“And your point?”
“Ann Hart’s face was streaked with tears and eye makeup that had run. Rob Hart says everything happened in an instant. That doesn’t fit. A woman can’t cry so much that quickly to ruin her makeup. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I do, but there’s no proof of that.”
“I’m a witness. I’m the proof.”
“I hear what you’re saying. I do. It’s a chilling thought that she had time enough to cry like that, but it’s not evidence of anything, and even if it were, it’s gone. I can’t take that to the DA or a judge. Your honor…” he started, his voice a falsetto, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Her eye makeup…”
Jessie heaved a long sigh. “Never mind. How about Foley’s?” she asked. “A quick lunch?”
Chapter Seventeen
Just blocks from the Cathedral, Foley’s looked somehow different in the harsh glare of daylight, even on this cloudy day. Located in an area once filled with warehouses and decaying brick buildings, the neighborhood had been restored to its long-ago glory of brick office buildings and newly restored loft apartments. Jessie had only been here long after night had settled over the city, and she wasn’t sure she would have recognized this street or the building if not for Sam.
A few smokers lingered on the sidewalk taking last drags of cigarettes before hurrying back inside. But however different it looked on the outside, it was as familiar and inviting as always on the wood-paneled inside. A long mahogany bar greeted visitors, but bar stools did not. Patrons had to stand at the bar or snag a seat at one of the high pub tables which forced people to move along and perhaps mingle a little more on a crowded night.
Off to the back, in a likely nod to the millennials who’d gentrified the neighborhood, full dining tables and menus lined the back wall. In the old days, Foley’s was for drinking; the only food you could find was potato chips and maybe a hot dog, but these days you could get a sandwich or a full meal. They slid onto stools at one of the pub tables by the bar, and watched the day-drinkers, a few reporters, a politician or two and the locals, swig down beers and shots.
Jessie settled onto the stool as Sam went to the bar and ordered burgers and beer. The beer was frosty, and slid down Jessie’s throat more easily than she would have thought for this time of day.
“So,” Sam said, “tell me your whole theory. I know you have one.”
“First, tell me about the mayor. You said he wasn’t as keen on Hart as you’d thought.”
“Yeah. Seems Hart’s been using his clout as a top mayoral aide to grease his own potential campaign. Word is, he wants to run for Congress and has been trying to line up some of the mayor’s big donors to support him. Any money they give him will likely come off the top of the mayor’s donations, so that’s a problem. It’s just a rumor, but there’s enough of it that the mayor was apparently ready to fire Hart. Just a chink in his armor, though, not enough to get from there to murder.” He took a slow swig of his beer, his gray eyes sparkling over the mug. “Your turn? Tell me what you’ve been thinking. I know there’s plenty going on in that mind of yours.”
She smiled, trying to avoid the magic in his eyes. She knew that she’d forget everything she wanted to say if she was lost in those deep pools of shimmering gray. She looked away long enough to remember what she wanted to tell him. “You’re right. I’ve been thinking about this plenty, and I think I’ve seen enough of people at their worst to have a credible theory.” She ran her finger along the rim of her glass. “I think someone must have helped him.”
“Where did that come from?” Sam offered a wry smile.
The bar was starting to fill up. Jessie guessed people actually did come in for lunch. “Because I really believe he was involved, for all the reasons I went over before. He’s not even a little sad, and those tattoo details—where did they come from? He conveniently remembered them the next day. Come on. And the pregnancy? Not one hint that he cared about that either. He even mentioned that police usually looked at husbands first, but he said that because he was a victim, too—he was beyond suspicion. Then there was that guy today, who was so heartbroken. He showed more emotion that Rob Hart has.”
“I have to remind you that Rob Hart is not a primary suspect right now. He’s still a victim of a crime. There’s nothing, despite what you think, to suggest otherwise. Satisfied?”
“No. That’s what he wants you to think. I’m still convinced that Hart shot himself.”
He rolled his eyes. “There’s no evidence of that. And your own Dr. Merrick doesn’t think it all that likely that the wound was self-inflicted. The DA agrees.”
“But have you tested that theory? Tried it out with a blank weapon the way I showed you?”
“Ballistics is working on that. Doesn’t give us any real evidence, though. Remember, we have to focus on the facts of the crime, and those facts are few. A robbery gone bad does not point to Hart as the shooter. There is nothing to support any charge, let alone murder.”
“I just think there’s a big piece missing.”
“Jesus,” he said, swiping a hand dramatically across his brow. “We know how to run a murder investigation. We did speak to his co-workers and the few friends he has to see if anyone had it in for him, but it seems, despite the rumors of him trying to skim away some of the mayor’s donors, he’s a pretty benign kind of guy.”
His voice had grown testy. He was tired of her questions, but she couldn’t help herself. “No girlfriend?”
He shook his head. “Unless you’ve seen one at the hospital?”
“No, but he flirts as if he’s trolling for one.”
“Not a crime. You’re beating a dead horse,” he said, taking a bite of his burger. “Everyone’s an armchair quarterback these days.”
Jessie swirled the dregs of her beer in the bottom of her mug as if she could read them like tea leaves. “Maybe I should flirt back, get him to tell me something.”
“Jessie, no! Promise me you won’t do that. If it turns out you’re even remotely right, that would be dangerous. Please, just leave this to us.”
“I don’t have to promise. If he’s discharged tomorrow and I’m back in the ER Wednesday—and God knows that’s where I want to be—I’ll never see him again.” She raised her empty glass and nodded to the bartender, who poured two more frosty mugs and delivered them to the table. Jessie tipped her glass against Sam’s. “And once I have my life back, maybe I’ll stop thinking about this and tormenting you about it.”
“Cheers to that,” Sam said, giving her a reluctant smile.
That evening, the Harts were again the lead story on every newscast in Boston. Video of the funeral focused on the family as they left the church. The camera had narrowed in tight on the mother’s tear-streaked face, her shaking shoulders and the crowd behind her. Photos of Ann flashed on the screen as the anchor announced that Rob Hart had released a statement from his bed at Boston City Hospital:
“I want to thank Mayor Reilly,” the anchor read solemnly, “his staff, and the Boston Police Department for their efforts to support me and to find the ruthless thug who took away my beloved Ann. And of course, I am forever grateful to the team of doctors and nurses here at the hospital who’ve worked tirelessly to save me. Without them and their expert care, I would not have survived. And finally, I thank you for trying to save my dear Ann—a beautiful, smiling woman who was beloved by all and will never be forgotten.”
The anchor, clearly moved by Hart’s words, paused for a moment before continuing. “Rob Hart released that statement from his bed in the ICU at Boston City Hospital where he remains in critical condition.”
“What the hell?” Jessie shouted at the television as the weatherman appeared. She jumped up and paced, trying to calm herself. “Critical condition! What a piece of work he is. I have to get out of the ICU or I’ll wind up in the loony bin.” She checked her watch—four p.m. The sun would be setting soon, but Mondays guaranteed heavy car and pedestrian traffic on th
e roads, offsetting any risk of running in the dark. And she needed to run again. That would clear her head. She donned her running gear, laced up her shoes, and headed out just as darkness was settling into the sky.
Jessie ran her familiar loop to Castle Island, passing other runners along the way. Before long, she was lost in the rhythm of her run, the sky at dusk, the scents of evening—of cooking smells and wood fires and as she passed the beach—the salty, clean aroma of the ocean and the soothing sound of the waves. She could almost feel the tension and anger ease from her muscles.
At the midway point, she checked her watch—twelve minutes. She smiled. Being pissed off was at least good for her running time. She headed back, her head clear, the sound of her footfalls lost in the early-evening sirens and car horns and neighborly shouts. By the time she turned onto her street, her mood was improved. She stopped for a long stretch, balancing her legs one at a time on the steps to her building.
And she froze, one leg suspended in midair.
Was someone watching her?
Chapter Eighteen
She dropped her leg and turned quickly, but no one was there. The street was still filled with traffic and a few pedestrians, and nothing else. It was only her imagination. She heaved a sigh and wished that Nick or Sam would call to take her mind off things, but both were probably working.
Once home, she showered, heated a can of soup and curled up on the couch, clicking on the television for company. Thanksgiving, she was reminded during a commercial, was just days away, and as she had in the five years since her father had died, she expected to work, maybe a double shift, so someone who had a family could be home with them. Jessie felt happiest on those family holidays in the ER surrounded by the homeless and lost souls who would surely crowd the waiting room that day. Being with them allowed her to forget that she had no family, that holidays were days to get through and get past.
By ten p.m., she was beginning to nod off on the couch, and she forced herself to get up, determined to get into bed tonight. She put her dishes in the sink, turned off her lights and, just to be sure no one was out there, she peeked through her blinds. The streetlamp was still dark, but at the corner, a Boston police cruiser sat idling. A small glow from within the car revealed that it was Nick, his eyes on the street. A warm rush flooded through Jessie’s veins. Nick—keeping an eye out for her. It had been a while since she had two men interested in her at the same time, but she knew that Nick was the right one for her. His being here proved that. Nick would quietly take care of her. She’d be his priority. His only priority. She couldn’t quite imagine that same scenario with Sam. His job was everything to him. She slid into bed with images of Nick watching over her swirling through her mind.
The following morning, Donna called from the ER. “You’re back here tomorrow!”
“Thank God! Evenings?”
“Actually, Nurse Ratched wanted to know if you’d do a day-evening double tomorrow and Thursday—Thanksgiving Day. Do you mind? I can tell her to kiss off. Well, not exactly in those words, but you get my drift.”
Jessie laughed. “Oh, I’ve missed you guys. I’ll do both doubles. I’ll do anything to be back where I belong.”
“See you tomorrow. Now go out and have some fun. This is your last day off!”
Jessie knew that to get back into her own routine, a thorough house cleaning and laundry were the first order of business. She pulled on sweats and socks, dragged her vacuum out and ran it around her tiny living room, the lines in the carpet a comforting kind of testament to a clean apartment. Once her laundry was spinning in a machine in the basement, she slipped on her running shoes and did a slow jog to Patrick’s corner store for coffee and a muffin.
“Morning, Patrick,” she called as the little overhead bell tinkled her arrival.
“Morning, angel,” he answered.
She rolled her eyes. “Are we still on that?”
He held up a newspaper whose headlines declared: Hart-Less Husband a No-Show but Angel Is There. A grainy photo of Jessie standing next to Sam was underneath.
“Oh, no,” she muttered. “Now I’ll be back in the ICU for sure.”
“What’s that, love?”
“The usual coffee and muffin,” she answered. “And I’ll take this too.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out her money and passed it to Patrick, who pushed it back to her. “Told ya, your money’s not good here. I’m happy to know you, Jessie. Wish there were more like you. The world would surely be a better place.”
She stuck the newspaper under her arm, took the coffee and muffin and turned to go. “Thanks, Patrick, but I’m no angel. Remember that.”
“Ahh, go on. You’ll never convince me of that.”
She walked back to her apartment, bolted the door behind her and sat to drink her coffee, eat her muffin and read the story—afraid that Bert had written this one as well. But his name was nowhere to be found. The story was written by a local reporter who noted that Ann’s family had called him to express their thanks to the people of Boston, and especially to the nurse who’d cared for Ann in the ER and then took the time out of her busy life to attend the funeral. The implication was clear: where was Rob Hart?
The next story took that implication a step further, hinting that something was amiss in the marriage of Ann and Rob, asking why he hadn’t attended.
The police attended along with at least one nurse. Where was the husband? Too heartbroken to attend or too ill? Or just not interested?
The writer didn’t answer his own questions, but that anyone else had wondered at all buoyed Jessie’s suspicions. At least she wasn’t alone. Maybe this article would change things.
She spent the morning finishing up her laundry and laying out her hospital-issued light blue scrubs for work. By one o’clock, she was finished and looking for something to do. She sank into her couch and was about to curl up for a nap when her phone rang. The caller ID flashed Nick’s name. Smiling, she answered. “Hey, how are you?”
“I’m great, but better if you’re off today and interested in going out for lunch and maybe drinks later?”
She sat forward, unpinning her hair and letting it fall to her shoulders. “Just name the time. I’ll be ready.”
“See you at two,” he crooned, or maybe she just imagined it was a croon.
By the time Nick rang her doorbell, she was ready. She’d showered, pulled on her favorite jeans, a clingy sweater, and boots. She’d managed to draw the perfect line along her eyelids and to swipe a fresh trace of color along her lips. When she pulled her door open, Nick stood back and whistled.
“You look beautiful,” he said as he drew her in and kissed her, his tongue lingering there before moving on to her neck and chest. His hands slipped under her sweater as he pulled her closer, a sudden urgency in his moves. He moaned softly in her ear.
She felt that same longing deep inside, but it was too soon, too fast, for that. “Hey,” Jessie said, pushing him gently away. “It’s good to see you, too, but let’s at least get lunch first.”
“Sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I got carried away.” He kissed her cheek. “Where to?”
“Quincy Market,” she answered. “We can wander around, see some of the decorations that are up, do a little bar hopping.”
At Quincy Market, a news hawker held newspapers up high and shouted, “Read it here! Hart a no-show at wife’s funeral!”
Nick moved closer. “Hey, that’s you,” he shouted, snatching a paper. Jessie tried to shrink back as people turned to look.
Nick passed the seller a ten-dollar bill and walked away reading the story as he went. “Hey, mister. Thanks!” the newsboy shouted.
Nick was engrossed in the story, or maybe the photo. Jessie couldn’t tell. “Isn’t that the detective I saw you with before?” Nick asked as he tapped the paper. “Are you seeing him?” he pressed, his usually steady blue eyes flickering with uncertainty.
Jessie knew that telling the truth—that she’d been attracted to Sam�
�was not the answer that Nick wanted to hear. Neither did she want to share that bit of information. It would doom their relationship before it even got off the ground. A fib was required here. “No,” she said, the lie slipping through her lips as easily as a sip of wine. She slid her arm through his. “Now feed me before I faint.”
They stopped at one of the food stalls in the market and shared a lobster roll and an order of oysters before moving on to one of the pubs where they drank tequila shots before Jessie called a halt. “I’m not really a tequila drinker. One more of these, and you’ll have to carry me home. And I’m not ready to go home just yet.” They headed back outside, watched the workers decorate the Christmas tree which would be at the center of a lighting ceremony in just a few days.
“We should come back for that,” Nick said, draping his arm around her shoulder. Jessie felt herself melt into him. He was exactly the type of partner she needed—reliable, sweet and easy on the eye. She turned and planted a kiss on his lips. “What was that for?” he asked.
“Felt like it. That’s all.”
He smiled. “Hey, Jess,” he said, “hate to break the spell, but any word from that reporter who bothered you?”
“He texted me the day before yesterday. Said he had to talk to me.”
“Did you? Did you talk to him?” he asked, his brow knitted into a tight frown.
“No,” she answered. “Why?”
“Just asking. He was the one who got you kicked up to the ICU, right?”
“Right. I even thought he was the one watching me, but I don’t think it was him. It probably wasn’t anyone, just my own imagination, but it doesn’t matter. I’m back in the ER tomorrow. As a matter of fact, I can’t stay out late, I’m doing a day-evening double tomorrow and the next day.”
“The next day’s Thanksgiving. You’re working a double? No dinner?”
“No, I prefer it that way. So, back to business—how about one more drink and we head home?”
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 11