“Sorry, Rico,” Jim mumbled, deleting the message. “I have other plans.” He stepped inside the house, threw some clothes and personal items into a travel bag, and then moved to his fireproof safe. After turning the tumblers the required number of times, he rocked the unlocking lever and opened the safe door. He set the diamond ring on the shelf and then grabbed some cash, along with his favorite pistol—a Browning Hi-Power 9mm loaded with semi-jacketed hollow-points. He shoved it into the bag along with an extra ammo clip and zipped the bag shut.
“Bobby Canaday, I hope you’re ready to meet your maker, son. You are about to die.”
CHAPTER
39
SUNDAY—16:30—TRINITY FOREST INN (Cameron Blvd, Durham, N.C.) Surrounded by a lush green golf course and a forest of loblolly pines, the Trinity Forest Inn on the Old Trinity University campus in Durham, North Carolina seemed to go on for acres. Sadie felt completely out of place as she drove down the long driveway to the mansion-like building. She climbed out of her Ford Focus rental car and handed her keys to a young parking attendant. Another sharply dressed young man picked up her luggage and ushered her through the front doors to check in. “I’ll have these bags delivered to your room, ma’am.”
“Don’t you need my name?”
“Oh no, we recognize all the important people, Miss Miller.”
Sadie’s eyes widened. She turned to the clerk behind the counter. “I’m Sadie—”
“Miller. Yes, ma’am,” the clerk responded with a warm smile. “Here’s your room key. Also, I have a message for you from a Miss Parker.”
Sadie took her room key along with a handwritten note:
Sadie, darling. Welcome to Durham!
Call me as soon as you arrive. We have so much to discuss.
And oh, my dear … I hope you’re ready for the big time.
Kisses, Joan Parker
The discomfort Sadie had felt in her stomach since arriving at the Inn suddenly turned to nausea. She thanked the desk clerk, traversed the massive tiled lobby to the elevator, and took it to the third floor. Like the rest of the hotel, her room was magnificent. Spacious and elegant with rich furniture and the whitest carpet she had ever seen. She took off her shoes. It seemed to absorb her toes. A plush quilted bed awaited her tired body. A well-appointed sitting area and office sat across the room in the corner, adjacent to a crystal clear window that flooded the room with light. It all seemed too nice. She suddenly longed for her sailboat and the rustic solitude of Pair-A-Docks. She thought of Jim and walked to the window. How had he left it? It could never work?
Sadie glanced at the telephone. It seemed to beckon her. She hesitated, picked it up, and with trembling fingers dialed <0>.
“Joan Parker’s room please.”
The phone rang three times.
“Darling,” Joan declared in her sickening snobbish voice. “My golden girl. How marvelous! No, I made a reservation for us at the Beaulieu. Chef Gino has promised us a most exquisite meal—pan-seared Carolina Duck with a spicy mandarin sauce. Oh, I do hope you like duck, sweetheart. And darling, do remember … Oh, Sadie, are you still there, dear?”
“Yes, Joan, I’m here.”
“Oh, silly me, I was afraid I had lost you. Be there at five-thirty sharp, dress appropriately, dear, and please do remember to bring your laptop. I’d like to discuss your plot. Oh, I am so looking forward to seeing you.”
Sadie felt like she’d been put through a crash course in extravagant telephone etiquette. She wanted to cry. Instead, she dropped to her knees beside the bed, murmured a lengthy prayer, and then unzipped her suitcase. She had thirty minutes to shower and change, and another thirty to get up the nerve.
CHAPTER
40
SUNDAY—16:48—OLD TRINITY MEDICAL CENTER (Durham, N.C.) The Old Trinity University campus seemed ill placed to Rico, a beautiful small city of gothic-style buildings, spires, and magnificent gardens bordered by small neighborhoods notorious for drugs and violent crime. He had heard many stories of drug raids, murder, and mayhem—in fact, in the early nineties Durham had been second only to Washington, D.C. for the nation’s highest per capita murder rate. But he had also been impressed with the way the city seemed to be handling it. Crime was on the decline, drug trafficking was reduced, and with the addition of the Drug and Gang Eradication (DAGGER) Unit of Durham PD, the gang situation had definitely improved.
Rico pulled into the no parking zone in front of the hospital, climbed out of his car, and flashed his badge at the guard. “We have a fellow officer in surgery,” he said. “Which way?”
The security guard motioned them toward the front door. “Inside. Desk to the left.”
Rico entered the building with Strong a step behind. “Hi,” he said, approaching the security desk. “We have a friend in surgery. We’d like to see him right away.”
“And who are you?”
“Rivetti. East Beach Police Department.”
“East Beach?” The security guard looked him up and down suspiciously. “You two men are police officers? No uniforms?”
“We’re on special assignment.” Rico produced his badge. “Sir, your cooperation would be appreciated.”
“Well,” the agent said, apologetically. “You must forgive me, gentlemen. We get a lot of riff-raff in here, and I’m afraid the cowboy boots, jeans and—” He paused and glanced at Rico’s black NO FEAR T-shirt. “Well let’s just say your attire makes for a pretty convincing disguise. What is your friend’s name?
“Little … James.”
The guard punched a few keys and nodded. “Your friend is in PACU.”
“Pack you?”
“P-A-C-U. Post anesthesia care unit. He will be there until he recovers from anesthesia. Ordinarily you would have to wait until he’s moved to CCU, but … hang on a minute.” The agent picked up the phone and dialed a three number extension. He explained the situation to a person on the other end and then slowly nodded, said thank you, and hung up. “Okay, the charge nurse said Mr. Little just came out of surgery. She said you can come up.”
Rico and Strong wandered the halls of the seventh floor for fifteen minutes before finding the PACU. They spotted an Asian man wearing short-sleeved scrubs and a matching blue cap. His arms were thin and well-toned. His fingers resembled those of a watchmaker, thin and nimble, tapping on a keyboard at the end of the hallway. Rico could tell by the sweat stains under his arms that he had been busy, straining, he was sure, over what had proven to be a difficult and tedious procedure.
“Doctor Ning?”
The doctor glanced their way. His eyes looked tired, but with a compassionate, calming sparkle. “Yes? I’m Doctor Ning.”
“I’m Lieutenant Rico Rivetti with East Beach Police Department. This is Sergeant Strong. Sir, did you do the surgery on our colleague, James Little?”
“Yes, of course,” he responded, his accent noticeably Chinese. “We just finished a few moments ago.”
“How is he?”
“Well, the good news is intracerebral bleeding is under control. The surgeons at East Beach Regional did a fine job removing the shattered bone. His mean arterial pressure has stabilized below twelve, and the cerebral perfusion pressure is back within normal limits, so the threat of herniation has passed. But we can’t be certain yet of the extent of retinal damage. He suffered a laceration reaching almost to the fovea, with extensive swelling around the optic nerve.”
“Doc,” Rico said. “We’re just cops.”
“Put simply, gentlemen, your friend’s brain will most likely fully recover, but his vision may not return.”
“You mean he’s blind?”
“In one eye, possibly, but we won’t know for twenty-four hours.”
“Can we see him?”
The surgeon glanced at a nearby nurse. “Margaret?”
The nurse nodded and pointed at an open room across the hall. “Five minutes, gentlemen. No more.”
Rico put his hands together and without knowing why, half bo
wed at the waist. Ning smiled and pointed them toward the recovery room.
Rico counted a dozen beds, six of which were empty. The other six held patients in various stages of recovery. Jimmy Little occupied the last bed to the right. A thin plastic tube protruded from his nose. Another dripped some kind of clear IV fluid into his arm. A boxy electronic device hung from a silver pole behind the bed. A green line traced in short rhythmic blips across its screen. A clean white bandage covered one of Little’s eyes. His right arm was wrapped in a white plaster cast. Rico leaned over and whispered into Jimmy’s ear, afraid he might actually awaken him. “Jimmy, it’s Rico. I’m here with Eric. How you doing there, pal?”
“You can shout at him if you’d like.”
Rico spun around, startled by the booming female voice. A plump woman with short legs and no apparent neck stared at him with stern looking eyes. Her small, dimpled smile appeared to be upside-down.
“Helga?”
“It’s Nurse Baird to you.”
To the untrained eye, Helga Baird might have been mistaken for the wife of a 10th century Viking, but Rico knew better. Helga was the Viking. Disguised in an antique looking white dress, with matching white shoes and a turn-of-the 20th century nurse’s cap, she resembled a rotund version of the famous Clara Barton, only much more battle tested and ornery. She held a silver clipboard in one hand and a loaded syringe in the other. Rico stepped back. He had tasted her wrath before.
“What are you doing here, Baird?”
Helga raised a thin eyebrow. “I’m honored that you remember me, Sergeant Rivetti.”
“How could I forget? And it’s Lieutenant now.”
“Congratulations.”
“They can your ugly butt at Regional?”
“Watch your language.”
“I see you haven’t lost your charm.”
“Nor you your pushy arrogance, Sergeant.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Whatever.”
Rico’s eyes widened as Helga waddled forward and extended her hand. He took it, and to his surprise she set down the syringe and pulled him into a manly embrace. Rico hugged her briefly and then backed away, alarmed. Helga chuckled and offered an upright smile. “It’s nice to see you again, sir.”
Rico laughed out loud, sincerely stunned by the unexpected show of affection. “Same to you, Helga, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“Trinity pays better. How’s our friend Mr. Stockbridge doing?”
“Thanks to you, better than ever. I was certain he’d never walk again.”
“You witnessed a miracle, Lieutenant. That bullet nearly severed his spine. So,” she said glancing at his nose. “What happened to your snout? Stick it somewhere it didn’t belong?”
“Actually, I was chasing down the guys that did this to Jimmy.”
“Missing a tooth as well. Fits you.” Helga chuckled and glanced at her patient. “I hear he was hit by a boat.”
“Chasing a suspect. Is he going to recover?”
“From the broken bones, sure. It’s the eye I’m concerned about. The doctor said it would be twenty-four hours before we’d know anything. We’ll be moving him to ICU shortly.”
“And then?”
“Then,” Helga said both eyebrows rising in unison. “Then, Lieutenant Rivetti, we pray.”
CHAPTER
41
SUNDAY—17:42—THE BEAULIEU DINING ROOM (Trinity Forest Inn) “Sadie, darling, listen to me. Haven’t we already been over this? You work for me now. Last month in Charleston when you signed your contract with Parker and Raines, you gave me your word that you would work with me all the way, including plot building. Now, sweetheart, I believe in creative freedom, artistic license and all that, but dear, I know what sells. And trust me, this story will sell.”
“But Joan, I can make it work without smearing Jim across the pages. I just don’t want to get him involved. He means a lot to me.”
“Dear, listen—”
“I can set it in another location. Change the circumstances. Make him a cop or a firefighter instead of a paramedic, but I don’t want to draw a lot of unnecessary attention to him. He wants to keep this quiet. I owe him that.”
“You owe him?”
“Joan, please understand how torn I am.”
“I understand you’re in love, dear, and that you are not thinking clearly. Now this is what I want you to do. Set your novel on this little island, as planned, and, in fact, call it whatever you like, I don’t care. And let Abby fall in love with Alex … he sounds delicious…but he must be a paramedic caught up in this drama. He is the next victim in line. He fights the killers and wins. We all win. This book will sell millions.”
“I can’t do that, Joan.”
“But you must.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Miss Miller—” Joan Parker paused and grabbed the table with both hands as if to steady herself. “Do you understand what you’re doing, sweetheart?”
“Yes, ma’am. I do.”
Joan Parker’s face turned cold. She glanced at the waiter and snapped her fingers. “Check please.”
“Joan, wait.”
“I’m afraid,” Joan Parker barked. “Unless you are willing to bend on this, Miss Miller, we have nothing else to discuss.”
“But Joan, I promised him. I’m sorry.”
“So am I. This conversation and this relationship are over.”
“But you can’t just cancel my contract!”
“I just did. You should read the fine print next time.”
The waiter appeared. “How may I help you, Miss Parker?”
“Please thank Gino for me. Tell him my client stood me up. Oh, and two more things,” she said turning back to Sadie. “Don’t bother about your speech tomorrow. And please dear, see that you return that sizeable advance by the end of the week.”
Joan left Sadie at the table with her fresh summer salad sprinkled with strawberry basil vinaigrette. Two half empty glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and an untouched bowl of flaky sourdough rolls sat in the center of the table. Dinner was over, and as far as golden-girl Sadie Miller was concerned … so was her career. She returned to her suite, threw on some casuals, and walked downstairs to the front desk. “What can I do around here for fun?”
“Well,” a polite young desk clerk advised. “We offer an elegant lounge, Ms. Miller. Tonight we’ll be featuring a fine jazz ensemble.”
“That sounds wonderful, but I’d rather be outside.”
“Well,” the clerk said with a wink. “I believe Bull City is in town. Let me see. Oh yes,” she said, smiling. “They’re playing Tidewater. Would you like directions?”
Sadie hated baseball, but she took down the address anyway and walked back through the luxurious hotel lobby. After tipping the valet, she climbed into her rental car and let go. Tears flooded her eyes. “I wish you were here,” she whispered, picturing Jim on the dock. She cried until her eyes were dry and then sat for a few minutes praying. Then she started the car and drove away with no clue at all what was next.
CHAPTER
42
SUNDAY—18:48—MEDIC-CARE STATION-2 (OLD Fayetteville Rd., Durham, N.C.) Jim had only been in Durham for five minutes and already he hated the place. One misdirected turn by the GPS and he found himself on the back street of a ghetto neighborhood that in many ways reminded him of the Garden Terrace. The forsaken government housing blocks at the corner of Glendale and Bacon were surrounded by dusty lawns and wire-strung clotheslines. Most windows were wide open, none protected by screens. The spray-painted graffiti on the corner of one of the buildings told Jim all he wanted to know … it was time to leave. The teenagers standing on the next corner confirmed it. They stared him down as he drove past. He saw a black submachine gun pass from one of the thugs to the next and disappear under a shirt.
Jim hit the gas, made a couple of turns, and found a busy street. He pulled into a gas station and waited for the GPS to recalculate the route. F
ive minutes later he arrived at EMS Station-2, a modern looking EMS station with two bays and a razor-ribbon fence. He punched in the three-digit number Evan had given him. The chain-linked gate slid open slowly and then closed behind him as he pulled into the lot. Evan stood by the station door.
“Have any trouble finding us?”
“A little.” Jim slammed the door. “Evan, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me.”
“You should. Bagwell will probably can me. Come on,” he said tipping his head toward the station. “I’ll introduce you to some of the guys. By the way, we’re medic-seven tonight … just like back at East Beach. Can you believe that? We’ll be riding on one of the new trucks. Hey, that reminds me … did I tell you about the old truck I used to ride? MC-20? Thing was indestructible. We used to jump it out on Linwood Avenue like some kind of stunt car.” Jim stopped listening and glanced at Evan’s uniform—black trousers and a gray short sleeve shirt bearing all the right patches. Jim wore black BDUs and a featureless white Polo. It made him feel like a student again. He followed Evan through a roomy kitchen into a sizeable dayroom. Four sleeping medics laid strewn about the couches.
“Hey fellas,” Evan shouted. “This here’s my friend Jim Stockbridge, the paramedic from East Beach I told you all about.” A couple of faces turned his way. A few hands went up. “He’s doing a ride along with me and Angus tonight. Get your sorry butts up and say hi.”
Someone grunted, but no one moved.
“Typical for these morons,” Evan said patting Jim on the back. “Lazy goofballs. C’mon, I want you to meet the fool we’re riding with tonight.”
Jim followed his host past a radio charging station and into a well-lit ambulance bay. Unlike his older station in East Beach, this one was clean and spacious, almost new from what he could tell, with ceiling-fed water hoses, ample sodium-vapor lighting, and a large storage room for EMS supplies. Even the glossy gray floor was clean, with bright yellow outlines to mark the parking position of each ambulance. Both bay doors were open. The trucks sat outside on the tarmac, one with its back doors wide open. A yellow Ferno stretcher sat behind it on the driveway. A bold “MC-7” had been freshly stenciled on its side.
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