by Kate White
The cop’s eyes shot forward, and at the same moment, he grabbed his radio.
“Call for backup,” he said. “High Ridge and Red Fox Road.” He turned back to Lake, his eyes stern.
“Ma’am, please pull over to the side of the road and put your blinkers on. Do not get out of your vehicle. I will be back to you shortly.”
She did as she was told. Once she’d shut off the ignition, she turned around in her seat, but all she could see were the red taillights of the police car curving in the road. Lake glanced down. Her entire front was streaked with glistening mud, and she knew her face was covered with it, too. She must look a fright, she realized, like some crazy person. And it would be her word against the word of someone five months pregnant. How would she ever make anyone believe her?
Inside the glove box she found a few paper napkins and used them to wipe as much mud from her face as possible. She felt a welt just above her eye-from the kick. A worse bruise was on the back of her head. She ran her hands roughly through her hair and touched a huge sticky lump. Wouldn’t the wounds be proof that she’d been attacked? But Rory would only say she was defending herself.
Lake fumbled in her muddied purse for her BlackBerry. Miraculously it was dry. She needed to call Archer-and she needed to get a lawyer. It would be too dangerous to deal with all this on her own.
To her dismay the call went straight to Archer’s voice mail.
“Kit, I’m in a terrible jam. I-Rory tried to kill me. She was the one who killed Keaton. I’m in Bedford Hills, New York. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
She tried Hotchkiss next, knowing she’d get voice mail and yet hoping there’d be some kind of emergency number. Though she would hardly expect him to represent her in this situation, she thought he might be able to recommend someone. No luck. She had a few friends who practiced law and she wondered if she should contact one of them. Won’t it blow their minds to hear me describe this mess? she thought ruefully.
Then her BlackBerry rang and to her relief she saw that it was Archer.
“Tell me you’re all right,” he demanded as soon as she answered.
“Physically, yes-just a little bruised. And woozy. She put something in my drink to knock me out. But that’s not the problem. Rory’s totally crazy and she’ll probably try to make it seem like I attacked her or something.”
“Where are you, anyway? I mean, where in Bedford Hills?”
“I’m on the side of the road in my car. There’s a cop here, or just behind me. Rory tried to run me off the road and she hit a tree with her car. She may be injured but I don’t know.”
“Rory killed Keaton, you said? Were they having an affair?”
“More of a fling, I’d say-last winter. According to her, the baby she’s carrying is Keaton’s-had I told you she was pregnant? But she’s such a nut job, who knows if it’s the truth? I need to get a lawyer fast-is there anyone you know?”
Her eyes caught something bright on the road ahead, and over the sound of the rain, she heard the wail of a siren.
“Oh God, there’s an ambulance coming,” she said, peering through the windshield. “She must be injured.”
“I do know a couple of lawyers who handle criminal stuff. Let me see if I can round up someone for tonight.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“Do you have any idea where they’ll be taking you?”
“A police station, I’m sure.”
“Okay, call me back the minute you know which one. And tell them you need to go to an emergency room first to be tested for the drug she gave you. You’ll need that as evidence. Plus it will buy you some time until I can get there with a lawyer.”
“You’re coming, too?”
“Yes. I’ll start driving north as soon as possible. Just call me when you have the exact location.”
As she hung up, the ambulance slid by her, slick with rainwater, and moved carefully up the road beyond the curve. It stopped around the bend, and she could see only the flashing lights through the trees.
She had no idea how long she was supposed to sit here. Surely they’d be sending someone back to talk to her. She tried to assess her situation. What would she tell the police? That she had gone to Rory’s house to see the files. The files would be there as proof and Archer could back up her claims about the clinic. And her head injury would verify that she’d been attacked. But if she told them that Rory tried to kill her because she believed Lake had been with Keaton, that might be enough for the cops in the city to have her DNA tested. And then there’d be proof that Keaton had bedded her. She pictured the smug expression on Hull’s face when he heard the news. And possibly Jack’s, too. Then she pictured Will and Amy. I can’t lose them, she thought.
She’d have to come up with something to explain everything. But Rory would have her own version. She’d say that somehow, when they were looking at the files, she had realized that Lake had slept with Keaton and killed him. She’d slipped a drug into Lake’s tea so she could escape, but Lake figured it out and tried to overpower her. She’d followed her in her car to see where she was headed.
I have to counteract whatever lies Rory will tell, she thought. But how? With what? She glanced up quickly, realizing she’d been lost in thought. The rain had stopped instantly in that moment, as if a switch had been flicked. She craned her neck around and saw that more lights now twinkled through the trees. Reinforcements had clearly arrived from the other direction. And a police car was backing down the road in her direction.
Inside was the same officer who had spoken to her earlier. He stopped, stepped out of the cruiser, and approached her car again.
“Ma’am, could you please step out of your vehicle.”
Though his voice was low and even, there was an undertow of disapproval. She opened the door and stepped into the humid night air. The headlights of the cop car hit the immediate area.
“What’s your name, please?” he asked. In the dark, his thick black brows looked like caterpillars sleeping on his face.
“Lake Warren.”
“Ms. Warren, my name is Officer Clinton. We’re going to need you to come to our headquarters and answer some questions.”
“I-I need to go to a hospital first. The woman back there-Rory Deever-she drugged me. And she hit me over the head.”
He had been staring at her blankly, but when she twisted her head so he could see the wound, he pulled back in surprise. He turned away and spoke into his walkie-talkie.
“Why don’t you come with me,” he said, turning back. “Please lock your vehicle.”
She told herself not to act fearful with him. She was the victim, not the criminal, and she needed to come across that way.
“Of course,” she said. “The woman who attacked me-did she hit a tree?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that right at this time.”
He opened the rear door of his car and she climbed in. The backseat smelled of old sweat and fried food and it nearly made her gag. She thought they might drive past the accident but the cop turned the car around and headed in the opposite direction. The drive took about twenty minutes and the entire time she could feel her fear throbbing, like a hand that had been slammed in a door. The exam and tests would buy her time but eventually she would have to face the police and their questions. She prayed that Archer had found a lawyer for her.
She was taken to Northern Westchester Hospital, a big sprawling complex with an ER lit up as bright as day. The waiting room was about a quarter full. People who should have been preoccupied with their sprained ankles and palpitating hearts dropped their jaws at the sight of her being escorted inside by a cop. With the cop nearly hugging her side, Lake explained to the triage nurse about the drugging and showed her the blow to her head. Instead of being forced to endure the waiting area of onlookers, she learned she would be sent to an exam room immediately. As she and the cop were led there, everyone’s eyes were on her.
“May I ask where you’ll be taking me a
fterward?” Lake asked him.
“Why don’t I let one of the detectives explain everything,” he said. “He’ll be here shortly.”
At least the cop didn’t come into the room with her-he remained right outside as a nurse directed her onto an exam table. She asked Lake to wait a few minutes and left her alone. Lake lightly tapped the wound on her head and felt that the blood was still oozing.
“Ms. Warren?”
She snapped her head to the right. In the doorway stood a hulking man with a gigantic mustache, wearing a blue-and-green-checked jacket. Clearly not an M.D. She nodded yes.
“I’m Detective Ronald Kabowski from the Bedford Hills Police. I hear the doctor will be in any second, but I’d like to chat for a minute beforehand-if you’re up to it.”
You’re the victim, she reminded herself. Do not act guilty.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“My officer tells me you suspect you were drugged.”
“I don’t suspect-I know. I passed out. And this woman-Rory Deever-admitted she did it to me when I came to.”
“It sounds like it’s been quite a harrowing night for you.” His words were slicked with sympathy, but she could see the strategy. It was meant to make her drop her guard.
“Yes. And there’s something important that you should know. This situation is connected to a homicide case in New York City-the death of a doctor there, Mark Keaton.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me what happened tonight.”
Instinctively she lowered her eyes and wished she hadn’t.
“I want to tell you the whole story,” she said, looking back up at him. “But because things are so complicated-I mean, with the other case-I’d prefer to tell you with an attorney present.”
“An attorney?” he said. His mouth dropped open, revealing a huge left canine as yellowed as an old refrigerator.
“Are you sure about that? It’s gonna make things take forever.”
“I realize that, but like I said, this is a very complicated situation.”
He stared hard at her, all the fake sympathy gone.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll have to see what I can learn from the other party involved.”
30
HER HEART FROZE. Rory had obviously been taken to this same hospital, brought in through the ambulance bay. If she were the first to tell her story, Lake would be on the defensive, forced to try to undo the lies of a psychopath. But she didn’t dare say a word to the detective. She might dig herself into a hole.
“Can you tell me where we’ll be going after the doctor sees me?” Lake said. “I need to let the lawyer know.”
“The Bedford Hills Police station,” he said and turned on his heels.
As soon as he was gone, she called Archer back to give him a rushed update and to explain where he could meet her.
“Okay, we’ll find the place. I’ve just picked up Madelyn Silver-she’s a terrific criminal attorney. I only gave her five minutes to get ready, so she said you can’t blame her for showing up in her pajamas.”
Lake felt a rush of relief.
“You may actually get there before me,” she said. “I haven’t even been seen by a doctor yet.”
“Not a problem. Wait, hold on.” She could hear him passing the phone.
“Lake, this is Madelyn Silver,” a gravelly voice said. “Have the police tried to speak to you yet?”
“Yes-a detective came to the hospital. I told him that the situation was related to a homicide in New York City and because of that I didn’t want to say anything until my attorney arrived.”
“Good girl. Don’t let them intimidate you. Say nothing.”
But what do I say when you arrive, Lake wondered after she’d hung up. Did she dare tell Madelyn Silver everything? From the little Lake knew, she was pretty sure that a lawyer wasn’t allowed to withhold information about a crime. And wasn’t leaving the scene of Keaton’s murder a crime? If only Lake could find out what Rory was saying to the police-then she would be on surer footing when she talked to Silver.
The next few minutes were interminable. She had begun to feel less woozy but her head and body ached. She thought about the kids and what they would have gone through if Rory had managed to stuff her in the freezer. But if Lake were sent to jail after this, it would be almost as bad.
Two more patrol cops arrived and paced outside the room. The other one seemed to have disappeared. Nurses glanced constantly toward the open door of her room as they passed by. After ten minutes, the cop who’d driven her to the hospital stepped into the room with a camera. He was there to take pictures of her wounds, he said. After snapping six or seven he left, and more minutes passed. She worried that the longer they waited to test her, the less likely they would be able to pick up traces of the drug. Finally a doctor arrived, a tall, elegant black woman with round brown eyes.
“I’m Dr. Reed,” she said, her voice flat. “The police said you’re asking for a toxicology test?”
“Yes. I was drugged tonight.” She tried to sound calm and reasonable, like a totally sane person who’d done nothing wrong, but she knew that in her muddy, disheveled, weary state she looked like someone who’d experienced a psychotic break.
“Can you describe the symptoms to me?”
“My head started to hurt and I passed out-I’m not sure for how long. It could have been just a few minutes or maybe a bit longer. I felt woozy afterward-and very weak.”
“Any nausea?”
“A little.”
“I’ll send a nurse in to draw blood. You’ll also have to give a urine sample-with the nurse watching.”
“Fine,” Lake said, though it didn’t feel fine. “And I have bruises on my head where I was hit with a shovel.” She lightly tapped the spongy hair just above the cut.
The doctor pulled a pair of latex gloves from a dispenser, snapped them on, and, parting Lake’s hair, examined the wound.
“That’s nasty-looking,” she said after a moment. “I don’t think you need stitches but we should get that cleaned up pronto. And you’ll need an antibiotic. Have you had a tetanus booster lately?”
“Actually, yes, two years ago.”
“Good. Were there any signs of a concussion tonight?”
Lake stared at her blankly.
“Headaches? Dizziness?”
She shrugged, offering a rueful smile. “Yes, but that may have been caused by the drug.”
“Are you in any kind of pain now?” Dr. Reed asked.
The comment made Lake’s eyes well with tears. How funny, she thought. What an understatement.
“My head’s still aching some.”
“I’ll give you something for that-but we need to wait until after the blood and urine tests.” For the first time she saw a trace of warmth in the doctor’s eyes.
Things started to move faster then. A nurse came in to draw blood and to accompany her to the bathroom across the hall, where she watched Lake pee, making sure she didn’t try to spike her urine. Afterward the nurse cleaned and dressed her head wounds and gave her an antibiotic to take. Lake pretended to focus on the nurse’s actions while she eavesdropped on the conversations in the corridor. She was desperate for news of Rory’s condition. Had her husband been called? In the background she could hear doctors and nurses asking for things like CTs and portable ultrasounds or requesting that vascular be called right now. But nothing about Rory. And there was no sign of her, either, as the cop led Lake back through the waiting room-with every eye trained on her.
It was just after ten when she was ushered into the back of the police car again, and ten-thirty when the car pulled up to the station house. The space was a blur of gray walls, metal desks, and linoleum. Kabowski appeared suddenly, as if from a mist. She wasn’t sure if he had come ahead or simply followed them from the hospital.
“Did my lawyer arrive yet?” she asked him.
“Not that I’m aware of. Why don’t we put you someplace where you’ll be comfortable
until he arrives?”
“Thank you,” Lake said-though she knew that the last thing Kabowski cared about was her comfort.
She was led to a small interview room with a metal table and several stacking chairs around it. The uniformed cop who accompanied her didn’t ask if she’d like anything to drink. Didn’t they always ask you that on cop shows? She sensed they weren’t treating her at all like a victim.
Alone again, Lake felt the urge to lay her head on the table, to let tears fall, but she knew they might be watching her through the mirror on the wall. She sat there instead, blank-faced, but churning inside, wondering what was going to happen next-and when Archer would arrive with the laywer.
Fifteen minutes later the door swung open and a woman close to sixty and barely over five feet tall burst into the room.
“Madelyn Silver,” she said as she shot out a hand as wide as a mitten and shook her head, indicating that Lake shouldn’t get up.
She wasn’t wearing pajamas, but Madelyn’s black pants and tan cotton blazer looked like they’d been thrown on in a hurry. Her hair was jet black with a fine band of white down the center part, and the corners of her eyelids were so hooded they gave her small brown eyes a triangular shape. The only makeup she wore was a swipe of red lipstick that ran roughshod over the outline of her mouth. At first glance she looked like someone’s grandmother, the kind of person you’d see knitting in a train station, but a few seconds after she entered the room, Lake could feel the force field around her.
“How you doing, kiddo?” she said, taking the seat next to Lake and positioning her chair so they were face-to-face.
“Not so great. I’m just glad you’re here. Is Kit outside?”
“Yeah, they’re making him cool his pretty heels in their cheery waiting area. What’s the story on your head there? How bad are you hurt?” As Madelyn spoke, she shrugged off the shoulder strap from her worn leather briefcase, dropping the bag onto the table, then drew out a yellow legal pad. Something about that pad and Madelyn’s brusque but maternal style made Lake feel safe for the first time.
“It’s cut-but not bad enough for stitches. I might have a concussion, though.”
