Jessie kept her head down, ignoring the question, and hurried through the darkness to her car, a too-old Toyota that was going to die one of these days, and tonight, hastily parked on the street. It was only there, in the quiet of the driver’s seat, that she pulled out her phone. It lit up with missed calls and texts—all from the same person. She shook her head angrily before turning it off.
She slipped her key into the ignition, a satisfied smile on her lips when the engine purred into life. She latched her seatbelt and froze. Someone was watching her; she was sure of it. She locked her doors and checked her rearview mirror. A sudden flash of movement caught her eye but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. In the distance, she could still see the glare of camera flashes and the small crowd of reporters. She sighed and pulled out of her spot. No one was watching her, she decided; it was probably a reporter or a strobe of light from one of their cameras. A sure sign that she needed sleep, or wine. More likely both.
She navigated the back roads and narrow streets of Southie, the nickname for this neighborhood of Boston, where the houses and buildings were packed together tight as teeth. At last she reached K Street, nestled in between L Street and East Broadway boasting sturdy, brick row houses alongside colorful three-story homes painted in fading reds and greens and yellows. In Summer, trees perched at the edges of sidewalks offered greenery and shade but now they were bare, spindly skeletons reaching for the sky. The only bits of green that had survived November’s first frost poked out from the almost hidden gardens squeezed into the tiny spaces between buildings. A few window-boxes were filled with wilting greenery, but in the Spring, they’d burst with new flowers and welcome color. Jessie belonged here. She’d felt that the moment she’d seen the neighborhood, all noise and crowds to an outsider but a place of security to Jessie, one where she could slip in unnoticed, as though she’d always been here.
Home was a tiny, one-bedroom walk-up that had likely once been a part of a lovely old single-family house, until it had been broken up into smaller apartments. A handcrafted wooden bannister was the only evidence of the house’s once grand past. Her place included a living room, galley kitchen, one tiny closet and a postage-stamp-sized bedroom. She let herself in, peeled off her light blue scrubs, and stepped into the shower, the heat and steam rising around her, almost, but not quite, erasing the uneasy feeling she had.
She wasn’t even sure why she’d carried that feeling home with her, or why she’d thought someone was watching her. She’d been involved in countless traumas with equally tragic stories—the little boy who’d been shot on Christmas Eve when his drug dealer father had used him as a shield in a gunfight; the student nurse who’d been stabbed to death as she studied for finals; the woman who’d survived a house fire only to lose her husband and children in the blaze. There were so many others, too numerous to count, so why had tonight’s tragedy affected her so? She supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later—one of these awful stories would simply stick to her and she’d be unable to shake it off.
She stood in front of her mirror and wiped away the last bits of eye makeup and lipstick that had somehow survived her shower. She leaned in close, her hazel eyes, which Nick, or maybe it was someone else, had described as mood eyes, like those rings of the eighties, seeming to reflect her mood. Tonight, they were a dull light brown; when she was happy, they really did sparkle a hazy green, and when she was serious, they were the soft gray of a Winter’s day. She swiped off the last of her mascara and piled her hair, a deep, almost black shade of brown, into a ponytail, the curls spilling out around her face.
She picked up her toothbrush, peered at her reflection, and froze. It was Ann Hart who stared back. Jessie opened her eyes wide and moved closer to the mirror. The resemblance was striking. She looked away, blinking to erase the image.
Chapter Four
The sounds of the neighborhood—the rumble of trucks, the screech of sirens, the blare of car horns and shouts from the street—seeped through her windows, rousing her from sleep. Jessie nudged herself awake, closing her eyes quickly to the harsh sunlight trickling in through the half-opened blinds. She sat up, massaged the knot in her neck, retrieved the bottle of wine and lone glass from the floor and headed to her minuscule kitchen. To open her fridge to replace the wine or to retrieve anything, she had to stand to the side and nudge the door gently to avoid banging into the stove. She rinsed her glass, brewed a cup of coffee and padded back to the couch, turning to the morning news.
“Breaking news,” the reporter almost shouted into the camera, almost giddy as she recounted last night’s shooting. “The police have little to go on. The shooter was said to have a heavy Spanish accent and was taller than Rob Hart, who stands just over six feet. Though that description could fit thousands of local men, the police are asking you to call their hotline if you have any information at all. They remind us that no tip is too small.” She paused while the camera panned out to frame the ambulance bay in the shot. “The life-saving work goes on here, but for Rob and Ann Hart, it all hangs in the balance. Mayor Reilly is putting together a reward for any information leading to the arrest of the shooter. We’ll pass that on as soon as we have it. Reporting from Boston City Hospital, back to you in the studio.”
The gray-haired anchor nodded sadly, a smiling photo of the Harts just behind him, Ann Hart looking so like, and yet so unlike, the lifeless woman on the stretcher just hours ago. Jessie clicked to the next channel, and then the next, until she’d about exhausted her channel lineup. The shooting was the top story, apparently the only one, and one reporter after another shared the same meager facts, and what they didn’t know, they seemed to be making up. One after another described the couple as young urban hipsters, childless by choice, both on the same trajectory upward. “Congress?” one reporter asked peering into the camera. “The sky was the limit, friends say, for this popular and politically connected young man. Now, we can only pray for his and his wife’s recovery as the police track down the vicious criminal responsible for this heinous crime.” A picture of a smiling Rob Hart with the mayor, and another of him alone, working the polls on election day, flashed across the screen. His wife seemed forgotten already. “The victims, we’ve been informed, are still in the OR. More news as it comes in.”
Jessie looked at her watch—nine-thirty. They couldn’t possibly still be in the OR, could they? It seemed unlikely, but maybe the hospital had decided to cut off the release of all information. She sipped her coffee and picked up her phone. Maybe she’d just call the ER to see what was going on. She switched it back on. The screen lit up once more—calls, texts, most now from the ER. Call ASAP, one message directed her. Darn it! She wasn’t even scheduled to work today, and they surely weren’t calling to update her on last night’s shooting victims. What the hell did they want? She punched in the number and sat back. She could at least ask them if there was any news. The phone rang only once.
“Jessie?” Donna Serra, the day-shift charge nurse asked, her voice almost a whisper. “Is that you?”
“Yes, what is it? And before you ask, no, I don’t want overtime today.”
“Don’t answer yet.”
“I can barely hear you.” She muted the television. “Why are you whispering?”
“Because there’s not one empty space here. We’re overrun with the mayor’s staff, Boston police, state police, reporters, you name it—they’re here, or on their way.”
Jessie couldn’t hold back her laughter. “Sounds like last night, but that doesn’t explain why you called me.”
“Overtime. Please don’t say no. I need you.”
What part of no didn’t she understand? “I’ll think about it,” she said to placate her and change the subject. “How are they, by the way? Still in the OR?”
“No, out hours ago, but we’re not releasing any information. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
And there it was—the hook. She knew how to reel Jessie in. “Give me an hour or so,” she sai
d, exhaling noisily so Donna would understand that she owed, really owed, Jessie. Next time she needed a day off, she better just get it. She pulled on a clean pair of scrubs, a comfortable sweater, and her favorite work clogs, broken in enough to be comfortable but not so much that they looked too worn. She tugged at her curls, coaxing them into a loose braid and swiped a splash of color on her lips. Retrieving her backpack, she grabbed her phone just as it began to ring.
She groaned. She’d have to deal with this guy sooner or later, but later looked better right now. She hit the decline call button, and headed out. She’d had to park a block away from her apartment the night before. Parking in this crowded neighborhood was at a premium and apartments that included parking were not just coveted, but well out of her reach, making every day a parking spot puzzle.
The morning was sunny, last night’s Fall chill replaced by an Indian Summer day, but it was trash day and much of it had been spilled, allowing the sour scents of the city—of rotting food and decaying dreams—to hover over the streets, the stench as sharp, on this warm day, as old cheese. The final remnants of Halloween—plastic pumpkins, candy bags long emptied, and torn fabric ghosts—skittered along the streets with the last of the season’s leaves. She tugged off her sweater, wishing she’d checked the weather forecast, but this was New England and the temperature would likely drop within the hour.
She popped into the local corner store for another coffee and came to a stop. The headline on every newspaper shouted about last night’s shooting. She picked up the Globe and had a quick look, the Harts’ wedding photo on full display underneath the bold words—Tragedy Strikes Mayor’s Inner Circle. The Herald took a more dramatic approach with a color photo of the bloody crime scene, a spray of roses scattered about, and the headline—Search for Hispanic Shooter Intensifies: Mayor Demands Answers. She picked up both copies, stuffing them into her backpack. “Morning, Patrick. The usual, plus two newspapers.” Patrick, whose thick Irish brogue sounded as if he’d arrived only yesterday, though he’d been here twenty-odd years, wrapped her cinnamon muffin in tissue and passed it to her along with a large black coffee. Armed for the ER, she set out for her car, sipping coffee along the way.
At the hospital, she pulled into the garage and headed to the main floor. The hospital, a series of old buildings over a full city block, was connected by a string of often neglected tunnels. But this morning, the tunnels and hallways were a flurry of activity, housekeepers mopping the tiled floors, lab runners rushing specimens to the lab and men in suits talking in hushed tones, all of which could only mean a surprise inspection from the Department of Public Health or another accrediting agency. Darn! That was probably why they’d roped her in to coming in today. She considered turning for home, but what the hell, she’d come this far, and she needed the money. Might as well just keep going.
She cut through the waiting room on her way in only to spy Eddie Wilson, an old alcoholic she’d long ago befriended, curled up in a chair loudly resisting the security guard’s attempts to evict him. Though disheveled and sporting a graying beard that was likely a nest for a bevy of small creatures, he was harmless, a sweet old guy with no family, no friends and nowhere to go. He’d long given up on finding work or a home, but had found safety and solace here in the waiting room where staff fed, clothed and took care of him. The ER was the sanctuary for the city’s grittiest secrets—secret lives, secret dreams, secret crimes—they all found their way here sooner or later, and most found what they were looking for—methadone for their misery or sympathy for their woes. Eddie was one of the latter.
“Hey, Eddie,” Jessie called. “I got your breakfast.” She fished the muffin from her bag, and turned to the guard. “Morning,” she said, flashing a smile for the guard as she passed the muffin to Eddie who chomped hungrily, crumbs disappearing into the tangled web of his beard. “Sorry about the confusion. I told Eddie to meet me here. We’re going to see him in the ER today.” Some days, it just paid to outright lie. Today was one of those days.
“Sorry, Jess, the boss says everyone has to go unless they’re signed in to be seen.”
“I’ll sign him in, but why? What’s up?”
He pointed through the front window where a bank of microphones, cameras and lights were set up, ready for a press conference or an announcement, it seemed. “You can see for yourself. It’s last night’s shootings. Everyone who’s anyone has shown up. Live television shots, reporters, detectives, the whole nine yards. Administration says we can’t look like a homeless shelter. Gotta clear the place out.”
Jessie winced and suddenly noticed how clean the waiting area was—no urine or bloodstains on the floor, and no scent of vomit in the air. The floor was polished and someone had scrubbed the worn fabric on the chairs till the padding underneath poked through. “What the…?”
The guard put his hands up. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” He smiled. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”
“No problem, but I’ll take care of Eddie. See you later.” She grabbed one of the registration clerks. “Will you sign Eddie in? He’s got a cold.” The clerk, already overworked, barely acknowledged her but began to type Eddie’s information into her computer. Convinced that Eddie was safe, Jessie swiped her ID against the locked ER entryway and, as if by magic, it swung open.
She hurried along the hallway, expecting the usual crowd of stretchers waiting for beds or X-rays or a final diagnosis, but instead, the hallway was empty of stretchers, the place almost eerily quiet. The rooms that ringed the perimeter of the hall were only sparsely occupied, the residents and interns almost leisurely discussing patients. Susan Peters, a day-shift nurse, was just hanging up the desk phone. “Hey, what’s going on? Why so quiet?”
“Last night’s shooting. Put us in the spotlight, I guess, and Administration wants us to look good instead of being overwhelmed by patients and work, the way we usually are. Go figure.” She shrugged and stuck her pen behind her ear. “Just another day in paradise.”
“Where’s Donna? She called me in for overtime. It doesn’t even look busy.”
Susan pointed along the hallway and Jessie rounded the corner, bumping into Donna on the way. Jessie stepped back. “Why am I here? It’s quiet as a Sunday morning over there.” She pointed back along the hallway to the non-acute side.
Donna pulled herself to her full five feet five, two inches taller than Jessie, smoothed her auburn-colored bun, and offered a weak smile. “That’s because I’ve had three sick calls, and on top of that, the director has been inundated with television requests. He wants to keep the walk-ins and regular homeless to the barest minimum, but the ambulances are coming fast and furious. Seems like everyone wants to have a peek or learn something about last night. We’re suddenly the epicenter of trauma care. Can you take the patient in Trauma Two once you’re settled?”
“Sure. Give me a minute.”
“Thanks, Jess. I owe you.”
“And don’t think I’ll forget.”
Jessie made her way to her locker where she collected her stethoscope and her pens before moving on to Trauma Two where Elena, her co-worker from last night, was drawing up meds. “You’re still here?” Jessie whispered. “You must be exhausted.”
“You have no idea. Check this dose for me, will ya? I can barely read the numbers.” Jessie confirmed the dose and read Elena’s note.
“You all set? Any questions?” Elena asked.
“Just one. Any word on last night’s patients?”
“Only a matter of time for the wife. CT showed damage and blood in all hemispheres, a midline shift and her EEG was almost flat. Waiting for her family from out of town. It doesn’t look good for her at all.”
“That’s too bad,” she said, remembering the scent of lavender that had lingered on her clothes. “And the husband?”
“Fine, I heard. Had only a minor renal injury, didn’t need even a partial nephrectomy, just a repair. He’s a lucky guy.” She seemed to catch herself. “That sounded awful, but you know wha
t I mean.”
She nodded, though it did seem as though Rob Hart had all the luck last night. “Alright, get out of here, Elena. Get home and get some sleep.” Jessie turned back to the work at hand. The stretcher held an almost lifeless old man, a few staff huddled over him, discussing the best options for his brain bleed.
“Not a candidate for TPA,” the neurologist said, scratching his head. “No way to know how long he was down. Let’s just admit him to the ICU and watch him.”
“I’ll get his papers in and call report,” she said, already forgetting last night’s victims.
Chapter Five
“The medical ICU has no beds. He’s got to go to the surgical ICU. I called and told them you’d be up to give report. Okay?” Donna flashed an easy grin. “And I can let you go home at two. I have more staff coming in.”
This time, it was Jessie who smiled. “Bed ready? Can we go up now?”
Donna nodded. “Transporter’s on his way.”
Jessie gathered the paperwork, disconnected the patient’s wires and tubes and reconnected them to the portable monitors and pumps, and within minutes, they were all in an elevator heading to the fifth floor and the ICU. When the doors slid open, a uniformed police officer appeared. “This floor’s closed,” he said.
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 3