by Elaine Viets
‘We should be at Lambert Field in twenty minutes, ma’am,’ the limo driver soothed. ‘Plenty of time for your ten o’clock flight to Los Angeles.’
With that, the limo halted. It was caught in the aftermath of Bob the plumber’s fateful accident, stuck in the morning rush hour traffic. I was two cars behind the sleek black machine.
‘Then why the hell aren’t we moving?’ Jessica screamed.
‘A minor accident up ahead,’ the driver said. He sounded like a pilot assuring his passengers they’d be encountering a little turbulence. ‘From here, it looks like just a fender bender.’
‘Well, drive around it,’ Jessica screeched.
‘Can’t, Miss Gray. The police have the road blocked and there’s no alternate route. But the intersection should be cleared in a minute.’
Jessica turned back to her staff. ‘Fix me up,’ she commanded. Will opened his black make-up case. He outlined Jessica’s lips in a neutral color, and began applying fresh red lipstick with a small brush.
That’s when the video showed Jessica started coughing again – horrible hacks that sounded like her lungs were coming apart. She gasped for breath and held her chest. Finally, she managed to say, ‘Tawnee! Where’s my throat spray?’ Her voice was a croak.
Tawnee dug in her purse and handed Jessica more tissues and cough drops.
Jessica coughed into the tissues and shrieked. ‘Shit! I’m bleeding. Get my goddamn spray.’
Even I could see the blood on the tissues, thanks to the cell phone feed from inside the limo. The tissues were bright crimson.
Tawnee looked terrified. ‘Let’s get you back to the hospital,’ she said.
‘I’d rather die.’ Jessica’s voice was a gurgle. ‘Tawnee, call Dr Albion and make an appointment for as soon as we get home. If I need a hospital, I’ll go straight to Cedars.’ Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, hospital to the stars. Jessica erupted into another burst of chest-wracking coughs.
I remembered the doctor’s warning: Jessica had a good chance of dying within six months if she checked out against medical advice. She sounded like that prediction could come true any moment. Stu looked worried. Tawnee was digging through her purse with a craziness that was almost cartoonish. Tissues, mints, a hairbrush, and two packs of tissues flew onto the seat, but no spray.
‘Where’s the goddamned throat spray?’ Jessica demanded between hacks.
Tawnee frantically searched, tossing out her wallet, three pens and an iPhone. The debris was piling up on the leather seat.
‘Dammit, Stu,’ Tawnee said. ‘Did you make that spray bottle disappear?’
‘No.’
I couldn’t see Stu clearly, but I could hear his offended innocence.
‘Where is it?’ Jessica demanded. ‘I need it now.’
‘I’m looking,’ Tawnee said. ‘I carry two bottles, one for back-up.’ Tawnee resumed ransacking her purse, tossing out a lacy pink thong.
Will looked embarrassed. ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘Enough! Let me look!’
He put his lipstick brush in his make-up case and gently took Tawnee’s black purse, the size of a microwave oven. Will dug around and came up with another iPhone and a box of tampons.
Stu, disgusted, said, ‘Will, you couldn’t find your ass with both hands. Give it to me.’ He grabbed the purse and pulled out a blue spray bottle.
‘Stu, you asshole, you were playing your stupid tricks,’ Tawnee said.
Jessica reached for the bottle with shaking hands. ‘It’s about goddamn time,’ she said between racking coughs.
She sprayed her throat, and the grating coughs stopped. She took several deep breaths to recover. In the loud silence, she looked pale and exhausted, even with Will’s skillful make-up. Jessica swallowed two cough drops and yelled at the driver, ‘Hey, I thought we were going to the airport.’
‘We are, Miss Gray. The tow trucks have just arrived. As soon as the intersection is cleared we’ll be on our way.’
‘Damn hicks,’ Jessica muttered. ‘I’ll never get out of this fricking dump.’
Those turned out to be Jessica’s last words. Suddenly, she sat up as if she’d been electrified. A stream of green vomit shot out of her mouth and her arms and legs flailed wildly. I heard the sound of breaking glass, and saw Jessica’s high-heeled boot plunge through the TV screen. Tawnee screamed as it shattered.
Stu shouted, ‘Driver! Jessica’s sick. We need to go to the hospital! Now!’
With that, I quit watching my cell phone screen. From my car, I saw the limo make a wild U-turn and rush back to the hospital. The driver was going at least seventy miles an hour. I followed, able to keep up. I was glad most of the traffic was going in the other direction.
I couldn’t see what was going on inside the limo – I was going too fast to watch the scene on my phone. I imagined a frantic Mario, Tawnee, Will and Stu desperately trying to help Jessica. I could see her arms and head thrashing around.
The road back to SOS was blessedly free of traffic, and the limo pulled up at the ER entrance in less than ten minutes.
Someone must have called ahead. A medical team was waiting with a stretcher. The limo screeched to a stop, a nurse flung open the back door, and Jessica was lifted onto the stretcher, a dramatic vision of long blond hair and white fur. She was briskly rolled inside, followed by Tawnee, Will and Stu.
I parked my car, and found a dazed Mario, green vomit on his fur coat, clinging to his black styling case like a life preserver.
‘Here is your cell phone,’ he said. It slipped out of his shaking hand and landed on the concrete with a clatter. We both scrambled to pick it up, but I could see the screen was now black and had a big diagonal crack.
‘I broke it!’ Mario said. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘It’s just a phone,’ I said, eager to cut off the flow of apologies. ‘It can be fixed. What I really care about is you. How are you?’
He didn’t answer. ‘She is dead,’ he said.
‘You don’t know that,’ I said. ‘She looked pretty awful last night, but she turned out to be OK this morning.’
‘No, this time, she is really dead,’ Mario said. ‘She had terrible seizures. You don’t get those from pneumonia. Somebody killed her.’
EIGHT
Mario was right: This time, Jessica really was dead. But murdered? That was another question, and it had no answer yet.
The press had followed the star’s stretch limo back to the hospital like a pack of hounds after raw meat. Shortly after Jessica was rolled into the ER, the hungry throng of reporters followed, demanding to know what was wrong.
No-nonsense hospital security in navy blazers herded the reporters into the lobby, the same place where the TV reporters had taped Jessica downing her youth drink earlier this morning. They waited impatiently, interviewing one another and making cell phone calls to demanding city editors and news desks.
The SOS lobby was the perfect place for the grim announcement we were all expecting: It was dark as a cave, with cold charcoal marble walls and a funereal black floor. The stainless-steel cross was cold comfort – two slim pieces of steel.
Nearly an hour later, a hospital spokesperson – a scrawny sparrow of a woman in a plain brown suit – came into the lobby and made sure Sisters of Sorrow didn’t take any blame for Jessica’s death.
The SOS announcement was masterfully crafted: ‘It is with great regret that we announce the death of the beloved entertainer, Jessica Gray.’ Ms Sparrow’s reading was flat and her eyes never left the paper in her hand. She was white with terror and her hands shook so hard the paper rattled as she read.
‘Ms Gray was dead on arrival at Sisters of Sorrow Hospital, and efforts to revive her were futile. This morning at seven-thirty, she signed herself out of this hospital against her physician’s orders, and insisted on flying back to California, despite warnings that this course of action could have serious – even fatal – consequences.
‘Unfortunately, Ms Gray disobeyed her doctor’s orders
. By the time she was brought back to this hospital, it was too late to save her. The cause of death is under investigation, pending an autopsy. We extend our heartfelt sympathy and prayers to her family, friends, and many fans.’
The reporters threw questions like darts: ‘What did Jessica die of? Was she murdered? Who poisoned her?’
‘No questions,’ Ms Sparrow said, and scurried back into the depths of the building. She refused to speculate on Jessica’s cause of death.
A TV reporter shouted at Ms Sparrow’s retreating back, ‘I heard Jessica didn’t die of pneumonia. She had seizures and vomiting. She was poisoned! They’re running the tests now.’
The herd of reporters scattered to spread news and rumors. In no time, word was out that Jessica had been poisoned. On the TV news, ‘special reports’ showed a glamorous Jessica in the hospital lobby downing that green gunk – her ‘fountain of youth’ – and speculating that her last drink was poisoned.
One TV reporter called her death a ‘locked limo mystery,’ implying that everyone in the car with her – Tawnee, Stu, Will, and Mario – were suspects in her untimely death.
Since I was on call that day, Evarts Evans, the Forest’s ME, ordered me to do Jessica’s death investigation. His voice was imperious. ‘This is just terrible,’ he said. ‘A horrible loss, and such bad publicity for our community. You’ll be joined shortly by Detective Ray Greiman. He’s on his way.’
Rats! I’d have to work with the most careless detective on the force.
‘I need you to do an exceptional job on Ms Gray’s death investigation,’ Evarts said. ‘And please be as careful as you can. The eyes of the world are on our community.’
‘I can’t do this death investigation, sir,’ I said. ‘I know the deceased. I went to the party at Reggie Du Pres’s house last night. I’m at the hospital now. I was following her limo to the airport to give her hairstylist a ride home.’
Evarts wasn’t buying it. ‘Did you ever go to Ms Gray’s home in California? Did you go to her hotel room? Are you on her Christmas card list?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Meeting Ms Gray at a party does not constitute knowing her, Angela. Our other death investigator on duty was called out on a case involving a two-car accident. You will do Jessica’s death investigation.’
‘But—’ I said.
‘That’s a direct order.’
‘Yes, sir.’ That command meant I’d be fired if I said no. I fetched my DI suitcase, which I kept in my car trunk. Hospital deaths made my job easier. The victim had been pronounced dead and the staff would give me all the necessary paperwork.
First, I needed a quick look at the probable death scene. Examining the limo was the job of the police, but it would help me understand Jessica’s death if I could see the scene. The driver had pulled the limo around to the hospital loading dock, between two delivery trucks.
He was standing outside the limo, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. I waved hello and showed him my DI credentials.
‘I’m freezing out here, Miss, but I can’t stand the stink in there and I’ve got orders to stay with the limo. I’m hiding from the press back here.’
The driver was maybe sixty, and white – very white. His thin face was drained of color, as if he were a vampire.
I introduced myself. He said, ‘My name’s Michaels. Bob Michaels. I’m kinda shaky. I never had anyone die on me before.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘I tried to welcome her, because she was a big celebrity. I made sure the inside looked extra good. I put in three kinds of bottled water. I put on music by her late boyfriend, or husband, or whatever he was, and she screamed at me to turn it off. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, but she wasn’t very nice.’
I nodded, but I couldn’t say anything. Bob took that as a sign of agreement. Talking about the trip was making him feel better. A little color was coming back to his cheeks.
‘She didn’t have the privacy window up, so I could hear everything, whether I wanted to or not. She yelled at her staff, and she called us hicks and rubes. She called our city nasty names. I thought St Louis treated her well. All she could say was she wanted to go home to California. I couldn’t wait to get her out of our town.’
I’d already seen most of what he’d told me, thanks to Mario’s video call.
‘She had some kind of fit, throwing up all over everything, head flying back. She put her foot through the TV screen.
‘That Stu guy hollered at me to head for the hospital and I did,’ the driver said. ‘I hate to say it, but I think Jessica Gray died in my limo. I called the hospital and nine-one-one, and the ER staff was there to meet us. I hope I did right.’
‘You did,’ I said. ‘May I see the inside of the limo?’
‘If you want. It stinks to high heaven. This was a brand-new limo, too. The boss is gonna kill me.’
I opened my suitcase, put on a pair of latex gloves, and grabbed my point-and-shoot camera. It took better photos than both my cell phones, though my personal one still wasn’t working after Mario dropped it.
Bob opened a back door and I saw the damage: The TV monitor was kicked out and the windows, carpet, and black leather upholstery were splashed with green vomit. A crystal glass was shattered on the thick black carpet. CSI would collect the shards and check them for food or drink. The vomit puddles on the floor had been stepped in by many different shoes.
Used tissues, some with bright red blood, were scattered about, along with the contents of Tawnee’s purse. I saw two iPhones, hairbrushes, lipstick and more on the seat and floor. Will’s make-up case was open on the floor, with a lipstick brush stuck straight up in it. The make-up would be collected and tested for poisons if the spray showed nothing. I didn’t see Mario’s case, or Stu’s small black bag.
I photographed it all, and saw a small bit of red on the floor.
‘What’s that, way under the seat?’ I asked.
Bob started to grab it, but I stopped him. ‘No, the police will have to fingerprint that and analyze the contents.’ I leaned closer for a look, then wished I hadn’t. The odor was blooming in the warm car. The CSI tech would need a hazmat suit to work in here. Under the seat was a red plastic bottle – throat spray, according to the label.
‘Don’t touch anything back here,’ I said.
‘That’s what they told me, Miss. I’m waiting for them now.’
I saw Detective Greiman pull up in his unmarked car, a spiffy black Dodge.
‘The homicide detective is here,’ I said. ‘The rest of the team will be along shortly.’
I slipped into the hospital by a side door. Back inside, I watched Ray Greiman shoulder his way through the milling reporters in the SOS entrance. He was dressed for TV in a black cashmere coat, blue shirt and rep tie, his dark hair slicked back.
The press was pelting him with questions. When Greiman got to the front of the scrum, he said, ‘Sorry, no comment,’ and flashed a telegenic smile.
I was waiting in a back corner. His smile disappeared when he saw me. ‘Where’s the stiff?’
Typical Greiman. No respect for the dead. I was tired of lecturing him.
‘The decedent is in the ER,’ I said.
‘I heard she had pneumonia,’ he said.
‘She did. She was hospitalized for it overnight. She checked herself out this morning against the advice of her doctor. I heard through the hospital grapevine that her death was murder.’
‘Shit,’ Greiman said. ‘Just what I don’t need. I’ll have everybody crawling up my ass.’
‘We’ll have to be extra careful.’
‘I’m always careful,’ he said, and swaggered back to the ER.
NINE
Some people believe they can feel the departed soul hovering around a room where someone has just died. Not me. But I saw the debris from the battle to save Jessica. The floor was littered with used alcohol pads, tape, and other medical debris.
Jessica was lying on a narrow bed, wearin
g a faded blue hospital gown. She looked like a scrawny older woman with enormous breast implants. Jessica had been stripped of her expert make-up and hair styling, and her designer clothes had been cut off – reduced to smelly rags – and tossed in a corner.
Jessica would be furious that the ‘hicks’ and ‘rubes’ were in charge of her body, and knew all her secrets.
Her own hair was thin – barely enough bottle-blond strands to anchor her fabulous blond fall. The fake hair was flung on top of the pile of clothes, like an abandoned pet. She’d worn a beige body suit that must have strangled her mid-section, but it flattened her tummy. It was cut off and tossed on the pile. Good heavens. It had ass pads to round out her shape.
The clothes and hair would be bagged and tagged by the police.
One false eyelash clung to Jessica’s cheek like a spider. The IV lines were still attached to her hands, and the ECG stickers were on her chest. The medical examiner would remove them.
Without Will’s make-up, Jessica’s face was wrinkled and yellowish, and her eyes were sunken. But she had a stunning bone structure. That was the real secret of her enduring beauty.
Karen, a trim, capable brunette nurse of about forty, arrived with Jessica’s chart and records. She still seemed shaken by Jessica’s death. Even the butterflies on her pink scrubs looked wilted. ‘I was part of the ER team that met Ms Gray’s limo,’ she told me. ‘She was covered with green vomit. We started CPR and the code protocol.’
The tiny room would have been boiling with nurses, techs, and respiratory therapists.
‘The ER doctor ran in,’ Karen said. ‘He asked us to hold up. He checked her with a stethoscope and looked at the ECG tracing. He heard nothing and there was a flat line.’
The nurse gulped. Was she holding back tears? I couldn’t tell, but losing a patient was always traumatic.
‘He told us to continue the resuscitation for a few minutes. He told me, “Give the epi now.” There was still no heartbeat and a straight line on the monitor.’
Even a jolt of epinephrine couldn’t bring Jessica back to life.
