by Pat Warren
Jesus! They’d taken a hell of a chance being seen messing with her car. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to. Just do your job and I’ll do mine.” The phone landed on the cradle with a thud.
His mouth a thin line, Mac hung up. Things were getting out of control. Losing control always meant trouble. Rising, Mac grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair.
There was no question about it. He had to go to Phoenix General, though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
Detective Andy Russell glanced at his watch as he entered his Scottsdale apartment. Midnight. He and his partner had been on a stakeout for forty-some hours, watching the condo of the girlfriend of an escaped convict, hoping he’d show. He finally had and they had him in custody. But the long hours had Andy feeling stiff and sore, his eyes red and grainy.
Sliding home the dead bolt, he shrugged out of his jacket and shoulder holster, stretched until his shoulders popped, then walked into his kitchen. The blinking light on his telephone answering machine indicated two messages. He punched the Replay button, then reached into the refrigerator for the container of orange juice.
He drank deeply as he listened to his mother’s voice, asking him to dinner on Sunday, wondering where he was, hoping he was all right. The poor woman would never get used to his hours or his job. The second message began and, recognizing Terry Ryan’s voice, Andy moved closer.
She sounded upset, which wasn’t like Terry. In the five years he’d known her, the only time he’d seen her rattled was when her father had had his heart attack. Quickly, he jotted down the phone number she gave him for the Sedona cabin where she was heading.
She’d be there by now if she left around eight as she’d said. Midnight wasn’t too late to call if someone was having a problem. He hadn’t seen or heard from Terry in probably three months. Odd that she should call him now. He dialed the number.
Eight rings later, Andy hung up. He finished his juice, then rummaged around in the drawer for his address book. He checked Terry’s apartment phone number and called. The answering machine clicked on, and he swore. No point in leaving a message at this hour. He’d try to find Terry tomorrow.
He glanced out his kitchen window and saw that the rain had stopped and the sky was clear. Tomorrow should be a nice day. Yawning, Andy moved toward his bedroom, hoping for twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Five days and her daughter was still in a coma. Julia Hartley sat alongside the hospital bed, her thin lips moving in prayer. Dear Lord, please bring Lynn back to me. She looked so small, so pale, whiter than the hospital sheets. Her beautiful hair all shaved off, her head bandaged. Her face was loosely bandaged, too, with just her bruised eyes and swollen lips visible. Julia wondered how bad the scarring would be. They’d told her about all the glass particles they’d had to remove and some that were in so deep they’d have to work their way out in time.
Julia didn’t care, as long as Lynn lived. Plastic surgeons could work wonders, once she recovered. The machines behind the head of the bed flashed on and off, red, yellow, and green lights, the numbers changing. The automatic blood pressure cuff tightened at timed intervals, registering on still another monitor. Tubes were hooked up to needles inserted in both her arms, and a catheter trailed under the sheet, the bag hanging from the side of the bed. The oxygen cannula ran beneath her nose.
Modern medicine, Julia thought. So much she didn’t understand, yet she had to believe it all would work for Lynn. Shifting her attention, she carefully picked up one of Lynn’s hands. It, too, was heavily bandaged, as was the other. Glass cuts and burns from the fire, they’d told her. They’d had to cut the silver ring from her finger, the one Julia had given Lynn years ago that she always wore. She touched the cold metal in her jacket pocket, as if the gesture might somehow bring her daughter back.
Gently, she smoothed the skin on Lynn’s left arm, one of the few sections unbandaged and unhurt. Her hand felt a small ridge, and she leaned closer to examine it. An old scar, by the looks of the blemish. Odd, she couldn’t recall Lynn having a scar on either arm.
No matter. She’d take her, scarred and marked. Any way she could. At least, there was a chance that her daughter would recover. For Emily and John, the hoping had ended that dreadful night. Even family at their side, the boys and Mac who’d rushed to the hospital to be with them, hadn’t eased their pain. Their Terry was gone, to be buried tomorrow evening. Julia grieved for her niece, for all of them.
From her other pocket, she removed her rosary. Lowering her head, she began again to pray.
Emily entered her house through the back, her steps slow. Try as she would, she couldn’t seem to rise above the grief that sat in her chest like a fifty-pound weight. Her sons, Michael and Sean, and their families had been over almost constantly, trying to comfort while dealing with their own pain. Still, nothing helped.
Emily wanted to crawl into the casket where her daughter’s body lay burned beyond recognition, and be buried with her.
In the kitchen, she set down the bag of groceries on the counter. She had no interest in cooking, yet she knew they had to eat. Life went on, Father O’Malley from St. Timothy’s had said only last night. He’d told her the same thing twelve years ago when their oldest daughter, Kathleen, had been killed at age seventeen driving home from a party after drinking illegally. It had taken her years to adjust to that, and she was older now. Emily wasn’t certain she’d make it through Terry’s death.
Swiping at a quick flash of tears, she walked into the living room, then stopped at the archway. John was sprawled in his lounge chair, the near-empty bottle of bourbon on the table beside him, the glass tipped on its side in his lap. Passed out again. Emily felt a rush of anger, then a wave of sympathy as more tears filled her eyes.
John had never been a drinker, not like this. Oh, he liked an occasional beer and his holiday bottle of Jamison’s, as most Irishmen did. But since the night they’d been called to the hospital, then asked to identify Terry’s body, he’d scarcely drawn a sober breath. Just what she needed while trying to cope with her own loss, a drunken husband. And him with a heart condition.
Terry had been her father’s girl, more lately than before. John had taken Kathleen’s death very hard, working longer hours to pay off the debt her accident had left them with, escaping from his memories that way. And, though he loved his sons, he’d drawn closer to Terry after losing his first daughter.
And now she was gone, too.
John was making her nervous though, Emily thought. His drunken ramblings didn’t make sense. He mumbled about vague suspicions, blaming himself, wild discourses that went on and on until he fell asleep. Later, when she’d question him about what he’d meant, he said he couldn’t remember what he’d said or why.
Who could blame him for drowning his sorrows? Emily thought as she turned to go back to the kitchen. She’d do it herself if she thought it would help. She’d put away the groceries and make some dinner, then wake him and get some food into him.
They had the rosary at seven tonight at the funeral home to get through.
Father Timothy O’Malley had the look of a man who should be wearing the brown robes of a monk, with his round face and balding head with its fringe of gray hair. But instead, he was the sixty-two-year-old pastor of St. Timothy’s and a priest who was close to many of his two thousand parishioners. The Ryans and Hartleys were two of the families he’d seen through several weddings and far too many funerals.
Seated alongside Lynn Hartley’s bed at Phoenix General, he checked the date on his watch and calculated that it was nearly two weeks since the accident. He’d conducted Terry’s funeral last week and visited Lynn regularly, often with Julia. Today, he’d stopped in alone before going to the rectory for lunch, and he found himself marveling at how far the young woman had come.
Her head was still bandaged some, but at the hairline, some new growth of blond fuzz was beginning to show. Her face had patchy bandages, but was still quite swol
len, with dark smudges around both eyes. She was wrapped heavily around the shoulders where they’d operated on her broken clavicle. Her hands were discolored and puffy, but healing. Yes, he could see progress, and the doctors he’d spoken with earlier sounded more hopeful.
Touching her arm, Father Tim began to pray over her, which was his habit just before leaving. As he finished the short prayer, he felt movement under his fingers. Suddenly, her eyes blinked, as if trying to focus in the bright light.
Hope rising in him, Father gripped her arm. “Thank God. Can you hear me? It’s Father O’Malley.”
Clearing her dry throat, she strained to see him. “Yes,” she managed. Her hand moved to her face, finding bandages. Noticing the tubes, the condition of her fingers, she frowned. “What happened?”
“You were in a terrible automobile accident.” He squeezed her arm gently. “Your mother will be overjoyed, Lynn. I should call her right away.”
The blue eyes looked back at him, puzzled. “Father, I’m not Lynn. I’m Terry Ryan.”
At the same moment, on the second floor of the Central Precinct of the Phoenix Police Department, Captain Ed Marino hung up, struggling with a juvenile urge to hurl the phone across the room. The mayor had chewed his ass but good.
Remember your blood pressure, his doctor was always warning him. If he were to check it right now, the reading would probably shoot off the chart. Deliberately, Marino took in a deep, calming breath, then walked to the glass door of his office and opened it. “Phil, come in here, will you?”
Sitting back down at his desk, Marino reached into his desk drawer and removed a cellophane-wrapped cigar. Longingly, he fingered it, then held it to his nose and inhaled. Damn doctors always limiting a man’s pleasures. What did they know?
At sixty-four, he was ten months from retirement and looking forward to moving to Seattle to be near his son and his family. Things hadn’t been the same since Beth had died two years ago. He’d lost his enthusiasm and most of his energy when he’d lost his wife. All he wanted now was to ride things out until next June, retire with pride and an impressive record that spanned thirty years.
But both daily Phoenix papers were demanding answers on the killing of one of their own, reporter Don Simon. And now, the mayor had yielded to pressure, asking what exactly his department was doing to find the murderer.
Marino tossed aside the cigar and watched Lieutenant Phil Remington come into his office, close the door, and settle his long frame in the chair across from him. The captain envied Phil his full head of sandy hair only slightly gray at the temples even though the man was in his forties. And he didn’t carry an extra pound but rather was tan and fit, dressing like someone right off the pages of GQ. Leaning toward comfort rather than fashion in his own attire, Ed knew he could never again look like the urbane Remington, if he ever had. However, the man was vain to a fault and snobbish to boot. But Phil’s saving grace was that he was always on top of things, which was why Marino relied on him more and more lately.
“How are you feeling, Captain?” Phil asked.
“My prostate’s the size of Cleveland. How the hell do you think I’m feeling?” Annoyed with his own shitty mood, Marino shifted on the chair cushion, trying to find a more comfortable position. “Tell me what’s happening on the Simon case. The mayor wants action, like yesterday.”
Phil adjusted his pleated trousers as he crossed his long legs and began his recitation. They were interviewing everyone who parked regularly and even occasionally in the garage where the killing took place. They’d talked with the reporters who worked with Simon and were running down leads on the stories Don had been working on. They’d spoken with downtown snitches, checked out area vagrants in case anyone had spotted something suspicious, and hauled in a few known underworld characters for questioning. So far, they had nothing positive.
Calmly, Phil met Marino’s eyes. “I wish I could tell you I expect something to break momentarily, but this one’s got us puzzled. It smacks of a professional hit, but we can’t pinpoint why Simon was set up.”
“I see.” Regretfully, Ed pocketed the cigar. “Just what would you tell the mayor if you were in my shoes?”
“The truth, Captain.”
Ed checked his watch. He had a doctor’s appointment in an hour. He’d have just enough time to grab some lunch if he left now. If he didn’t leave soon, he’d probably explode. He stood. “Fine. I’d like you to handle this. Call the mayor and explain all that your men have done so far, and all that you’re planning on doing.” Some would call Marino’s order a copout. He called it delegating responsibility.
Skirting the desk, he reached in his pocket for his keys. “Stay on top of this, Phil, and report to me as soon as you know anything. I’ll check with you later.” With that, he grabbed his jacket from the wooden coat rack and walked out.
Lieutenant Remington sat for a long moment staring after the captain as he wound his way through the bull pen desks. Marino had once been a very fine officer, concerned about his men, fresh and innovative. Slowly, Remington got to his feet. He’d never allow himself to get like that, he vowed. He’d quit the department long before he gave up and gave in to complacency, fear, and the weariness of age. He had too much pride to allow himself to become a laughingstock.
Leaving the captain’s office, Remington walked to his own desk and dialed the mayor.
CHAPTER THREE
Father O’Malley handed a tissue to Terry Ryan as the tears continued to stream from her eyes. He was still in shock, trying to adjust to the fact that they’d buried the wrong girl. He needed to tell the Ryans and Julia Hartley. But Terry was so broken up over the news of Lynn’s tragic death that he couldn’t leave her yet.
Terry’s mind whirled round and round. Dead. How could her innocent, fun-loving cousin be dead? She wiped at her eyes with the tissue, then studied her bandaged hands. The story Father O’Malley had told her, of the accident and all that followed after, was as if it had happened to someone else.
She remembered driving, then switching places with Lynn. They’d been on their way to Sedona for the weekend because… because… “Oh, God!” she whispered, as the memory slammed into her.
Concerned, Father took her hand in his. “You’re going to be all right, Terry.”
It all came rushing back, walking into the parking garage with Don, the shots, the men in the gray car, trying to outma-neuver them, picking up Lynn. A horrible thought, an incredible fear, hovered at the back of her mind. “Why did my car go out of control like that? It was almost new.”
“They don’t know, dear,” Father told her in his kind voice. “The police haven’t told us anything.”
She knew. Someone had to have tampered with the brakes or something. And, because of that, because of what she’d witnessed, Lynn was gone. It was her fault, all her fault. She should have told someone, should have gotten help instead of running like a scared rabbit. Choking back a sob, Terry clutched Father Tim’s hand, ignoring her own bruised fingers. “I need to make a confession, Father.”
“Certainly, dear.” It wasn’t unusual, a person who’d escaped death, needing to reaffirm her faith. “But shouldn’t I call your family first? And the doctor, to let him know you’re awake?”
“No, please. I need to confess, right now.” She simply had to tell someone, and Father Tim was someone she could trust, bound by his vows not to repeat her story. As he bent his head to her, she closed her eyes and began.
Listening, Father Tim could hardly believe his ears. This poor child who’d nearly died had witnessed a murder and, as if that weren’t enough, had seen an old family friend apparently involved in the killing. Father knew Sergeant McCarthy nearly as well as the Ryans, and thought him a fine man. Was Terry to be believed, or was she hallucinating? Still, he’d read in the papers about that reporter’s terrible death happening the same evening that Terry had been in her accident. She wouldn’t have known about it if she hadn’t been there, since she’d just awakened.
; Father Tim gave Terry absolution, then sat back. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” he said, wishing he could remove the pain from the young woman’s eyes. “Let me call your family now.”
They’d been after her, Terry thought. She was sure of it. The men she’d seen at the garage, Mac and his friends, the ones who’d followed her in the gray car. She couldn’t allow them near her family. She couldn’t let them know where she was. Even though they thought she was Lynn, they might want to kill her, too, just in case she knew something. “Does… does everyone think I’m dead?” she asked Father Tim.
He hesitated, then decided there was no way to keep the truth from her. “Yes. We had your funeral last week.” He leaned forward. “Terry, your parents will be so relieved that you’re alive.” He rose. “I’ll just go call them.”
She reached for his hand, caught his sleeve, and moaned at the slice of pain that shot up her arm at the sudden movement. “No! Please, Father. I just told you what I witnessed. Those men mean business. I can’t jeopardize Mom and Dad.”
“Come now, Terry, surely they wouldn’t…”
“Yes, they would.” It hurt to speak with her throat so sore, but it would hurt more to keep still. She had to think, to find a way. She knew someone who might be able to help. She had trusted Andy enough to try to call him that night. She had a strong feeling that he wouldn’t let her down. “Father, there’s a man I need you to call for me. He’s a detective out of Mt. Shadows Precinct. Andy Russell. Please, look up his number and be sure no one can overhear you. Tell him where I am and to come to me right away. He’s a good friend. He’ll come. Try the station and his home both.”
Father O’Malley looked skeptical. She’d been in a coma for many days. Was she rational? “Are you sure, Terry? Your father was an officer. Why don’t we… ”
“No, please, please. Do as I ask. And hurry. Talk to no one else, promise me.” In her anxiety, her voice fell away into a sob.
