Strange Bedfellows v5

by Paula L. Woods

  Maybe you should start with I’m sorry.

  Mistaking the look on my face, Thor had taken me aside. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” he’d whispered, the concern on his own face plain.

  “You worried they’ll recognize me, or that I’m not ready to handle this kind of situation?”

  “I’m worried about you putting yourself in unnecessary danger,” he replied.

  “I appreciate your concern, Thor, but I’ll be fine.” I moved to the crash cart and double-checked the location of the items I’d need. “I’ll be the last one in, anyway. They’ll be so focused on the cart, they won’t even see me.”

  Let’s hope so, my little voice had fretted.

  Now that I was waiting outside the entrance to Two South, that little voice had progressed from fretting to praying. The psalm my grandmother gave me. Snippets of meditations. Whatever I could think of. I felt in my pocket, remembered I’d left the yellow marble from Dr. P’s office in my blazer. Remembered I had an appointment with him this morning that I’d forgotten to keep. I hoped I’d be able to tell him why tomorrow.

  Billie leaned over and whispered: “You okay?”

  “Just wanting to get this over with.”

  Doyle’s walkie-talkie crackled to life, and he gave us the nod. The lights flickered, then went off, the air circulation system shuddering to a stop. The ensuing silence was soon filled by the faint squeals of monitor alarms alerting staff to the loss of power to equipment all over the floor.

  A voice came over the hospital’s loudspeaker, reading the message we’d scripted with Engineering: “We are experiencing a temporary loss of power on the second and third floors. Nurses, please reset the alarms on patient equipment and await arrival of biomedical engineers to recalibrate your equipment.”

  “You think this will work?” Billie whispered as the voice repeated the message.

  “I hope so, for everyone’s sake,” Ferguson said.

  About five minutes later, Doyle’s walkie-talkie crackled again. Doyle listened, then trotted down the hall to where we were positioned. “Gipson just got off the phone with Leykis. He said only the surgeon and one biomed tech can come onto the unit.”

  “What do we do now?” Billie asked me.

  “Go to Plan B.”

  Ferguson asked if I was ready. “As I’ll ever be.”

  I fell in step behind her, pushing the crash cart, grateful her height would block their field of vision until I could get into the room. I put my weight behind the crash cart and I felt it pick up speed until I had to trot to catch up. We started the diversionary chatter we’d rehearsed earlier with Gipson, about the new signage that had just been installed and our take on the cute new radiologist who’d just been hired.

  When we hit the door to Zuccari’s room, we found Jeff Leykis, standing like a monolith by the window, legs apart, gun trained on whoever came through that door. Michaela O’Farrell was dividing her attention between Chuck Zuccari and Luis Ybarra, who was lying in the fetal position on the other bed in the room, his breathing almost as mechanical as the all-but-dead man’s on that ventilator. Ybarra’s left shoulder oozed blood, which the nurse was trying to staunch with a towel.

  Ferguson positioned the cart between the two beds and went to the head of Zuccari’s bed, next to the ventilator, and started fingering the dials and studying the readout.

  “Thank God you’re here . . . Doctor Scott?” O’Farrell said, giving my name badge a quizzical look.

  “Put this on.” I handed her the mask, squeezing her hand as I did so. “Don’t want to risk contaminating the patient’s wound.”

  Ferguson offered a mask to Leykis. “Put it on the foot of the bed there,” he ordered, gesturing with the gun. She sneaked a look at me. So much for her getting close enough to take the gun from him the way we’d planned.

  Nurse O’Farrell had moved to the crash cart, positioning herself so Leykis couldn’t see what I was doing. “They wouldn’t let me leave the room, and I’d run out of four-by-fours,” she explained, opening several packages and passing them across the bed to me, then rummaging around in the drawers of the cart until she found a larger package. “I’ll just open the pressure bandage for you.”

  Ybarra moaned as I applied pressure to the wound with the four-by-fours. “That shit hurts!”

  “It’s going to hurt more when I apply this.” I pressed the bandage over the gauze, saw it wasn’t going to do the job, and asked O’Farrell for more four-by-fours.

  Ybarra’s eyes fluttered, and he muttered something unintelligible. “What’s he saying?” Leykis demanded.

  “He’s going into shock,” I said, remembering my briefing with Gipson. “We’re going to lose him unless I can get him into surgery.”

  “No way,” Ybarra mumbled. “Do it here!”

  I saw Ferguson frown behind her mask. “These aren’t sterile conditions!” I protested.

  Leykis pointed his gun at O’Farrell. “Figure it out, or I’ll blow her head off!” He glanced over at Ferguson. “Aren’t you finished yet?”

  “I need to ask the doctor a question,” she said mildly.

  “So ask it and get the fuck out of here!”

  “Not now!” I snapped at Ferguson and moved to the cart.

  “Where are you going?” Leykis demanded, turning the gun on me.

  I stopped and said, “To get the Versed,” hoping I remembered the name correctly.

  “What’s that?” Leykis asked suspiciously as O’Farrell tied off Ybarra’s arm.

  “Something to tranquilize the patient. Unless you want him to bite down on one of those bullets in your gun while I operate on his shoulder.”

  Leykis jerked his head toward O’Farrell. “Let her get it.”

  I nodded to the nurse, watched as she got the syringe from the second drawer, wondered if she felt the gun I’d hidden in the back. “I’ll give it to him,” she volunteered.

  “Let the doctor do it,” Leykis said.

  “Doctors couldn’t find a vein to save their souls,” O’Farrell said with a nervous twitter as she inserted the needle into Ybarra’s vein.

  “That’s why God created nurses,” I added.

  “Take off that mask!” Leykis ordered. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  At Zuccari’s bed, I could see Ferguson pause, her eyes wide. “You heard what Dr. Scott said,” O’Farrell spoke up, dropping the syringe in a wastebasket. “She can’t, unless you want to infect the wound and lose your friend. And you should put on your mask, too.”

  Leykis refused. “I’ll be fine over here.”

  I glanced down at Ybarra, who was already on his way out. I took a deep breath and said: “Let’s get started.”

  We’d been there two minutes over the five we’d estimated. I saw Deputy Ferguson glancing at the clock on the wall and knew she was aware of the time, too. “Before you begin, Doctor, can you take a look at the levels on this ventilator?” she asked. “I’m not sure they’re correct.”

  “I need to read the patient’s chart, to see what the order was.”

  “To hell with Zuccari!” Leykis snapped. “You need to take care of Luis.”

  “This’ll only take a second.” I grabbed the chart from the foot of Zuccari’s bed and moved past Leykis to where Ferguson stood, my back to the gunman. “Nurse, start prepping the patient. There are some drapes in the bottom drawer of the cart.”

  Nurse O’Farrell crouched on her haunches. “I don’t see them.”

  “I know they’re down there.” I moved back to the cart. “Let me show you.”

  I opened some drawers, found the one with the second gun at the bottom. “Here they are,” I said, pushing O’Farrell down as I crouched and turned.

  And prayed Ferguson had given the signal like we’d agreed.

  “What the—” Leykis exclaimed.

  It was the last thing he said before all hell broke loose.

  With as much death as I’d seen over the last few years, I thought I might fe
el fear or revulsion to see one more dead body. But I must confess I felt nothing but relief to learn, after the dust had settled, that my, Ferguson’s, and the SWAT team’s bullets had hit Leykis six times—three in the chest, two in the stomach, and one in the head. Of course, I’m assuming that last bit, because there wasn’t much of his head left after the shooting was over.

  Things happened fast after that. Ferguson went out to signal the all clear, which allowed the team of doctors and nurses from ER to enter Zuccari’s room to ensure his ventilator was still working. Ybarra, fully unconscious from the drug, was taken out on a gurney and to another room, where he would be monitored under guard until he came to. “You did that very well,” I heard Ferguson compliment the nurse as she escorted her from the room. “I’ll have to remember to request some of that Versed if I ever have surgery.”

  An hour later, the crime scene had been isolated, and I had just been turned loose by one of the OCSD detectives sent out to investigate the shooting. I found Billie waiting for me outside in the hall. “Where’s Thor?”

  “Down in the command center, talking on the phone to Lieutenant Stobaugh. I told him I’d wait for you.” She squeezed my arm. “How’re you doing?”

  “Better than I would have thought.”

  One of the other OCSD detectives popped his head out the door, holding a couple of bloodstained pages in his hand. “Found this in Leykis’s wallet. We’ll need to keep it for evidence, but I thought you might want to read it.”

  Billie read it first. “Damn!” she said, and handed it over to me. “You were right. Zuccari played us big-time.”

  It was a letter in what looked like Chuck Zuccari’s hand, laying out his itinerary for the days surrounding the shooting, along with a second sheet that I was sure Leykis and Ybarra hadn’t shown to Mario. “Remember, your final payment is contingent on only one person being killed,” it read, then gave the name and address of a bank and an account number for funds that apparently were being held in the names of Chuck Zuccari and the two men. “I have several accounts at this bank,” he wrote, “so Alma will be taking the death certificate to them soon after the job is done. Ask for Sandra Smith, the bank manager. She’ll be sure the funds are released directly to you.”

  “I knew there was more to it than we thought,” I said. “Zuccari had contracted with Leykis and Ybarra to have himself killed.”

  “And in a way that would preserve his reputation and keep his secrets,” Billie added.

  “Or so he thought.”

  Thor appeared on the unit, an unreadable look on his face. “Charlotte, we need to get you up to Cedars right away.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Chief Youngblood called. It’s your brother.”

  From the ticket found in his car, the police figured Paul Taft must have been camped out in the parking structure of Perris’s building since Sunday night. “But your brother had been in depositions all day and didn’t get to his office until three,” Uncle Henry explained when I spoke to him from the car. “Taft accosted him, they argued, and Taft shot your brother in the arm.”

  Perris managed to get back in his car and exit the structure, Taft in pursuit. The chase continued as Taft pursued Perris through L.A. and West Hollywood, driving north along San Vicente. “We think Perris was trying to lead Taft to the West Hollywood sheriff’s station, but we’re not certain.”

  By the time they got to Santa Monica Boulevard, there were black-and-whites from the LAPD, Beverly Hills, and the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department in pursuit. The chase ended when Perris ran a red light and was hit by a Toyota, spun out, and was hit in turn by Taft’s SUV, which flipped over, pinning the FBI agent inside.

  Perris had been taken to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where he was in surgery. Taft was in custody at the jail ward of L.A. County–USC Medical Center, undergoing surgery as well. “They’ll charge him with attempted murder and extortion if and when he comes out of surgery,” Uncle Henry informed me. “All because he was trying to locate and shake down Cinque Lewis’s heirs for the money he thought Lewis had hidden from his years dealing drugs, according to what he told Perris.”

  “And he was trying to use Keith’s files to get to the heirs, just like he tried to use the Smiley Face shootings to get to Eddie Aycox.”

  “When Perris refused to give up their names, Taft shot him,” my godfather concluded. “That man’s got a lot to answer for.”

  So did my godfather for not telling me the truth about Keith assisting the LAPD. But ultimately, I couldn’t have cared less about Uncle Henry, Paul Taft and the days of reckoning they had coming. My energy was focused on Perris and on comforting Louise, who was pacing in the waiting room outside of surgery when I got to the hospital. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell the kids,” she sobbed when she saw me.

  “Where are they now?”

  “Your mother picked them up from school. She and your father have them over at their house.”

  “What have the doctors said?”

  “He was pinned between the Toyota and the SUV. In addition to the gunshot wound, his right leg is shattered, and he’s got internal injuries, too. They said they might have to remove his gallbladder and his spleen.”

  “Oh, God!” I crumpled into a chair, overwhelmed by tears and guilt. I felt around in my pocket for my yellow marble, felt nothing but car keys and lint. “I was so horrible to him Saturday night. I can’t lose him like this!”

  My sister-in-law came to my side and put an arm around me. “Perris finally told me about what he and your husband had done. The last thing he said before he left the house this morning was that he hoped, after the dust has settled, you might find a way to forgive him.”

  “I will, Louise.” God help me, if You let him live, I will.

  A man in scrubs and a white coat entered the waiting room and made his way toward us. I could see blood—my brother’s blood—on his bootie-covered feet.

  “Mrs. Justice?” He looked uncertainly between the two of us.

  Louise gripped my hand. “That’s me.”

  He wasn’t smiling? Why wasn’t he smiling? “Your husband made it through the surgery, but we’ve got to watch him very closely for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Through my darkening vision, I could see Louise nodding, tears spilling from her eyes.

  The surgeon was saying something about how to get to the ICU when my phone rang. The prefix told me it was from within the department, but the number didn’t look familiar. “If that’s Matt or Joymarie—” Louise began.

  Head spinning, I started to shut it off. “It’s just my office.”

  “There are a few other things you should know,” the surgeon was saying as he pulled Louise aside.

  “Take your call, Char,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you in the ICU.”

  A voice on the other end said: “Detective Justice?”

  My ears were buzzing, making it hard for me to hear. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk right now.”

  “Charlotte, is that you?” The voice was male, and sounded concerned. “This is Dr. Wychowski.”

  “I know I missed my appointment.” My words came out in a tumble and I could feel myself start to tremble. “But I can’t—I can’t do this right now, Dr. P. There was a shooting—”

  “At the hospital in Orange County, I know. It was on the radio.”

  I steadied myself against a wall. Why couldn’t I stop shaking? “Not that. My brother. The doctor said we could see him. I have to see him, then talk to the detectives and the D.A.—”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “See, I was so awful to him on Saturday. I have to see him. If the shooter survives, they’ll charge him with attempted murder, but I have to see Perris—”

  “Charlotte, listen to me. You need to come into the office right now.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t!”

  “Detective, if you have any hopes of keeping your job, you’ll get
yourself down here, do you understand? I’ll give you one hour, no more.”

  I made it to Chinatown in fifty-six minutes, fully intending to kick Pablo Wychowski’s ass. But when I got to his office, and saw the worry in his brown eyes and that bowl of marbles on the end table, all I could do was collapse on his love seat and cry.

  Dr. P. sat facing me in a chair, holding out the box of Kleenex and listening to the hell I’d been through since I’d seen him on Wednesday. “Charlotte, you can’t go on like this.”

  I pretended he was talking about my crying, but I knew what he meant. “You’re going to have to stop and deal with this.”

  “What are you saying, that I’m losing it? Like I lost that goddamn marble?”

  “No, what I’m saying is you need time and a safe place to sort through your emotions and heal. And from what you’ve just told me, this is about the safest place you have right now.”

  I shuddered, knowing there was truth in what he was telling me. “So you want me to reschedule? I probably can’t come in until after we meet with the D.A. on—”

  “I don’t think you understand. You can’t heal and investigate homicides at the same time.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” When I realized he wasn’t, my tears started anew. “What will I do without my job? Who will I be?”

  “That’s what I’d like to help you find out. If you’ll allow me to do that.”

  I sat on that love seat, feeling Dr. P.’s concern, knowing that neither the job nor my family, Perris’s recovery nor even Aubrey Scott’s lovemaking could make this pain go away. And that my life wouldn’t be right until it did.

  “Okay.” I fished a new marble out of the bowl, slipped it into my pocket without even looking at it. “Where do we begin?”

  Acknowledgments

  To my untiring editor, Joe Blades, thank you for your wisdom, support, and belief in this book. To trusted agent and advisor Faith Childs, you have had immense faith in me, for which I am grateful.

  Thanks also to: Special K, Terry, and Pat for keeping Charlotte and me honest; Irene for insights into Charlotte’s psyche; and Debra F. Glaser, Ph.D., of the LAPD’s Behavioral Science Services, for her generosity in sharing the BSS’s history and methods in assisting troubled officers.