I could just hear Jack’s ridicule when I returned. “Face it,” he’d say. “Detective work isn’t for amateurs.” He’d put it a little more crudely, but the truth was, he’d be right. As a detective, I was a bust, just like my job, my reputation, and possibly my freedom.
These and other uplifting thoughts weighed heavily on my mind as I headed out of town. Distracted driving in the dark on a rain-slicked highway is never a good thing. Neither is a vehicle careening out of control and heading straight for you.
CONFESSION #19
To learn by experience is often painful, but “I told you so” does nothing to ease the sting.
I knew I was in the hospital. The IV bag attached to the pole next to my bed was a dead giveaway. As my eyes slowly became adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, I noted the other clues—rigid mattress, privacy curtains, TV mounted on the opposite wall, plastic water pitcher and glass, and a too-short nightgown bunched up at my waist. The clinchers were Jack and Erin. They stood by the bed looking worried.
“I think she’s awake now,” Erin said.
“How are you doin’?” asked Jack.
I grimaced and reached for the water glass. “Thirsty.”
Erin grabbed the pitcher and filled the glass for me. “Here you go,” she said. “Take little sips.”
When my cotton mouth was thoroughly quenched, I realized my head hurt. I put a hand to my forehead and found a bandage. “What happened?” I asked.
“You were in a car accident,” Erin said.
Jack drew closer to the bed. “Don’t you remember?” he asked.
I felt dizzy. “No. Tell me.”
Erin and Jack exchanged looks. Erin was clearly worried, but Jack’s expression was harder to read. His wrinkled brow gave the appearance of concern, but it was coupled with disappointment, maybe even anger. I felt like I’d flunked a crucial test.
“I told you not to play detective,” he said.
Erin stopped his I-told-you-so moment. “Dad, don’t. She’s hurting.”
Jack’s reaction to my present situation was beginning to make sense. “I remember now,” I said, struggling to get the words out. “There was a car…out of control…its lights…blinding lights in my rearview mirror…. That’s the last thing I saw before waking up here.”
“The Miata’s totaled,” Erin said.
Damn. Not my Little Green Bomber.
“It’s a miracle you survived,” she added.
I touched my aching forehead again. “What’s wrong with me?” I asked.
“I could write a book!” Jack said, softening the putdown with a dimpled grin.
Erin rolled her eyes. “You have a mild concussion,” she said. “The doctor believes you should be able to go home as soon as tomorrow.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Jack said.
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have to get into all that now?” Erin asked.
Apparently he did.
“The highway patrol report confirms it,” he said. “You were run off the road on purpose. In other words, you were targeted.”
“But…that can’t be right. It was just dark and rainy. The highway was wet, probably oil-slicked, too.”
“All true, but there were two cars involved. The one that hit you is what the mob calls a crash car. There was another car following it. Witnesses saw the driver of the crash car get into the second car after you rolled over the embankment. They sped away before anyone could get a tag number. But the plates were probably stolen anyway.”
“You think this was a mob thing?”
“Or made to look like one. It was a sloppy job. Most mafia hits don’t happen with witnesses around.”
As frightening as that sounded, I felt strangely satisfied. “Well,” I said with a weak smile. “Now you have another angle to consider. I guess the trip wasn’t a bust after all. Someone must think I know too much.”
Jack exploded. “All I asked you to do was to keep your damn eyes and ears open and report back to me. That’s what a confidential informant does. Anything else is just asking for trouble. But do you follow my simple request? Do you pass along anything useful? No. You take off on some crazyass mission to find the killer on your own. And here you are, flat on your back in the hospital. How’s that detective thing working out for you now?”
This was vintage Jack. I’d upset his world and he couldn’t handle it. If he wanted a response from me, he was out of luck. When I didn’t say anything, he must have thought he’d come across too harshly. More likely, though, it was Erin’s poke to the ribs that caused him to rein in his attack. But when his eyes met mine I realized he’d been fighting back tears. “I’m worried about you, Katie, that’s all.”
Jack’s emotion of choice is anger. For him to admit he was worried about me, whether prompted by Erin or not, was significant. I didn’t know what that meant for our relationship, but it touched my heart. Maybe Erin was right. Maybe Jack did still have feelings for me. I’d have to think about that some more.
A nurse in blue scrubs entered the room and promptly ordered Jack and Erin to leave. She was short and stout with a no-nonsense look about her. “My patient needs her rest,” she said crossly.
“But I just woke up,” I protested.
Erin bent to kiss my cheek good-bye while Jack planted himself in a bedside chair. “I’m sticking around,” he said, daring the nurse to object.
“You better do what the Nurse Ratched wannabe says,” Erin whispered. “She looks ready to lobotomize Dad.”
“He doesn’t take orders well,” I explained to the nurse.
“Here,” she said, handing me a pill.
“What is it?”
“Something for the pain. It should help you sleep, too.”
“I don’t want to sleep. I want to go home.”
She eyed me coldly, a look I suspected she reserved for patients given to childish whines. “You have a concussion,” she said, settling the matter.
“A mild concussion,” Jack clarified.
Nurse Ratched whirled around as if he’d goosed her. I couldn’t see her face, but it wasn’t necessary. Her body language spoke loud and clear—I’m in charge here, not you. “There is no such thing as a mild concussion,” she said. “We take every concussion seriously, particularly since another one is more likely after you’ve experienced the first. We need to observe her a while to determine if that is the case.”
“What? She can’t go home today?” Jack asked. I was all too familiar with the tone he used—fake innocence coupled with a hint of sarcasm. He was baiting her, plain and simple.
The nurse paused, as if to decide whether she was dealing with a control freak or just an ordinary idiot. “Doctor’s orders,” she said, as she turned and headed for the door. When threatened, bring out the big guns.
“I don’t think she likes me,” Jack said.
I closed my eyes. It was going to be a long night.
The next morning, I woke to Jack’s snoring. He’d fallen asleep in the chair and had slept through the night. My slumber hadn’t been as peaceful. Every time I drifted off to sleep, someone would come in to check my temperature and my blood pressure, or to ask me silly questions to see if my brain still worked properly. I was anxious to go home, where I could actually get the rest they said I needed.
When the doctor showed up, he removed my bandage, and, after a cursory exam, declared me fit enough to be discharged. He told me to watch for any delayed symptoms, like light or noise sensitivity, difficulty concentrating, memory deficits, depression, or irritability. I half expected Jack to make some wisecrack, especially the part about possible irritability. Mood swings were an issue during our marriage. He accused me of having them; I accused him of causing them. He once claimed that PMS for a red-haired woman like me stood for Pass My Shotgun. Thankfully, he listened to the doctor’s post-hospital instructions without comment.
Since the Miata had been killed off, Jack took me home in his squad car. The
house we once shared was located in Redmond, but after the divorce I sold it and moved to a new development in nearby Woodinville. Nestled in the Sammamish River Valley, Woodinville is a small community known for its exceptional wines.
“Ah, Woodinville, heart of the wine country,” Jack said. “Did you know there are over eighty wineries less than thirty minutes from downtown Seattle?”
“Why does it not surprise me that you know this?”
“It’s always good to know where to go in case of an emergency.”
Jack had never been to my two-bedroom Craftsman and, although he would probably deny it, I believe he was curious about where I’d landed. When he pulled into the driveway, he said he was impressed. “Great neighborhood. I can see why you don’t want to lose this place,” he said. “My apartment in Seattle is a dump.”
“At least you don’t have to worry about foreclosure,” I said.
Jack didn’t say anything further, but he didn’t need to. I knew he was on a short leash, with his banker and his boss. Just like me, I thought. Judging by his appearance, the pressure was getting to him. Jack looked even worse than he did yesterday at headquarters. On the other hand, his rumpled attire and hangdog expression was understandable. He did spend the night in an uncomfortable chair, thanks to me. He hadn’t said much today about my “accident,” but I hadn’t heard the last of his ranting. You don’t go rogue on Jack Doyle and expect to escape unscathed.
He turned off the ignition and made no move to exit the car. “Well,” he said after a few minutes. “You’re home. Let’s get you settled in.”
My face was a mass of purple bruises, but I felt fine. “I can handle it from here,” I said. Someone had thought to retrieve my handbag and keys from the Miata before I’d been hauled away by ambulance. I jangled the keys in front of him. “See, I remember what these are for. No memory loss to worry about.”
“Great,” he said, climbing out of the car. “Then you can tell me exactly what happened on your trip to Portland.”
“Now?” I asked. “You heard the doctor. I still need to rest.”
“So, sit in a chair and rest. You have a lot of ’splainin’ to do, Lucy, and I’m not leaving until you do.”
I tried once more to put his interrogation off until tomorrow, but he was undeterred. He stubbornly followed me to the porch and waited while I fumbled with the lock. As soon as I opened the door, I turned around to face him. “Seriously, couldn’t this wait un—”
“Stay out!” he shouted as he brushed past me.
As Jack drew his service revolver and advanced further into the house, I followed right behind him. Call me confused or just plain stupid, but I had to know what was going on. Once inside, the answer stunned me. I’d been robbed. The living room was trashed—sofa and loveseat upturned, cushions scattered about, mirror shattered, and lamps broken. I stood transfixed by the destruction, until Jack intervened.
“Back off, Kate!” he ordered again. He must have thought the culprits were still inside the house. That was enough to get myself in gear. I backed off as ordered and waited safely by the car.
A few uneasy minutes later, he came outside. “It’s clear,” he said, holstering his weapon. “But be prepared—your place is a mess.”
He was right. The brief glance I’d had earlier didn’t tell the whole story. The damage was not limited to the living room. Nothing had been left undisturbed, including the kitchen. Jack cautioned me not to touch anything. “There may be prints,” he said. He followed me from room to room as I surveyed the mayhem. “Anything missing?” he asked.
“Not that I can tell.” I didn’t have any valuables worth taking. Except for an outdated computer and printer, I had no big-screen TV, stereo system, or other desirable electronic devices. What jewelry I had was sold long ago to make ends meet. That didn’t diminish the violation I felt. I treasured what little I did have. The car I’d loved had been destroyed, I’d barely escaped with my life, and now my sanctuary had been defiled. It was overwhelming, but I held back my tears. Emotional as I felt, I wasn’t willing to break down in front of Jack.
“Do burglars usually leave such destruction behind?” I asked.
He grunted. “What burglars?”
“You don’t think this is related to my crash, do you?”
“Would it really make a difference to you what I thought?”
“Of course it does.”
“Good. Then I think you need to stay at my place for a while.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he said. “I’m not suggesting that you move in. You can get some rest while I figure out what’s going on.” He squatted on his haunches to examine the jimmied lock on the back door. “Here’s the point of entry,” he said. “I need to get the forensic techs over here ASAP.” He stood up. “I’ll call them on our way to my place.”
“Be reasonable, Jack. This is my home. You can’t just order me out.”
“Jesus. I don’t know what it takes to get through to you, but you’re in danger here.”
“What do you mean?”
He gave me an exasperated look and asked, “Who knew you were going to Portland?”
“No one. Except for Erin. She wouldn’t have told anyone besides you. Everyone else thought I was off work for a couple of days to help at a charity event. Why?”
“Did you write anything down? A note to yourself about the trip? Maybe you did a Google search for names to contact in Portland. How ’bout a MapQuest search?”
The light dawns. “Oh.”
“Now do you get it? Whoever broke in was trying to find you. They caught up with you once. What makes you think you’ll survive the next encounter?”
“Okay, you’ve made your point. But I can’t stay at your place forever.”
“Good God, no. We’d kill each other before anyone else got the chance.”
CONFESSION #20
The concierge and the detective team up.
Jack’s apartment wasn’t as bad as he’d led me to believe. The ten-story brick building was no BellaVilla, but it was well maintained and had twenty-four-hour security. Given the building’s location, these factors were more important than a lobby furnished with crystal chandeliers and Italian marble flooring. The surrounding neighborhood was optimistically termed “in transition,” which was another way of saying it had a long way to go before it would attract the upwardly mobile. Right now the area attracted mainly junkies, prostitutes, and panhandlers. “The rent’s cheap,” Jack explained.
The security guard on duty greeted Jack as we entered the building. “Good morning, Detective.” When he spotted me, he adjusted his Coke-bottle glasses. “Kate? Is that you?” he asked, eyeing my bruised face.
“Tom?” I replied. The nerdy twenty-year-old behind the desk was Tom Lamont, formerly employed as security officer at BellaVilla. He’d been so rattled by the murders that he’d quit without notice. I guess he thought working the mean streets of Seattle was safer than the affluent suburbs.
We chatted until Jack’s one minute of patience ran out. “You two can catch up on old times later,” he said. “Right now we gotta get going.” He took my arm and led me to the elevator. Once inside, he reassured me about the building’s security force. “Security here is really good at night. Day shift, not so much. That skinny kid couldn’t protect his balls, let alone a resident.”
“That’s cold,” I said. “A security gig is how Tom pays for school. He wants to be a lawyer.”
“Corporate, I hope. He’d wet his pants if he had to prosecute a street thug.”
It was probably an accurate assessment, but I’d had enough of the macho talk. Jack was in need of a refresher course in human relations. “Ease up on the guy, will you? Tom’s smart and can communicate, which is often what it takes to defuse a potentially dangerous situation. The hairy-chested barroom brawler who hits first and asks questions later usually just makes things worse. I’ve even heard you preach the same thing in the past.”
“All right
, already. Jeez. Forget I said anything.”
Jack’s apartment was on the building’s top floor. “I didn’t want anyone stomping around overhead,” he said as he opened the door.
“Where’s Tuffy?” I asked. Jack’s cat was a social critter and never missed greeting anyone who walked through the front door. I hadn’t seen her in ages and missed her.
“No pets allowed,” he said. “But I had to get rid of her some time ago. Becca had allergies.” He meant Rebecca, the blonde bombshell he married after our split.
“That must have hurt.” Jack and Tuffy were together long before Rebecca entered the picture. For Jack to willingly give up his pet was a major sacrifice.
“The things you do for love,” he said, shrugging. He dismissed the loss as no big deal, but that was Jack acting macho again. “Want a tour?” he asked to quickly change the subject. The tour consisted of a vague wave in the general direction of the kitchen, bedroom, and living room. “What you see is what you get.”
What I saw was not what I expected. The furniture was a little old and tattered, but the place was spotless—not one dirty dish in the sink, no unmade bed, no empty beer bottles or pizza box refuse, no dust bunnies floating around, or any other detritus you’d typically find in a bachelor pad. When we were married, I took care of all the cooking and cleaning while Jack handled the outside chores and occasional household repairs. It was a typical division of labor for our generation. I didn’t think Jack even knew how to operate a vacuum or dishwasher.
He caught my surprised reaction. “Becca preferred shopping to cleaning so I got used to doing all the housekeeping. It seems to suit me.”
I chuckled. Marriage to a younger woman had unintended consequences. “I’ll try not to mess anything up while I’m here.”
“No worries. Mi casa es su casa. There’s food and drink in the fridge.” He added with a wink, “Just make sure you use a coaster.”
He’d stolen my line from the good old days. “Very funny.”
“I’ll be back to check on you later. Keep the door locked at all times.” He handed me a cordless phone. “Your friend Tom can be reached by dialing 999 if you need anything. He might not be the best security we’ve got, but he does all right as a concierge wannabe. Not up to BellaVilla standards, I’m sure. But passable for us common folk.”
Concierge Confessions: First Novel in the Concierge Mystery Series Page 15
