for her. She needs you to answer her questions.”

  There are times in life when things you read in books are oddly accurate, like that cliché about feeling the blood drain from your body. I felt it then. An icy cold started at the top and went down to my toes. Aunt Miriam was right. This was about Julia. Not the case. Julia.

  “And you believe her?” I asked.

  “You’re not answering her questions and you’re obviously up to your eyeballs in this,” he said, his face flushed and angry.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mercy, I told her I’d bring you in.”

  “At two a.m.?”

  “I didn’t know it was two.”

  “Lost track of time, did you?” I asked.

  He pointed past me to the stairs. “Go up and get dressed. She needs that interview.”

  “What about O’Malley’s?”

  “What about it?”

  “Isn’t that your case? Triple homicide. Big deal. So big you snaked it from Julia.”

  “I didn’t snake it. They wanted an experienced team on it, so Sid and I got called in. I’m freezing. Can I come in?”

  “No.” I crossed my arms. “How did she feel about that?”

  Say “who gives a crap” or “I don’t know.”

  “We talked about it and she’s fine. She understands,” said Chuck.

  Wrong answer.

  “And now you’re here, yelling at me in the middle of the night.”

  “Because you won’t give her what she needs.”

  I bet she thinks you will.

  “I don’t have anything for her,” I said. “Go home or wherever.”

  “Where’s your truck?” he asked. “Julia—”

  “A better question would be ‘where’s my give-a-shit about Julia?’” I slammed the door in his surprised face, rearmed the alarm, and applied the double system so he couldn’t use his code.

  He started yelling, “Mercy! What is going on? Open up.”

  I pushed the intercom button. “Leave or I’ll call the cops.”

  “I am the cops.”

  “Then it will be embarrassing, won’t it?” I marched back up the stairs and climbed into bed next to a shivering Aunt Miriam. Then I got back up and found a wool blanket in Myrtle’s room that she kept because she had the body temperature control of a lizard.

  I tucked the double-thick wool around Aunt Miriam and then pulled the comforters up.

  “Thank you, Mercy,” she mumbled. “Is he still out there?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “He loves you.”

  We’ll see.

  I cuddled down under one comforter and began plotting my next move. I’d beat Julia and if I could, I’d grind her nose in the dirt.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE BAD THING about hanging out with the elderly is that they never think it’s time to eat and they wake up at the crack of dawn and are ready to go before people half their age—or in my case, a third—are fully conscious.

  True to form, Aunt Miriam woke up at five, got dressed, made coffee, criticized my hair and lifestyle all before five thirty.

  “I’m ready,” she said, straightening her veil and applying Chapstick at the same time.

  “Coffee,” I said.

  “You had coffee.”

  “More coffee.”

  She pointed at my Tom’s. “Put those ugly things on.”

  “My shoes are in style,” I said.

  “They look like they’re made out of threadbare old towels.”

  “No, they don’t.” They kind of did, but I’d never noticed it before. Thanks, Aunt Miriam.

  I put on my old towels, negotiated my way into a second latte, and we were out the door before five forty-five. I changed my mind about the car situation. I was going to beat Julia and I’d do it in style. We took the Isabella. I thought about taking the Maybach, but it would be a nightmare to park. The thing was basically a limo without the middle part.

  I pulled out so slow Aunt Miriam started getting antsy and playing with the many white plastic knobs that decorated the dash.

  “Stop that,” I said, getting the feel of the big steering wheel and trying to feel comfortable in a car instead of my truck. The Isabella was a lot bigger on the inside than you’d think and I slid around a little on the comfy but slick leather seat.

  “We’re going to the hospital,” announced Aunt Miriam.

  “Yes, we are,” I said.

  She raised a scant eyebrow.

  “I’m going to interview Catherine. I doubt Mr. Calabasas is in any shape to talk.”

  “I can get him to talk,” she said.

  The way she was sitting there, perched on the seat with her little legs dangling, you’d think that would sound ridiculous but add a sturdy black purse and, of course, the cane and you’d know she could wake the dead, if required.

  “You know he’s a victim, not a suspect, right?” I asked.

  “What does Tommy say?”

  I groaned. “What doesn’t he say?”

  “Mercy!”

  “Everyone’s a suspect.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Since he’s in the ICU with multiple gunshot wounds, I think we can make an exception.”

  She gave me the stink eye.

  “Or not.”

  Aunt Miriam started digging around in her purse when we got close to the hospital and I got nervous. Dad got her a taser a while back for when she was out helping the street life get a hot meal and God. I didn’t think she’d tase her way into the ICU, but she wasn’t above threatening.

  To my relief, she pulled out a placard, but my relief didn’t last long.

  “What is that?” I asked.

  She proudly showed me a Clergy hang tag complete with hands in prayer. “We can park anywhere we want.”

  “No. Where did you get that?”

  “Father Clement. He wanted me to have it.”

  “He’s senile. He probably thought you were Archbishop Tutu.”

  “Be that as it may. He gave it to me.”

  I pulled in the hospital complex and felt my chest constrict.

  Mom’s not here. Mom’s not here.

  “We’re not using that thing.”

  Aunt Miriam harrumphed and started digging again. “Fine. Who would’ve thought you were so prissy after your adventures.”

  “I’m not prissy. It’s wrong,” I said.

  “If I were a man, I would be a member of the clergy,” she said, still digging.

  I’m starting to think I take after you.

  “Well, you’re not.”

  She pulled out a blue tag and said, “Voilà!”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  It was a disabled person’s tag with a ridiculous expiration of 2030. I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel, but I had too many scratches there already.

  “Did Father Clement give you that, too?” I asked.

  “For your inf
ormation, the state issued me this tag,” she asked.

  “Why? You’re not disabled.” Crazy but not disabled.

  She smiled wickedly. “I have a cane.”

  “You bought a cane. It’s not the same thing.”

  “I filled out the application and they gave me the permit. I didn’t lie.” She pointed at the disabled spaces. “There.”

  “Never going to happen,” I said.

  “I have the permit.”

  “Under false pretenses.” I pulled into another space fifty yards away much to her displeasure.

  She got out and pointed that stupid cane at me. “I didn’t lie. I broke my hip.”

  “Ten years ago.”

  “There’s no expiration.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” I said. “You are a lot more morally flexible than I thought.”

  She marched away, not using her cane, by the way. “I’m not ‘morally flexible’. We are doing the Lord’s work.”

  “How do you figure?” I asked.

  “We’re hunting for a would-be murderer before he strikes again. That is the Lord’s work,” she said.

  I couldn’t argue with that, but I wanted to. I really did. But there was no point. Aunt Miriam had never lost an argument to my knowledge. She played the nun card too well.

  We passed the information desk, where a pink lady volunteer hid her face at our approach, and headed for the main bank of elevators. Aunt Miriam woodpeckered the up button and the few people around at six in the morning gave us a wide berth and we got in the elevator alone.

  “So they’re in the ICU?” she asked.

  “I assume so.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Where else would they be?” I asked.

  “Do you have a plan?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll say I’m Catherine’s sister or something.”

  She pursed her lips. “It’s a good thing you have me.”

  “How do you figure?” I asked.

  I got a quick rap with the cane and she asked, “Will she have a guard?”

  “Maybe, but I do know cops. Some of them even like me.”

  Aunt Miriam grumbled and the door dinged. She marched out, but didn’t make it five feet before another elevator dinged and a woman’s voice called out, “Sister Miriam!”

  I was afraid to look, but when I did I found a group of six people crowded around my aunt, hugging her and smiling.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” said the woman.

  “How is he?” Aunt Miriam asked.

  “Off the ventilator and he recognized me this morning.”

  There was more hugging until someone noticed me hovering by the ICU entrance. Aunt Miriam held out her hand and introduced me.

  “Your aunt is a saint,” said the oldest man in the group. “My brother wouldn’t have survived another day.”

  “Er…what did you do?” I asked.

  “She got him a kidney,” said the woman.

  “It was a miracle,” said another man.

  “How in the world did you get a kidney?” I really was more than a little afraid. My own words ‘morally flexible’ rang in my ears.

  The woman hugged Aunt Miriam again. “She organized a Facebook campaign looking for a donor and got the Archdiocese to help by spreading the word. Uncle Fred was in every newsletter from here to…well, everywhere.”

  “We had thirty-two people offer to donate and one matched,” said the brother. “Fred needed a special match and the transplant coordinator said it was practically impossible to get a donor in time, but Sister Miriam did it.”

  They hugged and cried. I watched dumbfounded. A saint? Well…

  “You have to come in and see Fred,” said the brother.

  Hello!

  “Do you have a badge?” I asked.

  He held up a badge and gave it to Aunt Miriam. “You go in. They only want two at a time.”

  Aunt Miriam got us in after more thanks and she winked at me as we went into the ICU. “See. The Lord’s work.”

  “I guess he’s looking out for us.”

  “Always,” she said, taking my arm. “Are you feeling alright?”

  “Just remembering bringing Mom in here,” I said.

  She put an arm around my waist and walked me to the desk. “We’ll talk about that later.”

  “Let’s not.”

  Aunt Miriam ignored that as I knew she would. We stopped at the desk and a young nurse with familiar cornrows looked up.

  “Mercy, I wondered when you’d show up.” Takira took care of Mom when she’d been there and she was awesome as all ICU nurses tended to be.

  Aunt Miriam went up on her tiptoes and Takira exclaimed, “Eh!”

  “Surprised to see me?” asked Aunt Miriam.

  “Not exactly.”

  “It’s more horrified, right?” I asked with a grin.

  Aunt Miriam elbowed me, getting me to dance away to save myself. “She’s not horrified. I’m here quite often.”

  Takira confirmed that but not in a good way. “Yes, Sister, you are. Would you like to see Fred Williams? I believe his family is out, for the moment.”

  Aunt Miriam held up the badge. “I know. That’s how we got in.”

  “I was wondering. He’s all the way at the end. The one with all the balloons.”

  She took off with her veil fluttering, making another nurse I knew—Mark the ex-marine—jump aside to make way for her.

  “How are they?” I asked Takira.

  She smiled and her big brown eyes crinkled at the edges. “So you’re not here about Fred?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  Takira stood up and leaned over the desk, looking left and right. “They’ve got guards. A couple of uniforms that can’t stay awake.”

  “Really?”

  “I overheard one of the detectives, Jones, saying that it looked like an assassination.”

  “Interesting. Can they talk?” I asked.

  Takira gave me the so-so hand wave. “Maybe. Catherine’s in and out. Kevin’s a no-go.”

  “Have they talked to Jones at all?”

  The grin I remembered so well came back full force. “No. That woman’s got no bedside manner. Catherine’s father gave her the boot. Kevin hasn’t been conscious enough for questioning and Catherine kept crying. But get this. She asked for you.”

  “For me?” I asked.

  “By name,” said Takira. “‘Where’s Mercy? I want to see Mercy.’ Nobody called you?”

  I checked my phone, listening to Chuck’s irate messages. He didn’t mention Catherine at all and nobody else called in regards to the shooting. “No.”

  “That’s funny,” said Takira.

  “Why?”

  “Because Catherine’s father heard her say it. He asked if Jones would call you and have you come down. She said she would.”

  “You’re sure about that?” I asked.

  “He was pretty distraught. He wants Catherine to have anything and everything, demanding, to say the least. But…”

  “What?” I asked.

  Takira came around the desk.

  “Is he here now?” I asked.

  “No. He went home to shower and change. But there’s another woman here. A preggo. I can’t remember her name. She’s in with Kevin, but she knows Catherine, too.”

  “Molly?” I asked.

  “That’s it. She’s in there, working. She asked about calling you, too.”

  Mark came up and laid a couple charts down. “Holy crap! Your aunt scares me.”

  “She scares everyone,” I said.

  “Not the Williams family. They think she walks on water. Not that I blame them. That woman can work a miracle when she wants to.” He bent over conspiratorially. “So are we talking about our shooting victims?”

  “We might be,” I said. “Are they yours?”

  “I’ve got Catherine. Patsy’s got Kevin,” he said. “So they called you after all.”

  “You mean the detectives?” asked
Takira. “They didn’t call. Mercy just showed up like she does.”

  “Oh,” said Mark.

  We waited and he bent back to look down the hall. “It’s a good thing you’re here. To be honest, I was thinking of calling you myself.”

  “You didn’t think they would call me?” I asked.

  “I knew they wouldn’t. I heard Detective Jones tell the regular cops not to call you or tell anyone that Catherine asked for you.”

  “That witch. When did she say that?”

  “Right as I was going off shift last night,” Mark said. “Just a heads up. You need to watch that woman.”

  Oh, I will.

  “Why do you say that?”

  Takira and Mark exchanged a look.

  “It’s nothing,” said Takira.

  “That means it’s definitely something,” I said.

  “What do you know about her?” asked Mark. “Is she a pinger or what?”

  “Huh?”

  He leaned back and checked the hall again. “Brand new. Doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I have no idea. Why do you ask?”

  “She keeps calling Chuck.”

  Takira rolled her eyes. “That’s not why she’s calling him.”

  Mark looked back and forth between us, blank and confused. “I think she doesn’t know what she’s doing. She keeps asking what he would do.”

  “I bet she does,” I said.

  “You think? That’s nuts. Chuck’s crazy about you. I mean, you drive him up the wall with almost getting murdered and not listening and hating the stuff he buys you and—”

  “Other than that,” I said, “I’m great.”

  “You are great,” said Takira. “And Chuck adores you, but that woman. She’s trying to snake your man.”

  “How do you know?” asked Mark. “Maybe she’s just stupid. Not every detective’s a Watts.”

  Takira told us how she overheard Julia talking to Chuck and asking what he was having for dinner.

  “So?” asked Mark. “Cops eat. Those uniforms are doing it right now.”

  “Chuck’s not her partner. He’s on that O’Malley thing. What does she care if he eats or not?”

  My boyfriend’s an idiot. Or on the market.

  “Mercy,” said Takira. “Are you okay? That woman doesn’t have a chance.”

  “I bet that’s what Patty would’ve thought.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Can you get me in with Catherine?”