With this new revelation, I am overtaken by a wave of dread. “I don’t want to talk to the police,” I whisper. I know that I’m being silly. But right now, I just want to forget last night ever happened; I don’t want to have to relive it all for the authorities.
“I understand that, Sam,” Lucas says to me quietly, “but you have no choice. And I need to get to the office and see if we can’t keep a lid on this for now. The last thing you need is reporters pestering you in the hospital.”
I groan again. I hadn’t thought about the media. One of the curses of being a Colby. Usually, I avoid the media by keeping a low profile. I don’t do all the inane socialite activities that my mother insists would bring me to the attention of what she calls ‘suitable bachelors.’ It’s a frequent topic of contention between Mom and me but, unless it’s for a cause that I truly support, I just don’t see the point. I refuse to be a celebutante and have my face plastered all over the tabloids.
Great. So, not only can’t I see what I look like but, according to my mother’s reaction when she walked in, it’s hideous. And now there might be photographers roaming the halls trying to get a shot of my battered face for the news and the tabloids. Wonderful. This day just gets better and better.
“Don’t worry, darling,” my mother says in that imperious tone of hers. “We’ll take care of that. Lucas, can we get a guard at her door to keep everyone but family and the medical staff at bay?”
“Yes, I’ve already put in a call actually. I’m not leaving until security gets here.”
“Wonderful, thank you, honey.” Her voice is dripping with sweetness. I hear her take something out of her purse and, as she continues talking, she stands and begins to brush my hair. “You see, darling. It’s all going to be all right. And when you’re released from here, you are coming home with me,” she adds sternly. “You are not going back to that unsafe apartment of yours.”
“Mom, I am not going home with you,” I insist. “My apartment is fine.”
“Mom,” Lucas speaks up, “Sam’s apartment is in one of the safest, most affluent neighborhoods in Seattle.” His voice is placating as he sticks up for me. It seems he’s always running interference between me and Mom. Since Dad passed away a few years ago, Lucas has become my champion and hero, stepping into the void that Dad left when he died.
“Plus, I have already assigned you a security detail, Sam. No arguments!”
“I don’t need security, Lucas,” I sigh. “I don’t want someone following my every move; that will creep me out even more than the mugger did.”
“I don’t care,” Lucas is adamant. “Get used to it.”
“Lucas!” My voice is angry and my head is now throbbing in pain. I know that I need to calm down but, this is just too much. I will not let him bully me. “I don’t need security!”
“Calm down, darling,” my mother’s voice is soothing. She continues to gently brush my hair back. I can only imagine the unruly state it must have been in before she began. I feel her begin to braid my hair.
“I don’t want a bodyguard,” I say as I feel her fasten the braid with a hair tie. I realize that I’m practically shouting but, I am so angry and frustrated right now.
“Fine!” Lucas concedes with a huff, and I can imagine him running his hand through his sandy brown, curly hair in exasperation. “God, you are such a pain in the ass sometimes! All I’m trying to do is keep you safe, Sam.”
I don’t respond as I sit with a scowl on my face and I really wish that I had the use of at least one of my eyes right now so that I could glare at him.
“If you won’t let me assign you a security detail,” he says in a more conciliatory tone, “then I will at least talk to the people at Mountain View. See about beefing up the security at the apartment building.”
“That would be acceptable, wouldn’t it, darling?” Mom asks softly, as if she’s talking to a small child. They’re acting as if the mugging is somehow proof that I can no longer take care of myself and it pisses me off.
“Yes,” I reply softly after some hesitation. I hate feeling so helpless and weak and I really hate them thinking of me in that way. “I’m sorry, Lucas. I know you’re only trying to help.”
“It’s all right,” he says quietly, and I think he’s still irked at me. “I know you can’t help it that you’re a pita,” he adds, and I hear slight amusement in his voice. He leans down and quickly kisses the top of my head. “I see that Mr. Martin, the security guard, is outside the door so, I’m going to get going now. I’ll check on you this afternoon.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, stifling a yawn.
“You know, Mom,” he says in as diplomatic a voice as he can muster, “it might be a good idea to let Sam get some rest for a while.”
I smile to myself. Even when I give him a hard time, Lucas still tries to be the buffer between Mom and me. I love him for that. Even though he sometimes shares Mom’s overbearing trait.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she says running her hand down the long braid she’s just fashioned with my hair. “I will be back in a couple of hours to check on you, darling.”
“I’ll be fine.” My voice is small and I suddenly don’t really feel the courage of my convictions. “Thanks for braiding my hair,” I mumble. How can this be happening to me? Other people get mugged and assaulted, not me. I am not a victim. Only … right now, you are. My subconscious whispers to me and I know that she’s right.
“You’re welcome, darling. Get some rest,” she says, sweetly caressing my face.
I hear Mom and Lucas leave and I sink back into the pillows. I fall asleep in no time and I must nap for quite a while because when I wake, there is a nurse talking softly to me about my lunch. She is here to help me eat since I can’t see to feed myself. Her voice is soft and friendly as she patiently feeds me chicken soup, half a turkey sandwich and applesauce. And after I’ve eaten, she helps me to the bathroom and waits outside while I do my business. Once I’ve finished, she helps me over to the sink so that I can wash my hands and then she helps me back into the bed. After she gets me and my IV stand all settled, she gives me some medication for the pain and she is on her way.
As I wait for the pain meds to kick in, I settle back against the pillows and sit in silence and listen to the bustling sounds of the hospital – nurses gossiping and laughing as they go about their work, doctors talking, technicians pushing carts and equipment up and down the hallways, various machines buzzing and beeping and the occasional groaning of other patients on this floor. And as I sit quietly listening to the minutia, I wonder again how I ended up here. I hear about people getting mugged and assaulted on the news; I never expected to become one of those people myself. It’s not like I was in a bad area of town. I was at a fairly busy grocery store in a nice neighborhood. My neighborhood. Yes, it was dark out but, my neighborhood is very safe.
I am mulling over my situation when I hear the door open and someone walks in. I assume it’s Dr. Nash again, or another nurse, but they don’t say anything. I hear the door close again and I know that someone is standing in my room, just staring at me. I can hear them breathing, but their continued silence makes me a little bit uneasy and I self-consciously raise my left hand to my battered face, shielding my swollen eye and praying it’s not a reporter or photographer.
“Hello?” My voice is small and uncertain.
“Hello, Miss Colby.”
The voice is soft and deep and unfamiliar. Yet at the same time, something about it is … comforting?
“I’m so sorry to bother you. I know you need to rest right now but, I’m afraid I have to speak with you. I’m Detective Pierce of the Seattle Police Department.”
“Oh.” I feel a mixture of relief and anxiety. I’m glad it’s not a reporter but, I still don’t want to talk to the police. “Yes, of course.”
I hear him walk further into the room and he comes to stand beside the bed, to my right. “How are you feeling?” he asks me. I think I can hear genuine concern
in his voice and again, I am strangely comforted by the sound of it.
“I’m really sore,” I reply honestly, my voice quiet. “My ribs are bruised and my face … the pain is almost unbearable at times.”
He says nothing for several seconds and I get the feeling that he is trying to compose himself. Odd. Without being able to see him I can’t be certain but, I sense that he is angry. With me? I don’t understand the tension I’m suddenly feeling from him. But it appears to dissipate as quickly as it forms.
“I understand there is some question about your right eye?” he asks. Again, his concern for my well-being sounds real and I am put slightly at ease once more.
“The doctor seems hopeful that my vision won’t be affected.” My voice doesn’t sound as though I share the doctor’s certainty and I realize for the first time that I’m scared I might lose the use of my right eye. The thought is incredibly frightening. My eyesight is everything to me. How would I draw again if I couldn’t see? How would I admire all the beautiful art that I love so much?
“That’s good,” Detective Pierce says, and he sounds hopeful. “Miss Colby, can you tell me anything about what happened to you last night?” His deep voice is soft and soothing. Something about it almost beckons to me. “What do you remember?”
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then I begin talking. I tell the detective everything, recalling the events of my mugging in as great a detail as I can manage. By the time I finish, I am quite emotional, almost in tears.
“Did you get a good look at your assailant, Miss Colby?”
I am quiet as I think about last night’s events. Did I get a good look at him?
“Can you tell me anything about him?” he asks. “White? Black? Hispanic? Tall or short?”
“Um … he was white, I think. Maybe a little taller than me,” I say softly.
“Do you remember anything distinguishing about him at all?” Detective Pierce’s voice sounds intense all of a sudden. As if he is trying to will me to remember something. Anything that he can use to find my attacker. His earnestness takes me by surprise and I find myself wanting to think of something useful to help him in his search.
I wrack my brain trying to recall any detail about the man’s face but, when I try, all I can see is his fist coming toward me and I flinch. “Um … maybe.” There is something, but it’s … not clear. Like a dream. On the very fringe of my mind, like I could almost reach out and grab it. But it won’t come. I see his fist coming at me again. And again, it makes me flinch. “Um … it … it was dark,” I say tearfully. Apologetically.
“Yes, ma’am. I know.” His voice is suddenly full of compassion and he takes my hand and gives it a light squeeze. I am startled, both by the unexpected contact and by the small jolt of electricity that runs through me when his skin touches mine. I gasp softly and abruptly pull my hand away.
“I’m sorry, Miss Colby,” Detective Pierce says hurriedly. I think he’s nervous. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“It’s okay,” I reply softly. “I’m just a little jumpy without my eyes right now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He still sounds nervous but there’s an edge to his voice now. The anger is back, and again I don’t know if it’s directed at me or not. Detective Pierce seems to be a mass of contradictory emotions.
“Do you often shop late, Miss Colby?” His voice is all business again.
I shake my head. “Not usually. Only since my hours at the museum gift shop have changed.”
I hear the door open once more and someone says from the doorway, “Hey, Guy … we just got a nibble. An abandoned blue Maserati convertible a few blocks away.”
“Yeah, okay,” Detective Pierce answers. “I’ll be right out.” His voice has recovered its earlier intensity. The second officer leaves the room and we are alone again.
“Is that my car, Detective?” I ask hopefully.
“Probably, yes,” he answers. “There aren’t too many 2012 Mediterranean Blue Maserati Gran Turismos in Seattle.”
I don’t know what to make of this news. Is it good? “What happens now?” I ask.
“Well now, Detective Conner and I go and check out the abandoned car … and you get some rest.” There is that hint of concern to his voice again, and it puzzles me. “I’m leaving my card here on the table next to your phone. If you think of anything else, Miss Colby … anything at all, please call me.”
“I will,” I nod.
“And one more thing,” he says. “I would suggest you cancel your credit cards as soon as possible.”
“Yes, of course,” I murmur.
“I’ll be in touch.” He turns and leaves the room a moment later and I am alone again.
Chapter Two
Joshua
The minute I walked into that room I was flooded with rage. The sight of that poor girl, beaten up beyond recognition. It makes my blood boil. It always makes my blood boil. I had to take a moment to collect myself before I spoke to her. I didn’t trust my voice not to register the outrage that I was feeling at whoever did this to her. It makes me sick. Why some men feel the need to beat up on a defenseless woman … I have never understood it.
Sometimes it seems as though I have spent my life trying to figure it out. Attempting to wrap my head around it. I’ve given up many, many times only to find myself confronted with the question again and again. Sort of difficult to avoid it with the line of work I’ve chosen. Maybe I should have considered that more closely before I decided to become a cop. I smirk to myself. Who am I kidding? I can deny it all I want to but, deep down, I know my past had everything to do with my career choice. But I can’t think about any of that shit right now. Right now, I’ve got a case to solve and a young woman to help.
The thought of that poor girl’s face, bruised and swollen … the image is hard to let go of and I have to fight the urge to punch the fucking wall. She looked so small and helpless when I walked into that room. Who would do something like that to such a sweet young girl? Here’s a better question, Pierce, I ask myself, what the fuck were you thinking taking her hand like that? I roll my eyes at myself as I stand outside of her hospital room. What the fuck was I thinking? I just got caught up in the sweet sound of her voice. She sounded so sad and vulnerable and … and before I knew it, I was touching her hand! What the hell was that? I don’t get emotionally involved in my cases. Maybe you’re going soft, Pierce. I smirk to myself again as I turn and walk away from her room and down the hall to my partner, David Conner.
“Let’s go, Conner,” I say, tapping him on the arm.
“How’d you make out with the vic?” he asks, putting his phone away.
“Her memory’s good but, she’s sketchy on the guy’s face,” I say. “I think she actually might of gotten a look at him but she’s blocking it out for some reason,” I say, as I recall the way she visibly flinched when I asked her if there was anything distinguishable about her assailant. There may be something there.
“Yeah, well get this,” Conner says. “Just got the statements back from all of her credit cards. There’s been no activity.”
“None at all?” I ask. That’s unusual.
“Zilch.”
We head out of the hospital and into the nondescript, unmarked, light blue cruiser. This boat is nothing like my personal car – my baby – the 1968 jet black Dodge Charger R/T that I’ve spent the last several years painstakingly restoring. The two vehicles are light years apart, I note with dismay once again as I fire up the cruiser and we get underway. We’re quiet as we head over to Aurora Avenue where the abandoned Maserati is waiting for us.
As I drive, my mind wanders back to that hospital room and the sight of that poor, battered girl. And it strikes me as funny that I keep thinking of her as ‘that poor girl.’ Samantha Colby is anything but ‘poor.’ Once we identified her last night, I did some digging. Found out she’s one of those Colbys. A billion dollar baby with a trust fund to match. From the information I gathered though, it seems she’s n
ot content to just live off the spoils of her family’s fortune. Yes, she does have an exorbitant trust fund that kicked in as soon as she turned twenty-one last year but, outside of her upscale apartment and her sweet sports car, she apparently hasn’t touched much of it. Instead, she has a regular job working in the gift shop at the Pryor Art Museum. Which leads my thoughts back to the scene of the crime.
When she was brought into the hospital last night, she was beaten so badly the only way they were able to identify her was through the museum ID badge that was still clipped to her shirt. Everything else was stolen along with her purse and her car.
I pull to the curb and stop behind the marked blue and white cruiser and get out. I nod at one of the uniforms as Conner and I walk up to him and the Maserati, and I can see from the personalized license plate that it is indeed Miss Colby’s car. “What we got, Tommy?”
“Guy, I thought you said this was a stolen car,” Tommy says with a puzzled look on his face.
“It is,” I respond. “It’s part of the assault case we caught last night. Victim is in the hospital badly beaten. Why, what’s up?”
“Well, it just doesn’t look like your typical stolen car,” Tommy says. “Not a mark on it, it’s all locked up, there’s a purse lying in the back floorboard.”
“You’re shitting me,” I say surprised. “Did you open it?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
“Get me in there.” This case just took an unexpected turn and I don’t like the uneasy feeling that’s starting to gnaw at me. But I’ll wait to see what we find inside the car to make any judgments. “Conner, get me a CSU out here.”
“I’m on it,” he says taking out his phone. A couple of seconds later, Tommy has the Maserati’s door open.
“You’d make a great car thief. You know that, right?” I ask him with a smile.
Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set Page 2
