“What’s going on?” I yelled over the whir of the helicopter blades.
“Saint Anthony’s is overloaded,” the pilot hollered back. “They’re on Divert. The medical helo is going to Southwest Hospital, so that’s where we’re heading. Southwest has a new trauma center that can handle this.”
I bit my lip painfully, anxious to get Tom somewhere. I knew Southwest Hospital, across from Westside Mall in the southeast corner of Furman County. It was where Marla had been taken when she’d had her heart attack; afterwards, she’d donated money for a new coronary care wing. Southwest also belonged to the same chain of Denver hospitals in which John Richard had once worked.
I veered away from that thought as we swooped over one of the residential areas in the foothills, where houses sat higgledy-piggledy along a winding dirt road. Swing sets shuddered in the cold wind coming off the higher elevations. Week-old, wind-carved snowmen newly dusted with white indicated the presence of happy families.
In the not-so-happy family department, where was John Richard at this moment? I wished I knew. Could he possibly have shot Tom? Would he have? Yes, oh yes, no matter what Arch said about his father not being good with a gun. My head ached as I remembered an incident from when we were still married. The tale had come from a nurse at Cityside Hospital, one of the places where John Richard had done deliveries. Her voice trembling, she’d called me to confess she’d repeatedly rejected John Richard’s advances. When she’d protested to Doctor that she was married, she told me, the Jerk had calmly replied, How about if that troublesome husband of yours was out of the way? I didn’t know why the nurse had phoned me with this message. What did she think I was going to do? My advice had been that she put as many miles as she could between herself and Dr. Korman. Not long after, another nurse told me that the object of John Richard’s affections had quit her job and moved to a hospital out of state.
I couldn’t see the medical helo, but I knew it was in front of us. More knowledge I’d gleaned in Med Wives 101 came up like a fresh computer screen. The human body is mostly water. Even a bullet that only goes through soft tissue causes massive damage, beginning with the shock wave to the system known as the hydraulic effect.
Were the medics treating Tom for shock? Of course. Had I done enough to compress the wound? My teeth chattered. I grabbed a silver space blanket one of the pilots had put on the seat beside me. I was so cold. How to avoid shock? Stop feeling and start thinking.
But I couldn’t. It was too painful. I saw Tom’s body jerk back. Watched him bleed. Heard him say, I don’t love her. I’d endured years of infidelity from the Jerk. But this was different.
Incredibly, I still had my cell phone. I drew it out and stared at it. Could I use it in the helo? Should I call Elk Park Prep? Should Arch be told? I looked down. We had left the mountains and were swooping over the Hogback, an ancient, jagged geological formation that rose between the mountains and plains. The Hogback had fascinated generations of elementary-school science students. But the rocks still screwed up any cellular communication you tried to make while crossing them. Plus, making a cell call was undoubtedly not allowed in the helo, as it wouldn’t be in the hospital. So: Once I knew Tom was being taken care of, I’d find a pay phone, call Marla, call the Hydes, call the church. All crises in due time, my mind numbly supplied.
The helo was just starting over the flatlands that stretched toward Denver. We whump-whumped over a development, row after row of gray-and-beige tract houses. Ahead, Westside Mall loomed. Beyond it, Southwest Hospital and its crammed parking lot shimmered in the sun.
The police helicopter hovered near the mall. From our vantage point, the hospital landing pad was in full view. It looked as if an emergency nurse and orderly were meeting the medical helo. I swallowed and watched the flight nurses unload Tom hot, that is, with the helo blades still going. Then I saw Tom, still on the backboard, being transferred onto a gurney and wheeled away.
First the trauma team, then a hot unload. You only unloaded hot when you thought you were going to lose somebody.
What felt like an eternity but probably was not more than twenty minutes later, after the police chopper had landed and the hospital security officer had escorted me to a bathroom to clean Tom’s blood off my hands and arms, I arrived in the ER waiting room. I was told the ER doctor would come out to talk to me as soon as possible. A few moments later, Tom’s new captain, Isaac Lambert, loomed next to me. Awkwardly, I got to my feet.
“Goldy,” he murmured. He hugged me, but knew better than to ask some clichéd question about how I was doing. “They have a good team here.”
“Okay.”
Gray-haired, hawk-faced Captain Lambert was a tall, heavy man whose bones creaked when he sat in a plastic chair. The row of brown buttons on his tan uniform stretched to capacity across his Buddha-like belly. He smelled of Old Spice and gave the impression of a benevolent giant trying hard to be comforting. I sat down next to him, grateful to have someone with me.
“Where’s Tom now?” I asked. “Have you seen him?”
“No, but I know the procedure.” His voice was kindly and reassuring. “The flight team gives their report to the ER doc. Tom’s age, how many shots fired, how much blood loss, that kind of thing. The ER doc assesses and then acts.”
We said nothing for a few minutes. I looked around. Sitting in the waiting room felt like floating near the bottom of a deep well. Sunlight filtered through blue-tinted frosted glass and illuminated pale blue walls, dark turquoise chairs, navy blue couches opposite a wall of windows looking out on a busy hospital hallway. For the first time, I noticed that the room appeared to be full of women: women staring, women sobbing quietly, women listening with frozen faces to jammy-clad doctors giving them the news.
“They unloaded him hot,” I told Lambert, just to be talking. “That means—” My throat shut.
The captain’s expression and tone did not change. “They gave him blood while they were assessing him.”
I could just imagine the ER team swarming around my husband: putting in IV’s that contained blood and glucose, taking blood pressure and pulse, hooking up the heart monitor, checking for respiration and mentation, that is, assessing how cogent the patient is.
How cogently was Tom thinking when he told me he didn’t love her?
“They do X rays,” the captain continued in that maddeningly soothing voice. “Once they know what they’re dealing with and have their surgical team together, they’ll put him right in—”
The doctor appeared, a short, slender man with gray hair, pale eyes, and a greenish tint to his skin that might have been the effect of the neon lights. He introduced himself as Dr. Larry Saslow and asked if I was Mrs. Schulz.
“Your husband’s wound,” the doctor began, “is not as bad as it could have been. The bullet missed bone, but nicked a major blood vessel. The subclavian, heard of it?” When I nodded mutely, he went on: “A vascular surgeon is working on him now. He should be out of surgery in a couple of hours.”
I wanted to hold on to this man. I want reassurances! But I could do nothing but nod.
“Thanks. Good. Very good,” replied Captain Lambert before the doctor walked away. When I continued to say nothing, Captain Lambert mumbled he’d be back in a minute. Moments later, he lumbered back with two plastic cups of coffee that looked like recycled motor oil.
“It’s better than nothing,” he said apologetically.
Mechanically, I took a sip and instantly burned my tongue. “It’s great, thanks.” My voice sounded faraway.
“This is good news, Goldy. What the doc said. They’ll keep Tom in ICU overnight. A couple of our deputies can stay to check on him every hour, if you need to go home—”
“I am not going home,” I said fiercely. My hand trembled and coffee slopped onto my knee. I knew I needed to make calls, but I wasn’t ready.
“Okay, okay. Stay here, then.”
I was being unreasonable and shrill, and I didn’t want to respond to the graci
ousness of Captain Lambert this way. Still, I didn’t know how to act. So I just sat, prayed, and drank bad coffee. Finally, I asked the captain if he knew about a phone I could use. He said the waiting-room phone was ten feet away. Did I want him to walk over there with me? No, thanks.
First I called Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church in Aspen Meadow. Into the priest’s voice mail I crisply stated our news, adding that I was at Southwest Hospital and would be for the next twenty-four hours. I asked that Tom’s name go out immediately on the prayer chain. Then I called Marla’s cell. Please pick up Arch from Elk Park Prep and call me at the following number, I said numbly into her messaging system. Better yet, please bring Arch to Southwest Hospital, as I need to be with both of you. Tom’s been shot, I explained, my voice quavering.
Then I called the Hydes. With them, I was relieved to get a machine. Briefly, I announced what had happened, and where I was. We’ll have to postpone the luncheon until later in the week, since the area is now a crime scene. I’m sure the donors will understand….
Finally I went back to my plastic chair. I felt numb.
“Goldy?” Captain Lambert asked. “I’ve been wondering, I’m just curious … of course, you’ll be talking to a detective later, but … what happened?”
And so I told my tale: how the window at our house had been shot out, how Sergeant Boyd had politely ordered my son and me to get out until Tom returned. We’d schlepped to Hyde Castle, just above Cottonwood Creek and Hyde Chapel, where I was supposed to cater a luncheon today…. And then I’d found Andy Balachek’s body in the creek, and Tom had been shot…. “And there’s something else you should know.” I told him about my ex-husband’s early release from prison.
“We’re trying to find Korman now,” the captain replied. “We think he’s at his old country club home in Aspen Meadow. At least, that’s where he told his parole officer he was headed—”
“Wait,” I interrupted him. My attention veered to the far side of the waiting room.
At the window that looked out on the hall, a woman’s face—porcelain skin, fine features, ink-black hair—appeared, then vanished. Goose bumps chilled my skin.
What was Chardé Lauderdale doing at Southwest Hospital?
CHAPTER 8
I jumped up, raced to the waiting-room door, and checked the hall. It was a noisy place. The intercom blared litanies of names and messages; orderlies rattled past pushing patient-loaded gurneys; families, nurses, and doctors chattered and strode, fast and slow, along the squeaky linoleum.
And there was Chardé Lauderdale, walking quickly away. Her black hair was swept up in a French twist held with a gleaming barrette. Her red and black suit hugged her athletic figure as her high heels clickety-clicked into the distance. Maybe she was here to have her little daughter Patty examined again, to determine if there were any long-term effects from the shaking Buddy had given her. Chardé turned and glanced at me, then trotted around the corner.
I rubbed my dry, cracked hands together. Curse of the caterer: too many washings, too little lotion. I stared at the hallway, as if daring Chardé Lauderdale to reappear. Had Tom ever mentioned someone trying to intimidate him? Was someone trying to intimidate me? Could the Lauder-dales and their thirst for revenge be behind all that was happening? I walked back inside the waiting room.
“Captain Lambert, I need to tell you about some people named Lauderdale.” My mouth filled with bile even as I said their name. Briefly, I told Lambert of the New Year’s Eve party and its aftermath.
“I read the article,” Captain Lambert mused. “Read the report, too. We’re following up on the Lauderdales. And on your ex-husband. And on the hijackers Tom’s investigating. At this point, the suspects in the shooting of Tom are the same ones we’re considering for shooting at your house. First thing, we have to look at Balachek.”
“What exactly was going on with Andy Balachek?” I asked. “Tom only told me a few details.”
The captain pursed his lips. “Tom didn’t tell you we used to call Ray Wolff the Stinky Beef Boy?”
My mind swam. “He never mentioned bad-smelling meat. I would have remembered that.”
“A while back, Wolff stole a truckload of what he thought was prime-grade steaks. Turned out it was beef rectums.” Lambert chuckled. “The rectums were unsalable to restaurants, naturally. So he abandoned the truck. Smelled up six city blocks before Denver P.D. figured out what it was. Witnesses gave a physical description of Wolff, whom law enforcement already knew about.”
“So then Wolff got a couple of partners, one of whom was Andy Balachek?”
Lambert cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not going to go chasing after them, are you?”
My reputation for poking around in unsolved crimes again reared its busybody head. I reddened. “Of course not.” Lambert’s look was skeptical. No doubt the captain knew all about my sleuthing.
“All right,” Lambert continued after a moment. “The three-million-dollar stamp heist. The Stamp Fox is an unusual place. It’s high-class and very specialized. This country doesn’t have many fancy stamp stores, not the way they do in London or Zurich. George Renard, the owner, tried to get publicity for his store by getting articles in the local papers about Tucson’s big philatelic show. Renard wanted the world to know the value of the stamps he’d be exhibiting, and wouldn’t his boutique be a cool place to shop?” Lambert rubbed his large forehead, sighing over the store owner’s stupidity. “Problem was, the article also said Renard was flying to Tucson and shipping the collection. So your smart thief will watch the store. How many days to the stamp show? What courier does the store use? How often does the courier come? That’s how he figures out that when a FedEx truck shows up three days before the show opens, he can hit it and cash in.”
“How many valuable stamps were taken?”
“Three of them were from Mauritius. Each of those was valued at half a million pounds, which is about eight hundred thousand dollars per stamp, at today’s exchange rates. Know anything about old stamps from Mauritius? Do you even know where Mauritius is? I had to look it up.”
My laugh sounded hollow, somehow. Every amateur stamp-collector quickly learns the location of small countries that produce important stamps. “Mauritius is an island country off the coast of Africa. East of Madagascar. Their old stamps are extremely rare,” I said. “First issue was in … ah … 1850, or thereabouts? Has a picture of Queen Victoria?”
“Very good. 1847.” Lambert sounded impressed.
I thought for a minute. “But … aren’t those stamps going to be hard to fence?”
“Maybe in this country, where using pawnshops would be stupid. But if you’ve got contacts in the Far East, according to Renard, you can fence anything. Before you know it, the stolen stamps, now with huge price tags, show up in European shows. Watch it, though, Goldy. We haven’t published any pictures of the stolen stamps, or even a list of the inventory. Got it? That’s a key to our investigation. No one must know.”
“Right, okay, thanks for telling me.” The keys to a case were secret, and closely guarded by the authorities. Without willing it, I mentally placed The Stamp Fox in Furman East Shopping Center. The luxury strip mall was a mile from Lauderdale Luxury Imports. It was also, as I recalled, not far from The Huntsman, the euphemistically named gun shop for which the Jerk’s new girlfriend, Viv Martini, worked as a sales rep. The Huntsman was a free-standing store, since mall developers didn’t favor firearm retailers.
I felt dazed. “Where does shooting Tom come in?”
He shook his head. “We figure the thieves haven’t fenced the stamps yet. But we also believe Balachek was getting antsy. The FedEx driver was killed in the robbery, and Balachek could face murder or complicity charges. Plus, he had stolen his father’s truck last year, sold it for gambling money he lost, and then never paid him back. Now his dad’s in coronary care. Andy wanted his share of the robbery money so he could make things right with his dad before he died. At least, that’s what he told Tom. At first, And
y strung Tom along as to the location of the stamps. Andy told Tom when Wolff would be at Furman County Storage and Tom arrested Wolff there. It was a great collar. But our team found no stamps on Ray Wolff. Our theory is that Andy knew the location of the stamps, but wanted to trade that knowledge for a better plea deal. It’s very tentative, but we’re figuring Wolff’s gang killed Andy to keep his mouth shut. And maybe they’re after Tom because they figure Andy did tell him where the loot was.” He gave me an apologetic look. “It’s all really speculative,” he repeated.
“And the other people in the gang?”
“We just have Wolff and Balachek as suspects at this point. But witnesses to the hijacking are very clear about seeing three people. Balachek refused to tell Tom the name of the other hijacker, or if there were more people involved. That kid was scared.”
I nodded numbly. I was thankful the captain had shared his theory with me. He’d also given me more information than cops usually gave civilians. But he knew Tom talked to me about his cases. He also knew that I’d proved helpful—if a tad meddlesome—in the past. I didn’t feel particularly helpful now, though. All I could think of was Tom slumping against a boulder as his blood ran down the granite.
I asked, “The other hijacker, could it be a woman?”
Cops have a way of hearing questions. The captain’s tone became guarded. “We don’t know the exact number of people involved in the heist, or their gender. Why?”
I shrugged. Why? I don’t love her. Had she pointed a loaded gun at our window in the wee hours, then shot Tom this morning, as he walked toward me? Was she, like the Jerk, the jealous type? Is there any way my husband would have become emotionally involved with a member of a theft ring?
Lambert shrugged, as if he’d made a decision. “Until recently, Ray Wolff had a girlfriend. Possibly she hooked up with Andy Balachek, too.” The captain added carefully, “But … I would have thought you’d know about her. Tom ever mention Viv Martini?”
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