No Way Out (2010)

by Joel Goldman

  Chapter Fifteen

  The phone rang at nine-thirty. I was dozing through the news. Joy was reading, the dogs asleep at her feet. I picked up the cordless phone.

  “Who is it?” Joy asked.

  “Caller ID says unknown.”

  “Let the machine answer. You can always call back if it’s someone we need to talk to.”

  She didn’t like calls from unknown callers, especially late-evening ones. The ringing triggered the primeval fear that had never left her since we lost Kevin. There had always been calls in the night when I was an FBI agent. They were part of my job. She hated those as well because they took me away, leaving her alone, uncertain when or if I’d come back.

  “It’s probably nothing,” I said, answering the phone. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Davis. It’s me. Roni Chase.”

  I was surprised by her formality but realized she hadn’t called me by name at LC’s or at her office. Her voice was strained and hushed.

  “Roni, you can call me Jack. What’s up?”

  “Frank Crenshaw is dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened? I thought that nurse told you he was going to be okay.”

  “He would have been except someone else shot him.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t me, but I don’t think Detective Carter believes me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m at the hospital, and he won’t let me go home.”

  “Are you under arrest?

  “I don’t think so. Detective Carter hasn’t said that, but he told me I couldn’t leave.”

  “Has he read you your rights?”

  “Like I have a right to remain silent? All of that?”

  “Yeah. All of that.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What happened?”

  “I came to visit Frank. I wanted to see for myself that he was okay. It’s not that I’m sorry I shot him. He didn’t give me a choice. But I am sorry in another way, even if he did kill Marie. Does that make any sense?”

  It was the same thing she’d told me earlier in the day. She’d keep asking herself and anyone else who would listen the same questions until it did make sense or she could live with the possibility that it never would.

  “It makes perfect sense to me because I’ve been there.”

  “You’ve shot people?”

  “A few.”

  She hesitated. “Any of them die?”

  “Some.”

  “And you’re okay with that?” she asked.

  “I am. What about Grandma Lilly? She’s the one who made sure you knew how to use that gun. What does she have to say on the subject?”

  “Her mother, my great-grandmother, was shot to death. Grandma was fifteen. She saw the whole thing and says she never got over it.”

  “It’s not about getting over it. It’s about what you do with the experience. Your Grandma didn’t want you to end up like her mother. If she hadn’t taught you that lesson, you could have ended up like Marie.”

  “Maybe, or maybe Frank would have just run off and left us all there and I wouldn’t have shot him and he wouldn’t be dead.”

  “But that’s not what happened. I’m more interested in what happened tonight.”

  “When I got to Frank’s floor, a nurse told me I couldn’t see him, so I asked to talk to that nurse I told you about who’s a friend of my mother and she said no way and got real pissy and we got into it and the next thing I know we’re both screaming at each other, she’s calling security, and the cop guarding Frank’s room comes running over. When security finally showed up, the cop went back to Frank’s room. Next thing I know, he comes running out yelling to call a doctor because Frank’s been shot.”

  I understood why Carter wouldn’t let her leave. Intentionally or not, she’d created a disturbance that left Frank Crenshaw unprotected long enough for his killer to finish what she had started.

  “Have you told Carter anything? Answered any questions?”

  “He asked me what I was doing at the hospital, and I told him I just wanted to see how Frank was doing and then me and the nurse got into it and she called security. That’s when he gave me a look like I don’t think so and put me in an office and told one of the cops to make sure I stayed there. I didn’t know what to do, so I called you.”

  “Okay. Don’t answer any more questions. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I don’t get it. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just wanted to see Frank.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  I hung up and looked at Joy. She’d put her book in her lap and was staring at me, expectant, biting her tongue.

  “How’d she get our number?”

  “I gave her a business card today. It’s got the office number and my home and cell. I have to go,” I said, telling her what had happened.

  “No, you don’t. She needs a lawyer, not a retired FBI agent.”

  “She needs someone who knows how to handle something like this.”

  “You’re not the only one who does.”

  “I’m the only one she knows who does.”

  “It’s late. You’re tired. You shook most of the evening until you fell asleep in your chair ten minutes ago. You’re in no shape to drive, and what good will you do her if you show up shaking so bad that you can’t stand up?”

  She was right about the driving and could turn out to be right about the shaking. I was pretty good at scheduling my life to manage my symptoms but lousy at scheduling the lives of other people. Roni hadn’t asked me to save her, just help her. I could shake and do that. It was simple multitasking. Like walking and chewing gum.

  “I’ll call Lucy.”

  She sighed and stood. “No, you won’t. I’ll take you.”

  “Why? You don’t even want me to go.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t know why you have to go, but you’re wrong if you think going will make up for Kevin and Wendy.”

  “I know that. Nothing will. But I can’t stop trying.”

  “I know that too. That’s why I’m taking you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Truman Medical Center is on Hospital Hill at Twenty-third and Holmes, the location so named because it is a hill and because the hill has been occupied by hospitals since City Hospital was built on it in 1872. In 1908, the city built a new General Hospital on the hill, designating it for whites only, leaving the original for Blacks and Hispanics. By 1914, the General Hospital for Negroes, also known as General Hospital No. 2, though owned by the city, was run by African Americans with a staff of Black doctors and nurses. Years later, the city merged both hospitals to create the medical center named after Harry Truman.

  From Hospital Hill, you can see downtown to the north, the World War I Liberty Memorial to the west, the high-end shops and high-rise condos of midtown to the south, and, to the east, the rundown homes hugging the hills in the city’s poor, Black neighborhoods. For many of them, the successor to General Hospital No. 2 remains the first and last resort for the beginning and end of life and all the aches, pains, and wounds that lie between.

  Truman is a level-one trauma center, maintaining one of the busiest emergency rooms in the city. I’d been there with victims and their families as well as criminals and, sometimes, their families, watching doctors and nurses fight to turn back the clock, winning more than they lost but not often enough to satisfy them.

  A volunteer at the front desk told us that Frank Crenshaw was on the fourth floor. When the elevator opened, a uniformed cop met us with a raised hand.

  “I’m sorry, folks. No visitors allowed on this floor right now.”

  I read the name on his badge. “Officer Fremont, tell Detective Carter that Special Agent Jack Davis is here. He’ll want to see me.”

  “ID, sir?”

  “He’s retired, officer,” Joy said. “He forgets sometimes. Just tell Detective Carter, please.”

  “And who are you, m’am?”<
br />
  “I’m Special Agent Davis’s ex-wife. I don’t have a badge, but I earned one being married to him.”

  Joy slipped her arm through mine, tilted her head at me, and smiled at Fremont. Though she was hard to resist, Fremont smiled back but didn’t budge. I did a quick shimmy with my head and neck, hardening Fremont’s hesitation.

  “Just call him, officer,” Joy said. “Better to let Detective Carter decide whether to let Agent Davis in than have to explain later why you made the decision for him, don’t you think?”

  Fremont’s eyes flickered. He’d lost even if he didn’t know it. Joy smiled again, and this time he reached for the radio clipped to his shirt.

  We waited five minutes for Carter to show, trudging toward us, his tie hung loose around his neck, a mustard stain on his white shirt. The bags under his eyes said he’d started on the day shift and was a long way from home.

  “So,” he said, letting out a sigh that was all regret, “Roni Chase called you. Why am I not surprised?”

  “You should have kept questioning her, not given her the chance.”

  “I talked to her. Between what she told me and what the other witnesses said, I got the basics nailed down before I put her in that room. I’ll get back to her when it’s time.”

  “You left her alone with her cell phone. What did you think she was going to do?”

  “If she called anybody, I figured it would be a lawyer.”

  “She doesn’t need a lawyer. She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Listen to you. She told you that, and you’re convinced.”

  “Not a bad place to start.”

  “Get real. You’ve been off the job so long you forgot that everybody lies.”

  “You haven’t arrested her, so let her go. She lives with her grandmother and her mother who’s disabled from a stroke, and she runs her own business. She isn’t going anywhere.”

  “This investigation just got started, and Roni Chase is right in the middle of it. She’s not going anywhere until I say so, and I’m not about to let you help her get her story straight before I take another run at her.”

  “I can have a lawyer down here in less than an hour who will make sure you arrest her or let her go. In the meantime, I already told her not to tell you a damn thing. And, if you arrest her, her lawyer will make sure she tells you even less. Let me see her and I may be able to persuade her to cooperate with you. Your call.”

  One of the other elevators opened, and Brett Staley stepped out. Officer Fremont gave him the raised-hand greeting.

  “No visitors.”

  “I’m not visiting anyone.”

  “State your business,” Fremont said.

  Staley looked around, saw me, squinted, and then opened his eyes wide, remembering me.

  “Dude, you get around.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Hey,” Carter said to me. “Who is this guy?”

  “Friend of Roni’s.”

  “What’d she do? Send out invitations?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What’s your name, son?” Carter asked.

  “Brett Staley.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Meeting my girlfriend, Roni. She’s visiting Frank Crenshaw.”

  “So you two have a date, or what?”

  “Nah. I was just trying to catch up to her.”

  “Lemme see some ID.”

  “Why? What’s going on? Where’s Roni?”

  Staley thrust his chest out and squared his shoulders, not intimidated by Carter and the cops that had formed a ring around him, blocking the elevator door. His mix of bravado and cool made me suspect that this wasn’t the first time he’d done this dance.

  I stepped in front of Carter, keeping my voice low, facing Staley. “She’s fine. The police are trying to sort out something that happened while she was here. You can help her by cooperating with them.”

  “And who the hell are you?”

  He barked the question, not backing down.

  “My name is Jack Davis. I was at LC’s when Roni shot Frank Crenshaw, and right now I’m the only friend she has here that can do her some good and I’m the only one standing between you and a disorderly conduct beef that will cost you a night in jail, plus bail, a fine, and the price of a lawyer, all of which I’m betting will royally piss off Roni. So save the strut for somebody who cares and show the man your ID.”

  His eyes darted between Carter and me. His stiff neck eased, and his quick breathing slowed.

  “You sure she’s okay?”

  “I’m sure. So take your wallet out real slow and hand the man your ID. And if you’re carrying anything that would make these guys nervous, now is the time for show and tell.”

  “Shit, dude. I’m not stupid.”

  He brokered a broad grin, slipped his hand into his back jean pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed his driver’s license to Carter, who glanced at it before giving it to Officer Fremont and motioning Staley to a bench between the elevator doors.

  “Have a seat, Brett. We’ll get back to you in a few minutes.”

  “I don’t have a record,” he said, sliding onto the bench, slouching against the wall, fingers tapping a beat on his knees. “Not even a traffic ticket. You’ll see.”

  “That’s real reassuring, son,” Carter said. “Your mother must be proud.”

  Carter looked at Joy and then at me. “You going to introduce us?”

  “Sorry. Joy Davis, say hello to Quincy Carter.”

  She smiled and took the hand he offered. “Jack and I used to be married. Now we’re just roommates.”

  Carter shook his head. “I don’t know whether that’s a promotion or a demotion, but do me a favor, Joy, and keep Mr. Staley company while your roommate and I have a talk.”

  She joined Brett, and I followed Carter around the corner, past the nurse’s station.

  “Okay,” he said. “Here’s how it is. You can talk to Roni Chase, but I’m going to be standing right next to you. Take it or leave it.”

  The nurse’s station was the hub in a wheel with three spokes, each one a hallway leading to patient rooms. Activity was concentrated at the far end of one hall; cops gathered outside a room, a forensic crew shuffling in and out. An exit sign hung from the ceiling just past the door.

  “You put Crenshaw in a room at the end of the hall next to a stairway? Could you have made it any easier for the shooter?”

  Carter bristled. “It was the only room available when he came in, and we had no reason to think someone would try to take him out.”

  “Is that the excuse the cop on the door gave for not staying put?”

  Carter waved his hand at me. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Any excuse is a lousy excuse after the shit flies. Now, like I said, you can talk to Roni but not alone. Deal?”

  I ignored his offer again. “Any witnesses see whoever it was went into Frank’s room?”

  “No. It’s after visiting hours. The only nurse at the station was hollering at Roni, who was busy stirring up a shit storm.”

  “Which let the shooter use the stairs—quick in and out. What about surveillance videos?”

  “We’re checking them.”

  “Anybody hear a gunshot?”

  “No.”

  “Are the rooms that soundproof?”

  “They’re pretty quiet, and all the doors were closed. The patients in the rooms next to Crenshaw and across the hall were post-op and sleeping off anesthetic. They wouldn’t have heard a bomb go off. The other patients on his wing were sleeping or watching TV. None of them heard anything.”

  “Maybe the shooter used a silencer. Or, he could have made it easy and used a pillow.”

  “No pillow unless he took it with him,” Carter said.

  “A contract hitter would have used a silencer and would be out of town by now.”

  “You going to keep pretending you didn’t hear what I said about talking to Roni?”

  “Let me finish working this through. Y
ou put Crenshaw in a room at the end of a hall next to the stairs. You got a cop on the door that screws up the one thing that should be impossible to screw up. You got a shooter who knows what room Crenshaw is in and times the hit for the exact moment Crenshaw is unprotected and anyone else who might see or hear anything is zoned out. Those are a lot of planets to line up.”

  “And I’m no astronomer, but that’s too much for the shooter to count on unless he knew Roni was going to mix it up with the nurse. If he did, odds are Roni knew about the hit.”

  “You swept her office this morning. You find anything that would give her reason to do something so stupid as that?”

  Carter grinned. “Figure out which side you’re on and I’ll tell you.”

  “You don’t have anything, because if you did, she’d be downtown by now. Which means there are at least three other possibilities. The shooter was checking out the setup, making a dry run, and saw his chance and took it. Or, he could have been planning to take the cop out too and got lucky or the cop was in on it. Which one do you like better?”

  “I don’t like any of them any better than I like you.”

  “I don’t blame you, but you’re stuck with them and me. One last question?”

  Carter heaved. “What?”

  “You ever work the gang squad?”

  “Spent some time.”

  “Does Nuestra Familia operate here?”

  “They’ve just about got an exclusive on the drug trade in Northeast. It’s Cesar Mendez and a couple dozen of his closest friends and relatives, plus a waiting list of wannabes. Why the interest?”

  “What about guns?”

  “You know a gang that isn’t armed to the teeth?”

  “Any chance they’re branching out from drugs, adding another line of merchandise?”

  “Make your point.”

  “Frank Crenshaw killed his wife with a gun that was traced to the robbery of that gun dealer last month. Maybe Mendez pulled that job. Maybe he’s arming his boys or maybe he’s filling an order from the folks back home.”

  “How’s someone like Frank Crenshaw hook up with Cesar Mendez?”

  “It’s the law,” I said.

  “What law?”

  “The law of supply and demand.”