by Steven Henry
“Shit,” Daniels said, shaking his head. “God damn it!”
In her mind, Erin was back at Brunanski’s squad car. Keep talking, Brunanski, you ugly Polack. Stay with me. She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. For a second the bathroom swam in front of her eyes, and she thought she was going to throw up.
“O’Reilly? O’Reilly!”
She looked up at Daniels. The room came back in focus.
“This is now officially a homicide,” he said. “It’s their case. We’re just beat cops. We do the grunt work. Let’s get this info to them. It may be just what they need.”
“I was holding him, Sarge,” she said. “I felt him bleeding. Sure, go on, tell Homicide. They can do whatever the hell they want with this. But unless you order me to stand down, I’m going to the damn hospital now.”
Daniels sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, girl,” he said. “You screw this up, it’s gonna bite you right in the ass.”
“I screw this up, an ass-chewing from Homicide is going to be the least of my worries,” she shot back. “See you around, Sarge.” She took out her notebook, scribbled down the prescription number, whistled to Rolf, and left.
Chapter 9
As Erin steered her car down 164th, a wave of fatigue hit her so hard that she almost drove straight into a lamppost. She’d fired at criminals, tried to save a fellow cop’s life, interrogated a small-time crook, stormed an apartment, and driven all over central Queens. She was wiped out.
But she couldn’t stop yet. Not as long as she had a lead to follow. She’d promised Brunanski, and now Brunanski was dead, and you just did not break a promise to a dying man. Erin was going to see this through.
The hospital was just a few blocks south. She steered the Charger into the emergency-room lot, parked in one of the reserved police spaces, and got out, leaving Rolf in the car.
Most places were quiet at half past three in the morning, but not a New York emergency room. Erin stepped into a scene of controlled chaos. People were holding bloody towels over wounds. Elderly folks were there, supported by family members, with chest pains, slipped disks, and all the other hazards of age. A distraught mother holding a very small child in her arms was shouting at a harried-looking nurse. In the middle of it all, nurses and hospital staff tried to sort through the incoming patients to process the most serious cases first.
Erin had been in ERs dozens of times in the course of her Patrol duties. She ignored the bustle of the place. As she crossed the room, she caught sight of two other officers against the wall. They were from her precinct. One was a fellow female officer, Porter. The other was Mortensen, her partner.
“Hey! O’Reilly!” Porter called. She was a smart, tough black woman. She and Erin were on friendly terms, though not precisely friends. What they shared was mutual respect.
“Hey, Porter, Mortensen,” Erin said, making her way through the crowd. “You hear about Brunanski?”
“Yeah,” Mortensen said, giving her a funny look. “We’ve been in the chapel. A lot of the guys are there.”
Belatedly, Erin realized that of course Brunanski had been brought to Queens Hospital. The building would be crawling with cops. Whenever an officer was wounded, his or her brethren would crowd into the hospital to keep vigil. Hell, there were probably some Homicide Division guys already on site.
“I didn’t see you there,” Porter said. “Did you just get in?”
“Yeah,” Erin said, not wanting to take the time to explain. “Listen, I’ve got a lead. I gotta run.”
“It about the shooting?” Porter asked.
Erin nodded.
“Go get ‘em, girl,” Porter said. “You need us, just holler.”
Erin worked her way to the reception desk, cutting in line with no hesitation whatsoever, ignoring the protests of the waiting patients.
The nurse behind the desk gave her a tired stare. “What is it, Officer?”
“I need to speak with Dr. Boland,” Erin said. “Is he on tonight?”
The woman didn’t need to check the roster. “He’s in surgery,” she said. “He’s in OR three right now, prepping for an appie.”
“Thanks,” Erin said, hurrying out of the waiting room. She knew the hospital pretty well, and only needed to consult the map by the elevator for a second in order to get her bearings. She got to the operating room and saw that she was just in time. The doctor, accompanied by a couple of nurses and an intern, were just finishing scrubbing their hands outside the OR. If she’d been a few moments later, they’d already be working.
“Dr. Boland!” she called.
The doctor was a mild-looking, gray-haired man in his mid-fifties, not at all the sort of guy she pictured slipping pills to a thug like Jake. He looked her over with faint surprise, taking in her uniform and unkempt condition. “Officer. I’m sorry, but I’m about to go into surgery. Perhaps we can talk later? My patient has acute appendicitis, and time really is of the essence in such cases.”
“I just need a second, sir,” Erin said. She pulled out the paper on which she’d copied the prescription from the medicine cabinet. “I need to know about Jake Gallagher.”
“Who?”
Erin was well schooled in initial reactions. She was used to the reflexive lies perps told. She was watching the doctor carefully for all the usual telltales of surprise, fear, and dishonesty, but she didn’t see anything but genuine lack of comprehension.
“Jake Gallagher,” she repeated. “A big guy, shaved head, tattoo on his arm. You wrote him a prescription for Vicodin, two weeks ago.”
“Young lady,” Dr. Boland said, “I did no such thing.”
“You’re sure?” Erin pressed.
“I am quite certain,” he said. “I have written sixteen Vicodin prescriptions in the past month, and I remember the names of every man, woman, and child. Jake Gallagher is not among them. If you have any doubts, inquire of Nurse Wright at the nurses’ station. Now, if you have no further questions, I really must be about the business of saving a young man’s life.”
Erin let him go, momentarily stumped. Lacking a better idea, she did as he had suggested and went to the nurses’ station.
“Nurse Wright?” she asked the heavyset woman behind the desk. The nurse’s hair was a bright red that had certainly come out of a bottle.
“Yeah, hon? What’s the matter?” the nurse replied.
“I need to see a prescription record,” she said, handing over the slip of paper with the prescription info.
“You got a warrant?” Wright asked. “That’s personal health information.”
“I just spoke with Dr. Boland,” Erin said smoothly. “He’s gone into surgery, but he told me to double-check the prescription with you. I don’t need any personal details. I just need to know whether Dr. Boland actually wrote this prescription. You don’t even have to tell me what it’s for, or in whose name.”
The nurse sighed. “I guess that’s all right,” she said. “Give it here, hon.” Taking the paper from Erin, she typed the number into her computer. Then there was a long, quiet moment.
“Huh,” Nurse Wright said. “That’s funny.”
“How do you mean?” Erin asked, leaning forward on the desk and fighting the urge to sneak a peek at the computer screen.
“It’s in Dr. Boland’s name, signed for on May 25th.”
“Why is that funny?”
“Dr. Boland was in Tampa at a conference the last week of May.”
Erin felt a thrill of excitement, displacing her weariness. “You know that for a fact?”
“I filed his receipts, hon,” the nurse said. “Expense accounts.”
“So someone forged his signature,” Erin said.
“Looks that way,” the nurse said. “You a Narc?”
“Not exactly,” Erin said. “Jake Gallagher, the guy this prescription was for, is a wanted fugitive. I need to know anything you can tell me about him.” She described him for what seemed like the tenth time that night.
&n
bsp; “Well, hon, I’ve never been properly introduced to the man, but he sounds like Sylvia’s boyfriend.”
“Sylvia?”
“I shouldn’t gossip,” the nurse said in the tones of every gossipy woman on the face of the earth, “but I always thought he was trouble. That boy looks like a born criminal.”
“Who is Sylvia, please?” Erin persisted.
“Sylvia Paxton. She works here. Nurses’ assistant.”
“Does she work with Dr. Boland?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t suppose she’s on duty tonight?”
“No, hon.”
Erin sagged.
“She was supposed to come on duty at ten, but she called in sick,” Nurse Wright continued.
Erin’s head snapped up. “Was she at the hospital on the 25th? Did she have access to write prescriptions?”
“Let me check the schedule,” the nurse said. “Hmm… let’s see… yes. She worked nine to five that day, lucky girl.”
“I need her address,” Erin said. “Right now.”
* * *
“Whose address?”
Erin spun. Two men had come up behind her. Despite the lateness, or earliness, of the hour, they were immaculately groomed, clean-shaven, and wearing pressed suits and ties. She recognized them at once. The tall, broad-shouldered one was Detective Lyons, and the short, pudgy one was Detective Spinelli. They were part of Precinct 116’s Homicide unit.
“Detectives,” Erin said. “You’re up early.”
“And you’re up late, O’Reilly,” Lyons said. “What’re you doing in uniform? You’re off duty.”
“Don’t you Homicide boys have better things to do than check duty rosters?” Erin replied, but her heart sank. If they knew her work schedule, it meant they were checking up on her, personally. She thought of Rolf, and how she liked to let him run free at the dog park. Her own brief run off-leash was coming to an end.
“As a matter of fact, we do,” Spinelli said. “We investigate homicides. Like that of John Brunanski.”
“Shouldn’t you be home in bed, O’Reilly? You look tired.” A look of entirely false concern was on Lyons’s face.
Weariness and irritation wore away some of Erin’s manners and better judgment. “Lay off me, guys. I’m just doing my job.”
“Looks to me like you’re trying to do our job,” Spinelli corrected her. “We hear you’ve been running all over Queens, busting down doors, interrogating suspects…”
“Like a detective,” Lyons interjected.
“Which you’re not,” Spinelli finished. “So run along. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to…”
“Why not write some parking tickets?” Lyons suggested.
“…But leave this to us,” Spinelli said. “We’re trained for this sort of thing. And we’re fresh. You’re about to keel over. Let us handle this, girl. You’ve carried the ball; now hand it off to us, and we’ll run with it.”
“Into the end zone,” Lyons added.
Calling her “girl,” then going straight into the football metaphors, Erin thought. Could the macho bullshit be any thicker? Her jaw tightened. “Okay, you’re the hotshot Homicide dicks,” she said. “And you’re right, I’m just a beat cop. What the hell do I know? You’re right, I’m going home.”
“Whose address were you asking about?” Spinelli demanded.
“Ask her,” Erin retorted.
“Withholding information in a murder investigation?” Spinelli said.
“That’s a serious thing,” Lyons said.
Erin’s temper finally got the better of her. “Okay, assholes,” she snapped. “Sylvia Paxton is a nurse here. She’s the girlfriend of one of the suspects and I’m guessing she’s with him, probably at her place. Why? ‘Cause he’s been shot. That’s because I shot him after he and his buddies tagged one of ours. She forged a Vicodin prescription for one of the suspects. You know all this because I went and got the info while you were screwing around with your thumbs up your asses. But hell, I’m not trained for this, so it’s probably all bullshit, right? So I’m out of here.”
Lyons’s face flushed and he took a step toward her, flexing his hands. “You think I won’t kick your ass just because you’re a girl?”
“I think you won’t kick my ass because I’d wipe the floor with you,” Erin shot back.
Lyons, eight inches taller than Erin and outweighing her by eighty pounds, growled low in his throat. He took another step forward. Erin, a shot of adrenaline pushing back her fatigue, dropped into a judo stance. Even wide awake and fresh, she’d have been no match for him in a fistfight, but right then she didn’t care.
“Whoa, whoa,” Spinelli said, stepping between his partner and Erin. He held his hands out. “Okay, you know what, O’Reilly? You’ve done a good job tonight. Really, a hell of a job. But this is our case now. You don’t like it, I get that. And I respect that. Why don’t you take it up with Murphy when the sun comes up? Right now, we’ve got a job to do. You want to get the guys who shot Brunanski, so do we. You’ve helped. But now, go home.”
Erin was still furious. She wanted to hit something. Specifically, she wanted to hit Lyons. But she realized, as the heat of the moment cooled down, she mostly wanted to hit Jake and his gang. She was too tired. She wasn’t thinking straight. And damn it all, that meant the Homicide boys were at least a little bit right.
“Okay,” she sighed. Then she made eye contact with Lyons, who was still glowering at her. “I’ll see you around.”
She left the hospital without looking back. Getting into her car, she drove carefully home. She’d responded to enough traffic accidents to know that fatigue caused as many wrecks as drunk driving. She put her radio on to a hard-rock station and turned the air conditioning up so it blasted icy air straight into her face. Somehow, she got back to her apartment without running into anything. She took Rolf for a quick turn around the block to do his business, then headed upstairs, stripped off her uniform, and collapsed into bed. The time was a little before five o’clock, and the sun would be coming up much too soon.
Chapter 10
Erin woke to the ring of her phone. She blinked, tried to sit up, and flailed at her nightstand. The phone spun to the floor. Still groggy, her head aching, she scrambled out of bed and fumbled the device into her hands, just in time for it to stop ringing.
She brought up the call history and saw she’d missed two other calls from the same number… Luke’s number. Erin swore softly. She’d promised to call him after things calmed down, but running from one lead to the next, she’d blanked it out. She checked the time and swore again. It was ten-thirty. Fortunately, she wasn’t on the duty roster for Saturday, but she hadn’t meant to sleep so late.
Erin returned the call. The phone rang only once before Luke’s agitated voice came on the line.
“Erin? Are you okay?”
She sighed. “Yeah, Luke, I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call before. I didn’t get back to my place until almost five, and then I was so tired… anyway, like I said, I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Luke replied, but his voice was still tight with worry and the anger that came with it. But he was trying to be a good guy, so he kept talking, quiet and calm. “I read about the other officer. I’m sorry.”
She closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. “Me, too,” she said. “It wasn’t exactly a surprise. He was hit pretty bad.”
Luke paused. “So, did you find them?” he asked after a respectful moment.
“Not yet,” Erin said. “I think I found where one of them lives. And we’ve got some names.”
“That’s great!” he said with forced enthusiasm. “Sounds like you’re closing in. Is there anything I can do?”
She was about to say no, but then a thought hit her. “You can take me to breakfast,” she said. “There’s something I’d like to ask you about.”
“Okay, sure,” Luke said. “I can be by in about half an hour.”
* * *
They went to a diner down the street from Erin’s apartment. Her headache had faded a little, and she felt like she hadn’t eaten in days. She attacked a stack of pancakes, with fried eggs and bacon on the side. Luke contented himself with a cup of coffee and an English muffin. He watched in silent astonishment as she devoured her food.
“What’s the matter?” she asked between mouthfuls. “You afraid I’ll lose my girlish figure?”
He blinked. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s… impressive, is all.”
“My dad ate like this every day of his life, I’ll have you know,” she said.
“And does he still have his girlish figure?” Luke asked with a raised eyebrow.
Erin thought of her father, all two hundred forty pounds of him. “No,” she conceded. “But last night was a little unusual.”
He looked closely at her. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” she said. “I want to talk about art.”
“Art? Really?” he asked with undisguised surprise. “I thought you’d be all wrapped up in the case.”
“And it’s a case about art,” she said. “It’s not about Brunanski. He just got in the way. The point was swiping the Madonna. You know about art, Luke. Why steal that painting?”
“It’s the most valuable piece in the collection,” he said at once. “It’s worth more than all the others put together, to the right buyer.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it,” Erin said. “Finding a buyer. That’s why theft of really valuable art is so rare. Remember those guys in Norway who stole that painting? You know, the one with the guy clapping his hands to his face like the kid in Home Alone?”
“The Scream,” Luke said. “Edvard Munch. There were two thefts, of two different versions of the painting.”
“Really?” It was Erin’s turn to be surprised.
“Yeah. The one from the Oslo National Gallery was stolen in ‘94, and the one from the Munch Museum was grabbed in ‘04. The first one was held for ransom, so the police faked a payment and arrested everybody. The second one sat around in hiding for two years, then was recovered.”
