Then she was murdered by her husband four years into the marriage. She’d finally had enough and told him she wanted a divorce. He shot her the next day.
Those images ran through Kirke’s head. She’d held on to her own marriage too long. Although Jon had never struck her, he had been emotionally abusive, belittling everything she did. She’d left after two years. It had been eighteen months late.
They arrived within five minutes. Two police cars blocked the road. All the lights in the house were on.
An officer met them halfway. “He beat the hell out of his wife,” he said. “She’s barely breathing.”
“Where’s the husband?”
“In my squad car.”
She nodded, grateful. The hardest part of this job was trying to be nonjudgmental. She’d never been very good at keeping her mouth shut in the face of bullies. She hurried up the steps. Another officer was kneeling next to a woman. Blood was everywhere.
She immediately focused on the gash in the woman’s head. Bleeding badly. The patient was bent in a fetal position as if trying to protect herself.
She was unconscious, and her breathing was shallow.
“Her name?”
“Susan Whitaker.”
“Susan,” she said to the injured woman, even as she realized Susan Whitaker was beyond hearing.
She turned back to the officer. “How long since the injury?”
“The husband said several hours ago. He locked her in the garage, thinking she was just sulking.”
Kirke wanted to kill the husband.
She checked the woman’s pupils. “Unequal,” she told Hal. They both knew what that meant: intracranial hemorrhage.
She phoned in the vitals to the hospital and was told to get the patient there as soon as possible. She applied oxygen, then she and Hal loaded the patient on the board, then on the stretcher and wheeled her to the ambulance and lifted her inside. They were minutes away from the hospital.
She started an IV. “Come on, Susan. Stay with me. Don’t let him win.”
Then they were at the emergency entrance, and they rushed her inside, giving specifics to the triage nurse.
They waited to give any additional information that was needed, then Hal filled out the run report. She went to the information desk. “We brought in a man yesterday. His name was Mark Cable. How is he?”
The receptionist typed in the name on the keyboard and glanced at the screen. “In critical care.”
“Do you have anyone listed as next of kin?”
The receptionist looked up at her.
“Sometimes it helps families to know that their loved one was thinking about them,” she said, knowing she was breaking a rule even thinking about contacting a family member.
But rule breaking apparently didn’t bother the receptionist, who gave her an understanding nod and turned to the computer. “No name of a responsible party,” she said.
“And no one has asked about him?”
“Not while I’ve been here.”
Hal turned from where he had finished the paperwork and raised an eyebrow.
Their pager buzzed. Another call.
She sighed. No more time for questions.
And Hal thankfully didn’t ask any. She didn’t want to lie to him or make him an accomplice in what she’d done. She was risking her job on what she was beginning to believe was a quixotic quest. She’d gone too far, though, to hesitate now.
Jake waited impatiently at the motel office for the package the forger had promised last night.
He’d decided at the last minute to stay another night. He’d checked his phone messages, and there had been no calls from the supervising officer. Maybe he had several more hours.
But every moment counted now, and when a deliveryman hurried into the office, Jake moved to the desk. After satisfying the clerk that it was indeed his, he moved away and opened it, glancing quickly at the contents. A new driver’s license was there, complete with the photo that had been taken for the driver’s license he’d carried to Atlanta. The forger had come through.
He’d complained last night when Jake had called and ordered a new identity immediately. He’d said he couldn’t do it in time to get overnight delivery.
But he had. At a very expensive price.
Jake tucked the license into his wallet. Now he was David Cable, a resident of New York City with an address that could be confirmed.
Thank God he still had some friends left, men he’d served with in Special Forces who’d never believed the charges against him. One had found the forger for him, a man who did work for the government as well as criminal enterprises.
Regret ran through Jake. His father died shortly after Jake, his only child, had been convicted. He’d left an insurance policy and some savings to Jake. Jake had taken that inheritance and some savings of his own and found a good money manager. During his last year in prison, he’d directed his money manager to put sums of money in various accounts and safe-deposit boxes. It wasn’t illegal, since taxes had been paid, but he didn’t want the feds to be able to trace funds back to him once he was released. He’d had every intention to start an investigation of his own.
This new identity was biting into that nest egg, but nothing was more important than finding the truth about that day, especially after seeing the man he believed was Gene Adams. The puzzle was beginning to come together in his mind.
Adams coldly murdered two of his own men and tried to murder Jake. Probably murdered a third yesterday. Jake had always thought the drug dealer had ambushed his team, then taken the two remaining men to learn who’d sent them, probably torturing and killing them. The money in his account? He’d believed the South American target had wanted suspicion diverted from himself.
Now he realized. Adams had framed him, plain and simple.
A deep chill settled inside him. If he was right, where had Adams been these past years? Where had Del Cox been? Did anyone in the government know they survived the ambush? After years in Special Services and dealing with the CIA, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone did.
He stopped at a drugstore where he bought a pair of reading glasses and a package of cotton balls. Then he drove to the hospital and parked. He stuffed some cotton in his mouth to broaden his cheeks and change his speech. He added the glasses. As a disguise it was certainly minimal, but at least it would slightly obscure his features, if his face was captured on security cameras.
Yesterday, it hadn’t been so important. He hadn’t shown identification or associated himself with anyone but as a possible friend. But his actions today might well draw more attention.
He strode inside and went to the information desk.
“I understand my brother was brought in yesterday. Mark Cable,” he said, not needing to force urgency into his voice. He just prayed Adams hadn’t arrived earlier. “What’s his room number?”
The woman turned to the computer. After a few seconds, she turned back to him, a frown on her face. “Can I see some identification?”
He showed her the license. “I gained a little weight,” he said to explain his puffy cheeks.
“Haven’t we all?” she said and gave him a room number and directions.
He followed the directions, making labyrinthine turns, apprehension mounting by the second. Through the corner of his left eye, he’d seen the woman pick up the phone as soon as he’d turned. Notifying authorities, he knew. It had been a hit-and-run, a crime. Of course there would be official interest.
But at least Cox was still alive.
He reached the critical care unit and went to the desk. The nurse there apparently expected him. A call from downstairs? “You’re a brother?”
Jake nodded. “How is he?”
“You’ll have to talk to the doctor. He’s on the floor now. He’ll be here shortly.”
“Can you just tell me where he is?”
He was directed to a glassed-in cubicle. The patient was connected to several machines, and tubes ran in and out
of the man the hospital knew as Mark Cable. With a dropping heart, Jake realized exactly what they meant. For all practical purposes, the man was dead. He was never going to be able to tell Jake what he’d intended to say.
Just then a doctor appeared and guided him to a corner. “I’m Dr. MacGuire, the attending. I understand you’re Mr. Cable’s brother?”
“Yes. Someone saw the whole thing happen and called me. I was in New York. I took a plane immediately. Is he …?”
“I’m sorry. We did everything we could, but the internal injuries were too severe. We lost brain activity shortly after he arrived, but we kept him on life support, hoping we could find a relative.”
Jake knew exactly what that meant, but he had to be the grieving brother. “There’s nothing you can do? We have money. I mean, there must be something?”
Dr. MacGuire shook his head. “I’m sorry. His heart stopped. We got it started again, but he went too long without oxygen.”
“I would like to see him.”
The doctor hesitated, then asked, “Are you the next of kin?”
Jake nodded. “Yeah. He’s divorced and never had kids. Our parents are dead.”
The doctor hesitated again. “Have you thought of organ donations?”
Jake closed his eyes for a moment as if in pain. And he was. If he could, he would agree. But he couldn’t. Too many papers and forms. It could come back to haunt him.
“No,” he said. “I don’t think he would want that.”
The doctor merely nodded.
Jake went inside and leaned over Del’s body. He saw the faint, almost imperceptible lines of plastic surgery on a face that wasn’t familiar. For the sake of any onlooker, he leaned over as if to say a prayer, though he’d given up on prayer years earlier. A man who dealt in death had little right to pray.
He then checked the man’s arm. A burn scar on the inside of his right arm. There had been a tattoo there once.
Satisfied that Del Cox, or at least the man he’d known as Del Cox, was the near-lifeless figure in the hospital bed, he left. The doctor was gone. He went to the nurse’s desk, “Are there any personal effects?” he asked.
“The police have them,” the nurse replied. “They’re trying to find his family.”
“Do you know whether there was a letter?” he said. He hated like hell to ask the question, but he had to know, and if the police had Del Cox’s property, he had to find a way to get it. “He called me day before yesterday to tell me he had one for an old friend but couldn’t locate him. It seemed important to him.”
She shook her head. “Just a wallet and clothes,” she said. “I bagged the clothes, and the paramedic responding to the call brought in the wallet.”
He nodded. He had what he needed.
Just then, another woman in a white coat appeared. “Mr. Cable?”
News traveled fast. He nodded.
“I’m from the office. We have some questions.”
He bet they had. Like insurance.
Sure enough, that was the first question.
“Do you know whether your brother has insurance?”
“No,” he said flatly. “We never discussed it.” He couldn’t quite hide his distaste for the question. He wasn’t Cable’s brother, but if he had been, he would have had some choice comments.
“Is there a responsible party?”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“Did he have a living will?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you have power of attorney for him?”
“No. He never thought he would die before me.”
“No one does,” she said. “I’m sorry to mention it at this time, but I have documents for you to sign.”
He took them from her hand. God help him, there were enough of them. “I’ll have to read them,” he said. “I … have to have time to … absorb this.”
“I’ll wait,” she said. Her face was all sympathy, and he felt a twinge of guilt. But he had to disappear now. He had already stayed too long. And he had to take the papers with him. He wanted nothing with his fingerprints left behind.
“Is there a restroom?” he said. “I came right from the airport, and the traffic …”
She pointed down the hall. “Take a left, and you’ll see the door.” She started to reach for the papers, but he turned and was down the hall, the papers clutched in his hand.
He turned left and saw her watching. Damn it. He went in the room, washed his hands, then exited. He looked down the hall. She was talking to the nurse at the desk.
He kept going toward the elevators. Just as the door opened, he saw a security officer get off the elevator and start for the nurse’s station. He turned his face as he passed and hurried down the hall to the stairs. He was on the third floor. It would be faster to go down them rather than wait for another elevator.
He took the steps down, two at a time, then turned away from the reception area and went down to the main entrance. He noticed video cameras ahead and turned his head away from their view as he hurried through the doors. In minutes, he was in his car turning onto the main thoroughfare.
Jake ran down what he’d learned. Too damned little, though the burn mark on his arm confirmed Del’s identity.
He also knew that no one else had come to Cox’s side, and the police had been unable to find a relative. The last and most important thing he’d learned was that no letter had turned up among Cox’s possessions. Yet Jake had seen him give the paramedic one. Most likely so had Gene Adams.
He had to find her, and quickly.
If he didn’t, Gene Adams would. And, as in South America, Adams wouldn’t want a witness.
CHAPTER 5
Kirke and Hal grabbed a quick lunch at the station.
Before they finished the firehouse chili, another call came. Turned out to be the flu.
The next few hours were busy but had little of the drama of the day before. Quirky stuff mostly. A woman hearing voices was transported to the hospital’s psychiatric ward. A fender bender with only a few scratches but two irate drivers who had to be calmed.
As they left that scene, she received a call from her captain.
“Kirke, a detective wants to talk to you. Name of Tom Brady. He’s investigating the hit-and-run and wants to know if the victim said anything.” He gave her a number to call.
Her heart sank. She didn’t want to lie to the police. Neither did she want to admit she had taken something from the victim.
Before she could punch in the numbers, though, there was another call. Transport for a cancer treatment.
Mr. Marsh was a repeat customer, and he grinned when she and Hal arrived at the small house where he lived alone.
“I was hoping it would be you,” he said with a twinkle in his faded blue eyes.
“I missed you, too,” she said. “You’re looking better.”
“And you, my dear, are a liar, albeit a pretty one.”
“And you, Mr. Marsh, are a lovely flatterer.”
They waited while Mr. Marsh received his treatment, then there was a call about a child falling from a swing set and breaking an arm. It went that way the rest of the day. No life-saving decisions. No adrenaline rush. Just one call after another.
They ended their shift at the hospital, taking a newborn and her nervous mother to the hospital because of a rash. Kirke made out the run form, then visited the triage area. The reception nurse had changed, and the new one was Sally, with whom Kirke had exchanged more than a few ex-husband tales. Sally looked at her watch and grinned. “Can’t stay away?”
“Just wanted to know if there’s any word on the woman we brought in this morning. A Susan Whitaker.”
Sally glanced at her computer, then shook her head. “We lost her.”
“Damn,’” Kirke said. She hesitated, then asked, “And the man we brought in yesterday? Mark Cable? I heard he was in critical care.”
“Still is,” Sally said. She lowered her voice. “Word is he’s on life support
.”
Kirke felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She’d hoped against hope that he would miraculously return to life and solve the problem of the letter.
“Still no family?”
“That’s the strange thing,” Sally said. “Ellie said a guy came in and identified himself as the victim’s brother. But he left before the police could talk to him. Created a real fuss around here. I’ve been told to alert security if he shows up again.”
“Is he local?”
Sally shook her head. “Don’t know. Ellie said he stopped here, showed her identification, then went up to intensive care. But apparently he wouldn’t sign any papers and left before admissions got more information. A detective was in here asking about him.”
“Do you remember the name of the officer?”
“Detective.” Sally corrected as she picked up a card on her desk and handed it to her. “He asked me to call if anyone inquired about Mr. Cable.”
Kirke took it, suspecting she already knew the name. Yep, Brady.
Hal interrupted them. “Finished here? We might make it back to the station before there’s another call.”
She nodded and took just a few steps before another call did come in. Just her luck. They were still on the clock, and it was their responsibility.
“Man down,” according to the call. She took down the co-ordinates, and they drove off. Fifteen minutes’ arrival time. Near the same street as the hit-and-run yesterday.
Hal uttered an oath under his breath. “Five minutes until quitting time,” he groused. “Just our luck.”
He drove even faster than usual while she checked her bag. Man down could be anything. A drunk. A shooting. She looked at her watch again. A few more minutes, and she would be off for three days. Time tomorrow to start her search. She only wished she could shove away a growing sense of worry. Sally’s comments had not helped ease it.
The call apparently was false. When they arrived, no one knew anything about it.
It happened all too often. Sometimes a prank. Sometimes a fall, then the person walks away. She hated those calls because it took the ambulance away from real needs.
Catch a Shadow Page 4
