“I know you do. Let’s just start again.”
“Tonight?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.
She shook her head as she carried the flowers to the kitchen and pulled down a vase. “Not tonight. Let’s take a day or two off and go out later this week.”
He watched as she arranged the flowers and placed them by her little tree. “It looks good in here, but why all those newspapers?”
“I’m helping my downstairs neighbor to clear away his stuff.”
“By keeping it up here?” He tried to grin.
“No. I’m going to go through those and see if there any stories that he’ll want to keep.”
“Sounds complicated. You’re a good woman, Jessie.” He brushed his lips quickly against hers. “I won’t stay. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“Okay. Have a good night. Be safe.” She swung the door closed and slid the new deadbolt into place with a final click. She listened as Nick’s footsteps bounded down the stairs, the front door slamming shut behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Monday morning dawned too early for Jessie. It was two weeks after the shooting, a week after Ann Hart’s funeral, and just three days since she’d identified Bert in the morgue. She wanted to get moving early so she could stop into the morgue and speak with Roger, to see if there was anything new on Bert’s death. But the gods conspired against her. Her scrubs were hopelessly wrinkled and would require a good going-over with an iron before she could put them on. The iron took longer than she’d expected to heat up, and she ran it quickly over the fabric, but not quickly enough. She burned a sleeve and finally gave up, pulling everything on and heading out.
At the hospital, she parked in the garage, cut through the ambulance bay, and darted across the street to the ME’s office. As soon as she pulled open the heavy entry door, she was hit by the now familiar smells of formaldehyde and old blood. She wrinkled her nose and pressed the reception bell, and once she gave her name, she was buzzed in. She found her way along a poorly lit corridor and up the stairs to the autopsy suite—and ready to hold her breath against any pungent odors, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.
“Hey, Jessie,” Tony called from his seat at a metal desk. “You found your own way back here, huh?”
“I did. Is Roger around?” she asked, her eyes scanning the room which was mercifully free of bodies awaiting autopsy. “We’re like the ER,” Tony had once said. “Feast or famine, no in-between in this business.”
“Roger?” she asked again.
“No time for me, huh?” The silver in his deep black eyes shimmered in the dim light. He was an outrageous flirt but never pushed it, and maybe that was why everyone loved him.
She laughed. “Not today, Tony, not today.”
“He’s upstairs in his office. Can you find it on your own?”
She nodded, pulled open the door and stepped back into the corridor, making her way to the stairs and the third floor, the acrid scent following her. Roger’s door was open, the cinnamon scent wafting at the edge, the desk light glowing. She knocked softly, and he looked up.
“Jessie. Come in.” He stood and held a chair out for her. “I’m glad you came. I have a question for you.”
“I only have a few minutes. I’m on duty soon. I just stopped by to see if there’s anything new on Bert’s death.”
“Actually, it’s Ann Hart I wanted to ask you about. I’ve been going over her toxicology results. You sent a tox screen from the ER, right?”
“As part of her full trauma panel, yes. Why?”
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, looking a bit like an absent-minded professor, but she knew better. Roger was anything but. “Her tox screen revealed a lorazepam level of two hundred.”
Jessie’s mouth dropped open. Lorazepam was a widely used sedative, but that level was high, too high. “Two hundred? How? We drew those labs as soon as she arrived, and we never gave her lorazepam. Her Glasgow Coma Scale was three. She was barely alive and deeply comatose. She didn’t require sedation. You’re sure of that result?”
He smiled and sat back, tenting his hands in front of his face. “And that, my friend, is why I need you in this office to help me sort through some of this information. The ICU notes opined that the level was secondary to meds given in the ER, though that wasn’t documented.”
“Jesus, why didn’t they just call us, or ask me when I was there?” She sighed and sank deeper into the chair. “Why am I asking that? They were busy, too, and from the moment she was shot, it was only a matter of time until she died.”
“That’s true, but I was curious enough to double-check. The lab, as they often do in big cases, still had her ER blood tubes. I requested them and sent them to an outside lab for retesting. They confirm that, when she arrived at the ER, her lorazepam level was two hundred.”
He paused, as if wanting that information to sink in and allow Jessie to mull it over.
“Was she taking lorazepam?”
He shook his head. “Contraindicated in pregnancy, but I called her obstetrician and primary care physician anyway, just to check. Both said no.”
“So, she had an OB? She definitely knew she was pregnant then, and was planning on keeping this baby. This whole thing gets more suspicious by the day.” She picked at her fingernails, a nervous habit she’d only recently adopted. “You probably don’t have Rob Hart’s medical information, but I wonder if he was on lorazepam?”
“Good question. I wondered that myself. Detective Dallas is coming by today. I’ll see if he can look into that.”
“Tell him I said he has his motive.”
“Don’t be so sure. One thing I’ve learned in this office is that things are never as clear-cut as they might seem.”
“I suppose you’re right. I do have a tendency to jump to conclusions.” She glanced at her watch. “Damn, I gotta go. I can’t be late. My manager is about as unforgiving as they come.” She stood quickly, almost toppling the chair in her haste. “Sorry,” she said, steadying the chair. “I almost forgot, I wanted to ask if there was anything new on Bert?”
“I’ve listed his manner of death as homicide, but no labs back yet.”
“Sad,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re working on this.”
“Ahh, another reason to come and work with me. Most people are desperate to know exactly what happened to their loved ones. I don’t know what drives people to do what they do, to hurt or kill people they love, but…” He shrugged his shoulders. “For me, the body is the crime scene. Even in death, people leave clues to tell me what happened, and if I follow their trail, I can help the police figure it all out. You can help me with that, and you can make a difference here. I wish you’d give it some thought.”
Jessie smiled. “Be careful what you wish you for, Roger.”
She raced across the street, gulping in the fresh, cold air as she went, clearing her airways and her mind of the morgue’s lingering miasma. She raced through the ambulance bay doors, shrugged off her jacket and backpack and fished through her locker for her stethoscope and white coat. She made it to report with one minute to spare.
“Hey,” Donna said wistfully, “you okay?”
“Me?” Jessie looked around, certain Donna was speaking to someone else.
“Yes, you. You don’t have any lipstick on. What’s up?”
Her hand flew to her face and she laughed. “I was running late. I had to iron my damn scrubs,” she said, smoothing the front as she spoke. “I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten my lipstick. I’ll be right back.” At her locker, she pulled out her lipstick and applied a fresh swipe of color to her lips before fluffing her curls with her fingers. When she returned, report had just begun.
“Trauma One has a gunshot wound to the belly, we’re just waiting on the OR. Trauma Two has an OD—he’s waking up—you can move him out anytime. Trauma Three is clear, thank God.” Donna continued on, reciting patients’ differential diagnoses, workups in progress, and the number
of patients waiting for beds upstairs or discharges home. “The wait to be seen is only an hour, so at least the non-acute side is moving.” She handed Jessie her clipboard. “You’re in charge again. Sorry.”
“No problem. Where’s Sheila? I thought she’d be back from her vacation and tormenting us today.”
Donna chuckled. “Then this is your lucky day. She never showed up. We figured she’d planned a longer vacation and Administration forgot to let us know. Enjoy your freedom. It won’t last.”
Jessie made quick rounds before taking the patient in Trauma One. She monitored vital signs and IV fluids, ran a hemoglobin to check for blood loss, and when the patient—a twenty-two-year-old man, a store clerk who was shot for the grand sum of thirty-eight dollars, cried out in pain, she drew up the medicine and injected it into his IV, watching as the medicine took effect and the patient’s grimace faded away. “You’ll be okay,” she whispered as the door banged open and transport arrived. “OR’s ready,” he said, moving quickly to help hook the young man’s lines to the portable monitors.
“Housekeeping to Trauma One,” Jessie said into the intercom before heading out to see how the rest of the floor was doing. The Triage and waiting areas were starting to fill up. It had been too much to hope for a quiet night, but you just never knew in this business. It was just as Tony had described—deathly quiet one minute and total chaos the next. And that was what she liked best about the ER. It was a metaphor for life; unpredictable, unexpected, both deadly boring and wildly exciting, and you could have all of that in one shift.
“Jessie,” the overhead speaker announced. “You have a visitor at the main desk.”
That was not the type of unexpected she preferred. It was probably Nick to apologize again. She shook her head. His apology tour was getting old. At the desk, she saw an enormous vase filled with red roses, a small man barely visible behind them. “Jessie Novak?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, knowing he’d never see her nod of affirmation.
“Sign here,” he said, his fingers wiggling the piece of paper in his hand. She signed the paper, and he placed the vase on the desk. “Have a good night,” he called as she read the attached note.
Thank you for your kindness, R.
R, Jessie wondered for only a moment who that might be, but of course it was Rufus; it just had to be. What a sweet guy, she thought, carrying the vase back to the staff lounge. She set it down on the counter and headed back to the acute side, running smack into Sam Dallas. “Jeez, this is like Grand Central tonight.”
“Got a minute?” he asked, his gray eyes flashing, his forehead creased with worry.
She led him back into the lounge and closed the door behind them. “I don’t have much time. We’re busy tonight.”
“This won’t take long. I’ve just spoken with Roger.”
“So, you know about the sedative?”
“Ativan?”
“Also called lorazepam. Ann Hart had a level that would have made her drowsy at the very least. She wasn’t on that drug, but we were wondering if her husband was.”
“Already on that. Nothing in his hospital records, but you probably already know that. I have a call out to his regular physician. Hope to speak to him tomorrow. I’m here because I’ve spoken to…”
“Rob Hart. Finally!”
“No, I’m still trying to reach him. I spoke to that young man who caught your eye, the one who was crying at the funeral. You were right. He and Ann were an item. They were in love, he says, and she was planning to leave her husband. As far as this guy—Frank Davis—knew, she hadn’t told her husband about the pregnancy and her plans. Yet. An examination of her phone, by the way, supports that. There’s nothing in there that connects her to this Frank except in casual, friendly texts, maybe a few more calls than normal, but nothing that Rob Hart would notice.”
A satisfied smile slipped across her lips, but she swallowed the urge to say I told you so. “How did Frank feel about her waiting to tell Rob? Was he angry? Capable of hurting her, even if it was an accident and she was the one who was shot?”
“He has an alibi, lives with two roommates. They spent the evening watching Monday-night football and went to bed. Poor bastard woke up to the news.”
“So, doesn’t that bring you back to Hart? Couldn’t his wife have told him about the pregnancy and this—what was his name—Frank, maybe he just didn’t know?” She stood to pace slowly around the room, and turned back to Sam.
“She’d told her parents about the pregnancy and her plans to leave Hart,” he said. “They’d never liked him, so it was welcome news to them. They didn’t think she’d told Hart yet.”
“Can’t you force Hart to speak with you?”
“I’ve left messages. I’ve gone to his house. He’s nowhere to be found right now. There isn’t much else I can do. I have to step carefully, and remember, there’s not one shred of physical evidence. This is all circumstantial and hypothetical, and even if I find he was on lorazepam or whatever you call it—the sedative—I can’t prove he gave it to her. He’ll say he didn’t know she took it.”
“What can we do?”
“We can’t do anything. I’m still working this. I’m just discussing…”
“Jessie Novak line two,” the intercom squawked out the message.
Jessie held up a finger to Sam and picked up the phone, pressing the blinking light. “Yes?” she asked. It was the OR calling to tell her that the young man she’d just sent up had died right after they opened him. “A liver injury. Sorry, Jessie, we tried. There was just nothing we could do. Thought you’d want to know. Tony’s on his way over to get him.”
“Thanks,” she said, her shoulders sagging as she slipped the receiver back into the base. “What a night.”
Sam edged closer and pressed his hand gently into her shoulder. “You okay?”
The door opened wide, and Nick stood there, his jaw dropping. “What the…”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Hey, Nick.” Jessie stood up. “Thanks, Sam. You’ll notify the family?”
“I will. I’ll take care of it.” He squeezed by Nick, who remained at the door. They exchanged scowls and Nick slammed the door behind Sam.
“Hey, don’t slam doors around here.”
“What the hell was that?” Nick asked, his jaw clenched tight.
“There was a shooting tonight. Sam’s the detective on it. That’s all.”
“Seems like he’s the detective on everything these days, huh?”
“Listen, I’m sorry I told you what he said about your being a cowboy. Just forget it, okay?”
He grunted. “Geez, I’m sorry. I’m doing it again—making assumptions, aren’t I?” He leaned in to kiss her, his eyes landing on the flowers. “Wow. Who got those?”
“I did,” she said, “and before you assume anything, they’re from my neighbor, that sweet old guy downstairs from me.”
“Yeah?” He leaned in to peek at the card and Jessie rolled her eyes. He just couldn’t help himself.
“R?” he asked, tapping the card. He seemed rattled, nervous about the flowers.
“Rufus. I just told you.”
“Ahh, Rufus. Sorry, I know I’m being a total jerk. I’m afraid of losing you, Jessie. I’m just a little jealous, I guess.” He pulled her into his embrace, his eyes shining, his breath hot on her neck. “Can I come over after work?”
She wriggled free, kissing his cheek as she stepped back. “I’ll let you know how the night goes.”
“Fair enough,” he said, running his finger along her lips. “I’ll see you soon.”
He turned and left and she stood there, not sure if she should feel happy or sad. It felt good to be so important to someone, and she wanted to feel that way, too, but she just wasn’t there yet. She’d just have to try to be more open. She was doing what she always did when a good guy came along—she was pushing him away. And that, she knew from experience, was a big damn mistake.
“Jessie Novak, li
ne three,” the overhead intercom buzzed.
“Dear God, what now?” She picked up the phone and pressed line three. “Jessie Novak.” She nudged a chair out with her foot and sank into it.
“It’s me,” Sam whispered.
Jessie laughed. “You don’t have to whisper. No one is listening.”
“I didn’t want to piss off your boyfriend again, but I wanted to tell you that you can see the texts that Bert sent to you. Thought you might want to see them for yourself.”
“Yes! I wanted to ask about the video that showed the Harts walking to their car, too. How did she look? Was she staggering? Because that sedative likely would have made her unsteady on her feet.”
“We’ll have another look. When we first got it, we were looking for anyone following them. To tell you the truth, we didn’t pay much attention to how they walked. Might be something there.”
“Any news on the sedative? Have you heard from Hart’s physician?”
“Nothing yet. I’ll check again tomorrow, and you can come in then before work. I’ll be at headquarters. You’ll be safe. Believe me.”
She laughed. He could obviously tell that she still didn’t entirely trust him. And she trusted him a little bit more for that.
When Nick called later, she passed on going out. “I don’t want to keep staying up late drinking. Let’s do something later in the week. I’m off Friday. We could go to Quincy Market, see the Christmas tree and lights. What do you say?”
“You got a deal. Sweet dreams, Jessie.”
“You too, Nick.”
Just as she was getting out of her car to head up to her apartment, she froze. A shadow flickered just over her shoulder, and she turned in time to see an image darting away, or maybe it was only her imagination, her mind playing tricks on her once again. She turned again, her eyes scanning the street, but with that goddamn streetlight still out, there was nothing to see beyond a few cars driving by. She sprinted to her front door, flowers in hand, pulling it shut behind her, a heavy sigh slipping from her lips. Upstairs, she was relieved to find her own door was locked tight. She let herself in, slid the deadbolt into place, and peeked through her blinds to be sure nothing was there. The street was blessedly empty. She pulled a Diet Coke from her fridge, a glass from her cabinet, and once she’d washed up and pulled on a nightgown, she settled in front of the television, the soft glow of it the only light in the room.
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 18