Mayor Reilly nodded and Nick began. “At about three o’clock, I was driving on Dorchester Avenue when I spotted the suspect. I recognized the make of the car, which we knew belonged to his sister. When I checked the plate number it came back registered to one Iris Ramos. I didn’t want the suspect to see me, so I kept a two-car distance behind him, and followed until he was on Day Boulevard. That’s a busy street, lots of people and cars about. He began to speed up and I was afraid that he’d made me. I called it in then, and just as he was about to turn into L Street, which is narrow and crowded, I knew I had to corner him. I wanted to avoid being stuck in a tight area. I put my siren on and raced ahead, cutting him off in the intersection with L Street. He didn’t resist. I had him cuffed before assistance arrived.”
“Why did you wait to call it in?”
“I wanted to have a visual. When he started to make the turn, I could see clearly that the driver was Jose Ramos.”
“Did you read him his Miranda rights?”
“I did,” he said, remaining unflustered.
“But,” one female reporter shouted, “did he understand? Does he speak English? I remember that Rob Hart said he had a heavy Spanish accent.”
Jessie could have kissed that woman for her question. She wasn’t alone in her doubts.
“He understood. He definitely spoke English today.” Nick was reveling in the attention.
“Can you tell us about that tattoo?” someone shouted. “What about the gun? Do you have that? The phone, the wallet?” Suddenly, the questions were flying so fast again, it was hard to make them out. The DA and Commissioner Conley moved forward, blocking Nick from view.
“That’s enough for now, folks. Please respect that as we move forward, it’s imperative for us to guarantee the integrity of the investigation and ultimately, the case in court.” They all turned and headed back into headquarters, but their leaving did nothing to deter the rapid flow of questions. It was almost as if the reporters were trying to outdo one another.
“How can you be sure you have the right man?”
“Is there other evidence that you haven’t shared?”
“Does Ann Hart’s family know about the arrest?”
She wondered that herself. Had someone called them? What about Rob Hart? Did he know? Jessie stood and stretched. A nap was what she needed. Sleep might just wipe away a lot of her questions. She drew her blinds, crawled under the covers of her bed, and quickly drifted off, waking what seemed just minutes later to the insistent buzz of her phone. It was Nick.
“Hey,” he said breathlessly. “Did you see it? I’ve been texting you. Where are you?” He was so excited he didn’t bother pausing so she might answer.
“Nick!” she finally interrupted him. “I saw you. Congratulations! You were wonderful.”
“Really? You really think so?”
“I do, and I think anybody who saw that thinks so too. Don’t worry. You were great!”
“I’m working till midnight.” As if to emphasize that, his police radio squawked in the background. “I gotta go, but maybe catch a drink after?”
“Oh, Nick, I’d love to, but two nights in a row will kill me. You go. Have fun. I’ll see you soon.”
“Aww, Jess, you’re the best. I’ll be thinking of you all night.”
Jessie wanted to answer in kind. She was definitely in like—in lust, even, but to think of him all night—that was still a bit of a leap for her. But honesty wasn’t always the best policy. “Me too,” she purred. “Me too.”
She pulled the covers back over her head and slept for several hours, waking only when a full-on charley horse gripped her leg. She sat up and reached to massage her limb before stepping onto the floor to work it out. Too much running maybe, or maybe not enough. She rose, ran her fingers through her curls and wandered into the kitchen, where she drank a large glass of water and checked the time. Eight o’clock. Damn it, she’d missed the news. She’d have to stay up late to catch it, or just get up early and watch it then.
Her phone buzzed then, and she answered without looking.
“Glad you answered,” the voice said. “Thought maybe you wouldn’t.”
It took a moment for the fog to clear her brain, and when it did, she heaved an exasperated sigh, her shoulders rising with the effort. “Sam…”
“I need to speak to you, and before you hang up, this is professional. It’s not about you and me, or even Hart, though perhaps it’s about him peripherally. Anyway, I’m calling about your friend Bert. I’ve been assigned that case.”
She groaned, unwilling to share the voicemails with him. If Bert was right and the police were involved, it would seem a poor choice to give them a heads-up. “He wasn’t my friend, and I’m not sure why you need to speak with me. I can’t add anything.”
“The police at the scene called it a suicide and closed the inquiry. The ME said you were with him when he decided the death was a homicide. And you knew Bert. So, actually, I suspect you can add much more.”
His voice had an undercurrent of something and she wasn’t sure what it was. Suspicion, maybe? “I barely knew him.”
“We have his phone, Jessie.”
“So what?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“Jessie, please don’t make this any harder than it is. I’ll still have to question you,” he said, his words growing muffled as he spoke to someone in his office. “Do you want to come in?”
“No! Of course, I don’t want to come in. Just ask me what you need on the phone.”
“That’s not how it works. You know that.”
“Are you kidding? Am I a suspect now?” Her heart pounded hard in her chest. This was how people got railroaded.
“God, no. But you are a material witness. You might know something that you don’t even realize.”
She thought of the ICU nurse saying that Bert and Rob seemed to be friends, and she wondered if Sam had any information about that. Something had been going on; Bert had somehow figured it out, or been involved, at least peripherally, and now he was dead. She’d been a miserable bitch to him, but she did want to help find the person who’d killed him. “Can you just speak to me on the phone? At least for now. I get that I’ll need to see you, but it’s getting late. I just want to go to bed. And I don’t have anything to hide.”
“I don’t think you do either, Jessie. But Bert had been texting you. Did you get those texts?”
She poured another glass of water and sat down at her small kitchen table, gulping down one long, refreshing swig. “I got one text. I deleted it and blocked him.” She wondered if he’d seen the calls.
“Alright, so you haven’t seen the later texts?”
“No,” she said, her voice quivering. “He texted me after that?”
“He did. I know this isn’t easy for you. Can we back up a bit? Back to the text you sent me. Does that have anything to do with this?”
“I don’t know. Probably not. I’d learned that Bert had gotten in to see Hart using his old ruse—pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He told the ER clerk he was with the mayor’s office. The ICU staff bought that story, too. And Rob asked the nurses for the telephone number to his room so Bert could call him directly. If you have Bert’s phone, you must have seen those calls. For me, it seemed like more evidence that Hart was a snake and even involved in his wife’s death.”
“How does that prove anything?” he asked. She could almost see him shaking his head.
“Hart was planting stories with Bert that made him look good, that answered questions before anyone asked.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this the other night? I don’t get it. A man that you despised is killed. You didn’t think to share that, or his connection to Hart? Why not?”
A rustle of papers meant that he was probably taking notes while they spoke. “Because I decided I don’t want to be involved in this. I don’t want to think about that creep Hart for another minute.”
“That’s a big turnaround, isn’t it?”
“Are you worried that I’m protecting Hart?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
“It crossed my mind.”
“Is that why you were so nervous around me?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m not protecting Hart, or anyone else.”
“I saw you on the news at the press conference but you seemed to be hiding in the back, almost as if you were distancing yourself from the whole thing.”
“It looked that way, huh?”
“It did, and it got me to thinking—what exactly do you have on Ramos? Apart from tattoos and a Spanish accent?”
“Significant tattoos. He’s no angel. He’s a member of MS-13 and he has a long rap sheet, including murder, and he should have been arrested today, but not for the Hart murder. This case is complex, and there’s still more than a few holes that we need to fill.”
“You’d announced days ago that you were looking for this guy. If you weren’t, why was he arrested?”
“Because there is a warrant for his arrest on murder charges,” he said with a testy edge to his voice. “Nick should have followed him, called it in and we could have picked Ramos up without all the fanfare.”
Jessie took in a deep breath and huffed it out. “Then why have a press conference?”
“The press listen to the police scanners, and they made it to the scene in time to film it. We had no choice, we had to answer their questions, but if you paid close attention, you’d have noticed that, aside from Nick, we were pretty close-mouthed.”
“So, is Ramos the one?” Even through the phone she could almost see his shrug.
“I’m not sure. We’ll see.”
“So, you don’t really have anything, do you?” She just couldn’t seem to shut up.
“I can’t tell you what I do or don’t have,” Sam snapped. “You’re still convinced it was Hart? What exactly do you have?”
“Everything I’ve already told you—about a hundred times. I know it’s circumstantial, but Bert texted me last week—said he had to speak with me, that it was important. It had to do with Hart. I know you don’t believe a word of that, but I do.”
She could hear the creak of his chair as though he was settling in for a long conversation.
“But you never spoke to him,” he said, and she couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement.
“Right,” she said warily. “A big mistake on my part, but I’ve made plenty of them. This one I regret more than most of the others. I think he knew something, and now he’s dead.”
“Good God, Jessie. Take this seriously and don’t tell anyone. Bert sent you other texts and we know, too, that he called you. He may well have known something. He wanted you to know he thought someone in the Department was helping Hart.”
“The Police Department?” She hoped she sounded surprised.
“Yes, and if Bert was killed to keep him quiet, and there’s any hint that you know something, too… well, just keep it to yourself. Understood?”
A tiny bubble of fear bloomed in her gut. But what if it was Sam who was involved? He’d just asked her to protect him.
What the hell should she do now?
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” Sam said. “I can pick you up for breakfast, that lets you avoid coming in to my office at headquarters to answer the rest of my questions. What do you say?”
“I…” Jessie hesitated.
Sam seemed to sense her reluctance. “I can meet you. We’ll be in public. No need to worry about me, but I understand your angst.”
No, you don’t, she thought. “Victoria Diner on Mass. Ave? Nine?”
“Sounds good. I have a date tonight. Nine sounds fine.”
An unexpected swell of jealousy burned into her brain. She wasn’t even sure why. She had Nick. Sam deserved someone too.
“Are you still there?” he asked, obviously noticing her long pause.
“Yes. Sorry. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay, and Jessie, please, for your own safety, do not share what you know with anyone.”
She took a long, hot shower, dried off, got a glass of wine and the mystery book she’d been reading—which probably explained her seeing suspects at every turn—and crawled into bed. It wasn’t long before her eyes grew droopy and her vision hazy with sleep. She turned her light off, slid under the covers, and drifted quickly to sleep.
She woke with a start, a rustling sound coming from the living room. Someone was out there.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Her heart pumped wildly in her chest, her brain was on full alert, her synapses trying desperately to think of what to do. She slipped quietly from her bed and crept to the door, her ear listening for any other sounds, but there was only silence. She gripped the doorknob and rotated it softly as she opened the door to have a look.
The room was bathed in total darkness, a man’s silhouette sprawled on her couch was all she could see, and deep heavy breathing all she could hear. She tensed her muscles and prayed as she inched forward and retrieved a knife from her kitchen and her phone from the table. The man, whoever he was, hadn’t moved. Jessie held her breath and in one dizzying action, she clicked on the overhead light, held her knife upright, and suddenly, everything stopped—even the dust motes froze in their hurried flight and hung limply in the air.
She took a minute to understand what she was seeing, her jaw clenched, her fear replaced by anger. Her hand dropped to her side. Nick cowered and blinked at the brightness, his hands rubbing at his eyes.
“Hey, Jessie,” he murmured.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” She tried not to shout, not to alarm Rufus, though his hearing likely was not what it used to be. “How did you get in here?” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“That useless lock. You still haven’t had it fixed,” he said, his speech slurred and slow. “I’m sorry, Jessie. I thought I’d surprise you, but I must have fallen asleep.”
“Surprise me? Really? Are you kidding? It’s two a.m. You break in here and curl up on my couch? I was terrified, you asshole! I should call the police.”
“I didn’t break in.” He raised himself from the couch, stood shakily and staggered to her side. “I just wanted to see you, Jessie. This was a big day for me. I just wanted to share it with you.” He paused to lean against the wall as if to get his bearings. “I missed you tonight,” he whimpered, his eyes glassy, his hands shaky as he reached for her.
“Just sit down,” she said icily, directing him back to her couch. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
He walked unsteadily and fell onto the couch. “I’m sorry, Jessie. I really am,” he murmured as his head fell back, his eyes closed and his mouth flew open, letting the first of many snores escape.
She threw a blanket on top of him, turned the lock on her bedroom door, climbed back into bed, and with one eye cracked open and her fists held tight at her sides, she lay awake for what seemed like hours.
In the quiet of Sunday morning, he was gone, the crumpled blanket the only evidence of last night. She had a fleeting rush of guilt over the way she’d treated him, but she caught herself. What the hell had he been thinking? She shook her head, threw on jeans and a comfy top, and went downstairs to see Rufus.
“You all right, Jessie? You look frazzled.”
“Morning, Rufus. I didn’t sleep well. I’m here to ask for help with my lock.”
“You’re going to get it fixed? Finally,” he said, relief in his tone. “We’ll both sleep better with that taken care of.”
“Can you help me?”
“If you’ll drive me over to Home Depot in South Bay, I can. We can pick up a new lockset and I’ll change it out for you.”
Jessie checked her watch. “I’m meeting someone at nine. Can we go after that? Maybe eleven?”
“Just let me know. I’ll be here. I’ll just get my tools together.”
“Thanks, Rufus. See y
ou in a while.”
Upstairs, she washed her face, untangled her curls, collected her keys and bag, and headed out. She locked her door and started down the stairs, and stopped. She turned and put her hand on the knob and wiggled and shook and sure enough, with a good push, the lock released. But it didn’t really matter. Today, she’d have a new lock and no more surprise visitors.
At the Victoria, Jessie pulled around back and slid into a spot just as another car pulled out. Her phone buzzed with a text from Nick. She glanced quickly at his apology, silenced her phone, and slid it back into her pocket. Once inside, she spied Sam in a booth at the back, reading over a menu. She slid in across from him. “Morning,” she said, “how was your date?”
“Morning, Jessie.” He laid the menu on the table. “Thanks for coming. And my date was fine. Thanks for asking.”
The little twinge of jealousy flared again and she couldn’t help herself. She wondered who the woman was, what she did, what she looked like. She was willing to bet that Sam wouldn’t be showing up drunk at his girlfriend’s apartment at two in the morning. “So, what do you want to ask me?” she said with a smirk, hoping to cover her pathetic interest in his dating life.
The waitress, her blonde hair bobbed, her work smile pasted onto her face, suddenly appeared. She pushed her eyeglasses up with the end of the pencil. “Ready?” She lifted her notepad.
“Coffee, cream with two sugars, and toast for me,” Sam said.
She turned to Jessie. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, bacon, an order of home fries, and an English muffin, grilled, with extra butter.”
The waitress raised a brow. “Coffee?”
“Black,” she answered. “No sugar.”
Their orders in, Sam leaned forward. “I think Bert Gibbons’ death might somehow be tied into the Hart murder. From his texts, Bert seemed determined to tell you something about Hart, but of course, he can’t now.”
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 16