Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1)

by Roberta Gately

  The next morning, Jessie woke to the final whisper of snow that had blanketed the city overnight. Everything was transformed as if by magic; the harsh grayness of the street had been replaced by a pure white canvas, with only a few daring drivers making their way slowly along the road. The houses and trees were bathed in Winter white, the only sound the sure, steady vibration of shovels and snowplows clearing the way. There was something reassuring and safe about snow—she knew there were fewer emergencies, assaults, and probably even murders when it snowed this heavily. She needed this—the security a snow covering offered.

  She sipped her coffee by the window and watched as a man across the street dug his car out from under the drift that had buried it. He pulled onto K Street, left his car idling there, and hurried back, pulling out a beach chair and beat-up old cooler to claim his spot. In Southie, the rule was you shovel it, you own it, and you saved it by filling it with old chairs or whatever you could find. Anyone who dared to move your things and take your spot, did so at their own peril, and more than one errant parker had returned to find his tires slashed. The city was trying to break that old practice by outlawing space-saving, but the residents of Southie resisted and the tradition continued.

  On the best of days, parking here was at a premium and in these long, snowy Winter months, it was an impossible game of hide-and-seek. It wasn’t worth it to Jessie to shovel her own car out, drive to work and then drive home after midnight and waste her time in a futile search for an empty spot. She poured another cup of coffee. No way she could go for a run. Maybe she’d knock on Rufus’s door and thank him for the flowers. Between his and Nick’s flowers, and her little Christmas tree, her place was looking pretty festive.

  She sank down onto the floor to have a look through Rufus’s old newspapers. Trying to sort through them was an impossible task, so instead, she scanned dates and discarded the most recent, whittling her pile to a manageable twenty or so papers. She picked up the first in that pile just as her phone rang.

  “Morning,” Sam said.

  “Hey, good morning. Have you seen the snow?”

  “I have. Do you need help shoveling out?”

  “I’m not shoveling out. I live in Southie. My car can stay put till Spring.”

  He laughed. “Ahh, that’s right. You need a place with a garage.”

  “Yeah, me and everyone else.”

  “Are you coming in?”

  “Coming in?”

  “To look at Bert’s text and the Hart video?”

  She rubbed her neck. “I’d forgotten. Damn, I’d like to, but I’ll be taking an Uber to work. Can’t afford one to headquarters, too.”

  “I’ll pick you up then, if you’re okay with that?”

  “Give me half an hour. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  Jessie showered and dressed and grabbed a pair of scrubs and clogs. It was an hour later that she finally saw Sam maneuvering the old police-issue Crown Vic along K Street. It skidded to a stop in front of her house, and she pulled on her gloves and ran out, almost sliding into the side of his car. “Whew,” she said as he reached over and opened the door. “I didn’t realize how icy it was.” She settled in her seat and shivered. “No heat?”

  “It takes a while. By the time we get where we’re going, it’ll come on.”

  She pulled her coat a little tighter, and sank into the seat searching for whatever warmth that might bring. Sam navigated the backstreets, past Boston City Hospital and onto a long boulevard, lined with weeds, overgrown shrubs and chain-link fences. Threadbare tents and trash, discarded by the homeless who’d claimed that stretch of road for themselves, dotted the landscape until it all gave way to manicured hedges, and newly renovated office and university buildings. Just as the heater clicked to life and began to spit out a wave of welcome warm air, Sam turned onto Tremont Street and into a spot in front of headquarters, a four-story gray cement building with a glass-windowed front that looked more like a public health lab than police headquarters. The cluster of police cruisers and the large blue Boston Police sign gave it away.

  Jessie followed him through the main entrance and up the stairs, through a narrow hallway surrounded on either side by look-alike cubicles, to a large room with four desks clustered close, and just beyond that to a cramped office that held one desk, two telephones, one computer, one printer and the tangle of wires that held it all together.

  Sam pulled out a straight-backed wooden chair. “Have a seat,” he said. “Let me just get my stuff together.”

  Jessie plunked down onto the chair, squirming to find a comfortable spot. “Do you have suspects sit in these chairs?” she asked. “Torture them so they’ll confess sooner?”

  “Very funny. You’ll be happy to know we don’t waste taxpayer money on comfort here. We waste it on plenty of other shit, but not on comfort.” He pulled a notebook from his top drawer before rooting around in the other drawers, pulling them in and out and rifling through the papers there. Hands on his hips, his eyes scanned the room. “Be right back,” he said.

  Jessie stood up, rubbing her lower back and stretching her neck this way and that. She glanced at the door before taking a peek at the items on his desk—a cell phone, probably his; a file folder of papers labeled “Hart”; another file labeled with Bert’s name, a third with the sad notation of “unknown white female”. There was also an assortment of old coffee cups, candy wrappers, three pens, a spray of paperwork covering his keypad, and off to the side a pile of newspapers. Jessie picked up the top one—the story was Bert’s, the headline with Hart’s alleged last words before going to the OR. She slapped it back down angrily, releasing a flurry of dust specks into the air. Approaching footsteps forced her back to her chair.

  “Forensics still has it. They’re checking with IT—looking for emails or anything else that he might have deleted.”

  “Has what?” Jessie asked.

  “Bert’s phone,” he said, sinking into the padded chair behind the desk and swiveling it a half-turn. “I haven’t downloaded the texts and calls yet. If I had, I could show them to you, see if there’s anything that jogs your memory of Bert.” A vein in his forehead pulsed.

  “That’s alright. It’s not like it’s an emergency.”

  “I know. I’m just tired. Sometimes this stuff just gets to you, you know? I expect everything to run like clockwork. I don’t know why, since it never does.”

  Jessie smiled. “I feel your pain. It’s the same in the ER, especially lately. But could we have a look at those surveillance videos of the Harts, maybe see how Ann Hart looked that night?”

  “Good idea.” Sam swung back and booted up his computer, his fingers flying across the keys. Jessie rose and stood behind him, watching as he clicked on a folder labeled Hart and ran his cursor along the files before clicking on surveillance. The file uploaded a series of thumbprint images. Sam chose one and pressed play on the first one, the grainy image filling the screen. She leaned in closer, her eyes intent on the images before her.

  “Oh hell,” he said. “Look at that.”

  Chapter Thirty

  A hazy shot of Warrenton Street flickered into view. Mondays after midnight were quiet in the theater district and especially so on this narrow street. No live theater meant fewer pedestrians and still fewer cars. The street was empty; a piece of trash skittered soundlessly along the sidewalk until the Harts stepped into the camera’s lens. The image flickered as the couple moved slowly, almost teetering, along the street.

  “Can you stop there?” Jessie asked, pointing to the screen. Sam froze the video. “See,” she said, her eyes riveted to the screen. “There. See how tightly he’s holding her, almost as if he’s propping her up.”

  Sam hit re-wind and played it again. “She’s definitely unsteady. Right there. We just assumed they’d been drinking, perfect targets for a robber.” He pointed to the screen. The next tape, probably less than three seconds, showed more of the same. Ann Hart, leaning close, too close, to Rob. “Damn it.”


  Jessie straightened. “Well, that seems to show she’d taken, or was given, a sedative. Her alcohol level was zero. No one walks like that unless they’re drunk or sedated, and a lorazepam level of two hundred is pretty high for someone who’s never taken it.”

  “I agree. Did you ever hear the nine-one-one call the night of the shooting?”

  “I heard something on the news. I don’t remember if it was the actual call, or someone reading the transcript. Do you have the audio?”

  “I do,” he said, his fingertips navigating to another file and opening another tab. “This is it. Pull up your chair, and just listen.”

  She dragged a chair across the cracked linoleum and sat next to Sam, who’d nudged over so she’d be nearer to the screen. He fiddled with the volume button until it was at maximum level. He hit play and sat back. Jessie, her elbows on her knees, leaned in and tilted her head towards the speaker as it crackled and came to life.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  Silence, no voices, no shouts, nothing. Just quiet. Jessie checked her watch.

  “Nine-one- one. What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher repeated, an unmistakable hint of tension in her voice.

  “I… I need help. I don’t know where I am.”

  “We’ll get help to you right away, sir, but first, I need you to help us.”

  There was a pause, for minutes it seemed, though it was only eight seconds.

  “Are you there?”

  “Help me,” the caller cried again.

  “Where are you, sir? What’s your emergency?”

  “I… I’ve been shot. My wife, too. I think she’s dying. We were robbed. He had a gun.” The caller’s tone was slow and steady, not the hurried, almost hysterical voice you’d expect. But you never knew in this business, Jessie thought. At least that’s what you’re taught to think. No judgements—just the facts.

  “Can you tell me where you are?”

  “I don’t know. We’ve been shot. Both of us.”

  “Is the person who shot you still there?”

  “No, no. I don’t think so.”

  “What’s your location?” This time there was a crispness to her voice, a practiced, almost calming response.

  “I… I don’t know. Just come. Please.” The caller’s words were punctuated by rapid breathing, but the cadence of his voice was somehow calm, calmer than it seemed—at least to Jessie—than it should have been.

  “We will. We’re here to help. What’s your name?” This time her voice was low and soothing.

  “Umm… my name’s Rob.”

  “Rob, can you tell me what happened, where you are?”

  “We were out… celebrating… and I don’t know. A man came up behind us. Just get here. Please. There’s so much blood.”

  Jessie angled her head to hear better. Rob Hart sounded composed, almost as though he’d rehearsed those words and was repeating them from memory.

  “Rob, I need your location. I can send help as soon as you help me.”

  “We’re in an alley. The one behind the theater on Warrenton Street, I think. I’m not sure. A man just robbed us and then he shot us. Both of us…”

  “We have a hit on your location now. Help is on the way, but stay with me. Where is the bleeding?”

  “My side. He shot me in the side.” He let out a short whimper.

  “And your wife?” There was an urgency to the dispatcher’s voice.

  “Her head,” he answered in a strong, impatient voice, no trace of a whimper or whine. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”

  “Rob, I have units on the way. Can you check your wife for a pulse?”

  No answer. Just silence. Maybe he was doing that, checking for a pulse. The tension was palpable.

  “Rob? Are you there? I’ll stay on the line with you. The ambulance will be there in just a minute or two.”

  There was only silence, as though a mute button had been hit. But to Jessie, the silence was sinister, and practiced. He’d told her he’d said goodbye to his wife there in that alley. He knew that she wouldn’t survive. Why wasn’t he frantically screaming for help for her? Why was he so calm?

  Suddenly, in the distance came the familiar drone of approaching sirens. “Rob? I can hear the sirens now. Are you strong enough to get to the street so they’ll see you?”

  There was a click. The call had ended.

  Jessie shook her head. “Can you play it again, Sam?”

  He chuckled. “I bet you waited your whole life to say that.”

  “Can’t help myself. Will you re-wind? And really listen this time.”

  “What am I listening for?”

  “Just listen. Really listen.” She pulled her chair closer still to the table, angling her head just so as she nudged Sam’s chair with her foot. She raised a brow, her way of reminding him to pay attention.

  Sam guided the mouse, dragging the start arrow back to the beginning. “Here you go,” he said, pressing play once more. “What…”

  Jessie put a finger to her lips to shush him.

  He rested his chin in one hand and closed his eyes just as the tape began.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher’s voice began. Jessie looked at her watch, timing the pause—ten seconds—a lifetime in a real emergency. There were more pauses, the next one eight seconds; the final, sinister pause before he’d hung up was fourteen seconds of silence until the sirens sounded. Fourteen long seconds of Rob Hart just sitting there next to his dying wife. Jessie shook her head angrily. That was bad enough, but it was the background noise that had grabbed her attention—it was the unmistakable echo of footsteps in that alley, filling that ten-second silence at the start of the call, the footfalls louder and more insistent at first before fading into the night as the seconds passed.

  Sam hit stop and restarted the audio. He did it again and then again, the footsteps seeming to grow louder each time they listened. “We got that,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair. “We think it’s the shooter.”

  “Hate to one-up you, but there’s two things wrong with that. First, do you remember in the ER when Hart said he waited to call nine-one-one? He wasn’t sure how long he’d waited but he said it was enough for him to be sure the shooter was long gone.”

  Sam let out a low whistle. “I remember that, but we decided he was probably still in shock, not clear about the time. Was it minutes, or maybe seconds? He couldn’t tell for sure.” He paused, a wrinkle sprouting on his forehead. “But we haven’t ruled him out. Not yet. And there’s not much I can tell you about that part of our investigation.”

  She smiled to herself. So, they were looking into Hart. About time. “What about the shoes? That sound is more like a thud than the hard click of dress shoes. Maybe those rubber-soled work boots, or running shoes? But whatever the shoes, someone else was in that alley when he called nine-one-one. I’m not a detective, but I’m sure of it.” She sat back. She’d gone too far… again. She’d be lucky if he didn’t kick her out, but instead, he simply shook his head.

  “CSU is already…”

  “CSU?”

  “Crime Scene Unit—I’ll ask them if they’ve got a make on those shoes yet, and see what they’ve come up with.”

  “They can actually get a make on the shoes?”

  He nodded. “Amplify what you just heard. You’d be amazed at what they can do with audio evaluation—they can use filters, work with the volume and tone of the recording, improve the clarity, and from there, they can enhance the sound and maybe get enough to name the type of shoe—hard-soled or rubber, and the type of footfall—heavy-footed, probably a man, light-footed more likely a female. There are people who actually specialize in this, the sound quality and clarification of audio evidence.”

  Jessie whistled. “Pretty damn impressive.” She pushed her chair back just as a soft chime sounded on Sam’s desktop computer.

  Sam bent to his keyboard once again. “Ahh,” he said with a sigh. “Gotta
love these guys. Want to see some of Bert’s texts to you?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Yes,” she said, wondering if they knew about Bert’s voice messages too. She hadn’t told Sam about those, and she still wasn’t sure she should. The first pulses of a headache began to drum behind her eyes and her mouth felt dry. Her morning caffeine was wearing off; she needed a refill. “Got any water, or coffee?”

  “I do. The choices are lousy coffee from our coffee-maker, or bottled water. Me, I’d choose the water.”

  “Can I get one of each? I feel like living dangerously.”

  Sam left the office once again and Jessie checked her own phone. There were no calls, but there was a text from Nick. Thinking of you, he wrote, adding that stupid, meaningless, smiley sunglass emoji again. She was just shaking her head in puzzlement when Sam walked back in.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, just making sure the ER isn’t looking for me.” She stuffed the phone back into her pocket.

  Sam placed a bottle of water and a plastic coffee cup in front of her. He sank back into his chair and set his own cup down before reaching into his pocket for a handful of sugar packets and little creamer containers. He took his time opening the sugar and the cream and mixing it all into his cup. When he finally took a sip, he sighed with pleasure.

  “Sugar, Jessie?” He held up a packet.

  “Not for me. Strong and black is how I take it.”