He curled his lips in distaste. “To each his own, I guess. Let’s get back to Bert.”
“I unblocked Bert. Is there a way for me to access his texts?”
Sam shook his head. “No, once you block him his texts go to some black hole in the universe. Only place to see them is on his phone.” His fingers raced along the keyboard once again, bringing up screenshots of Bert’s texts, and there were plenty. “We’ll start with his texts to you. They come up by name, just like on your phone. This is the first.”
I need to speak with you. Please call me at this number. It’s IMPORTANT! Bert
Jessie felt her stomach drop. “That was the Sunday—just nine days ago, the day before the funeral. That’s when I blocked him.”
Sam scrolled to the next text. “This was sent just two hours after the first.”
Call me. PLEASE! IMPORTANT!
Five minutes later:
Jessie—I tried calling you, left a voicemail. Please call. Hope you get this. Please be careful. Rob Hart is not to be trusted. I’m not sure the police are either. I’ll call tomorrow.
The next day, the day of the funeral, Bert sent only two texts.
Please call! I’m calling you! Please pick up!
There followed in his outgoing recent calls list a flurry of calls to Jessie. The last time he’d tried was the Tuesday morning.
“Check your phone, Jessie. See if he left you messages.”
“I have already. I have four messages,” she answered before she had time to think. She could have kicked herself, but it was too late now.
Sam’s lips curled into a frown. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because of what he said. I’m still not sure…”
“Jessie, you can’t withhold evidence. Don’t make me get a warrant for your damn phone.”
She heaved a sigh. “When you hear what he says, you’ll understand my reluctance. Just listen.” She pulled her phone from her pocket.
“If you don’t mind, will you put that on speakerphone?” he asked, his tone suddenly formal as though he didn’t trust her now either.
She did as he asked and placed her phone on the desk. “You take it from here,” she said.
Sam slid the phone closer and scrolled to Bert’s first call, last Sunday, just an hour after his first text. And she had to listen all over again.
“Jessie, please call me back. This is important. I have to speak with you. Please.” There was a pause and then a click.
“He sounded shaky, as though he was afraid,” Jessie said, her own voice cracking,
The next message, left on Monday morning, the day of the funeral, was quicker, a total of four seconds: “Jessie, call me. It’s important.” This time his voice was firm, not a quiver at all.
Later that day, he left another message: “I’m leaving for London tomorrow, but before I go, I have to warn you about someone. I might have my biggest story ever, but I’m not sure I can ever use it. Just don’t trust anyone. Call me as soon as you can.”
His final message was Tuesday morning. “Call me, Jessie. Please. I think the police might be involved in the Hart shooting.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, and Sam and Jessie both moved closer to hear it. “There’s more, but I need to speak with you. Be careful. Don’t trust the police on this. Just call me.”
Her chest tightened at the last message. He’d called more than a dozen times, but had left only the four messages, the last one just three days before he was found dead. Jessie gripped the edge of her seat, her knuckles going white. She wanted to speak but she couldn’t find the words.
“Look,” she finally said, turning to Sam, a glint of anger in her eyes. “I haven’t listened since I first heard them. His message seems pretty clear, though. Are the police involved in this? Are you protecting someone? What the hell is going on?”
Sam reached for her hand but she pulled away. “Don’t,” she hissed.
“Listen, I know you’re upset, but I can assure you, the police are not involved except as investigators. There’s no grand conspiracy here. We’re trying to solve this crime.” His voice grew sharper with each word.
“Really?” she barked. “I’ve been telling you to look at Rob Hart, and you’ve been blowing me off. Now, Bert’s dead.”
“We did not kill Bert, and we’re not in cahoots with Hart. This is the first time I’m hearing his messages. You blocked him. Remember?”
Jessie closed her eyes. She had blocked him. Sam was right. She blew out a long, slow breath. “Did Roger have a time of death for Bert?”
“Tuesday,” Sam answered. “Sometime Tuesday.”
This time his voice was so soft, Jessie could barely hear him. She felt numb, and sad and angry. At herself.
Sam was typing at the keyboard. “Looks like Bert was calling the hospital. This number—recognize it?” he asked, pointing to the screen.
Jessie tugged at her hair, wrapping a strand around her fingers. “That’s an ICU extension. He must have been calling Rob.”
“And Rob was apparently calling him—twelve calls in total. The last one on Tuesday morning from Rob to Bert.”
A chill ran through her. “Hart was discharged Tuesday,” she whispered. “You don’t think…”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sam jerked back in his chair, his mouth curled in a grimace. “That Hart killed him? No,” he said firmly. “There’s no evidence to suggest that.”
“But he was killed the day Hart was discharged.”
“True, but we don’t even have a reliable time of death. He might have been killed before Hart was even discharged. I just don’t know where you come up with these things.”
She shrugged. “I admit I’ve thought about it more than I should have. I feel as though I have a life before and a life after the shooting. I’m obsessed with this.” She knew that it was more than her resemblance to Ann that had somehow taken hold of her. It had turned into something bigger—a search for justice for Ann Hart. Maybe it was because Ann’s family had been so devastated, so broken, and Jessie was a nurse who needed to fix everything. Even this. But no way would she say that out loud and risk Sam’s likely smirk. “It’s as though I’m seeking revenge for Ann Hart.”
“Not very healthy,” he said, “but maybe you should think about working with the ME.”
“Sam, it’s not a stretch to think this is connected to Hart. They knew each other. Bert’s message said I shouldn’t trust the police or Hart. I think there’s a pretty obvious connection there. You can’t possibly discount that.”
“I’m not discounting anything, and neither am I going to share the whole investigation with you. I’m not sure I should have shared what I have,” he shouted, a bead of sweat trickling along his forehead.
A knock on the door interrupted them. A man in a starched white shirt and loosened tie poked his head in. “Everything okay, Sarge?” he asked, his eyebrows raised, his gaze fixed on Jessie.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” Sam said. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
The man nodded and pulled the door shut behind him. Jessie and Sam sat in stony silence. Jessie crossed her arms and Sam banged away at his computer. “I guess I’ll get going,” she said finally, standing and reaching for her coat.
Sam slumped in his seat. “I’m sorry, Jessie. I didn’t mean to snap like that. But you have to let me investigate this. I’m still the detective.”
“I know you are. I didn’t mean to insinuate that you were screwing this up, though I admit that thought has occurred to me. Bert certainly thought the police were involved with Hart, and he should know. He was speaking to Hart. You heard his messages too. There’s a connection there. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Please don’t. And I’d like to remind you to be careful. You’re a material witness, and if anyone thinks Bert told you something… Well, just be careful.” He sipped his coffee.
“I have another question.”
“Shoot.”
“Where did Bert live? If
he fought back, and it looked like he did, wouldn’t someone have heard it—a commotion, I mean?”
“He lived in a basement apartment over on Hemenway Street. That’s a pretty noisy street, and a basement apartment almost guarantees no one will hear anything. Now, before you ask—yes, we did canvass the area, and no one heard anything or saw anything suspicious. Satisfied?” There was a certain smugness in his voice.
Jessie sighed. “Was anything taken? A robbery gone bad, maybe?”
“Nothing was taken, but he didn’t have much to take, not even a television. His bags were packed, his passport and tickets tucked inside. He had an interview scheduled with the Daily Mirror, a British tabloid. He was leaving for a job, just as he said.”
“So—and you have to humor me a minute longer—if it wasn’t a robbery, and it seems it wasn’t, why was he killed?”
“That’s what we’re trying to establish.”
She sank back into the chair.
“Maybe it was someone he knew. A friend who had a grudge.” He balanced one foot on the edge of his desk.
“I don’t think he had any close friends. He was a creepy little guy.” And she paused. She didn’t want to lose sight of that fact, despite feeling sorry for the way he’d died. No one deserved that. “I know that sounds terrible to say about someone who’s died, especially the way he did, but it’s true.”
Sam nodded. “Anything else?”
“Yeah—Rob Hart asked one of the ICU nurses for my phone number the day he was discharged. She told me not to be surprised if he came to the ER looking for me.” She slipped her arms into her jacket.
He used his foot to push away from the desk, the chair rolling back and slamming into the wall. He sat rigidly, his back as straight as a ruler. “Tell me she didn’t give it to him.”
“She didn’t. She just wanted to warn me.”
“I’ll add to that. Be careful.”
She nodded and checked her watch. “I gotta go. If I show up early, I can probably get some overtime.”
“Hold on. I’ll take you.” He stood and reached for his own jacket.
She shook her head. “No. If someone is keeping an eye on me, it’s better if I don’t arrive to work in a police car. I’ll get an Uber, but thanks.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, a trace of worry in his voice.
But who was he worried about? Himself, maybe? She nodded. “You’ll keep me posted?”
“As long as you do the same.”
The silver flecks in his eyes shimmered. She couldn’t help herself, and she smiled. “I will.”
She decided to wait outside on Tremont Street, where a bitter wind was swirling the snow dizzily around. Her breath plumed out in frosty puffs. She pulled her coat tighter and when a loud screech filled the air, she jumped and turned. It was only a seagull swooping through the air searching for food. She was about to head back inside to wait when a lone car swerved its way down the street and stopped. “Jessie?” the driver yelled to be heard above the wind. She checked his plate number and car make with the one provided by Uber, and satisfied that he was the driver, she slid into the backseat, waves of comforting heat surrounding her.
In the ER, she peeled off her coat and went in search of Donna. “Thought I’d come early, see if you need help?”
“I do. You know how it goes—the first real snowfall means lots of staff sick calls.”
“Great. Do I need to check with Sheila?”
“You’ll be happy to hear she’s not back yet.”
“God, managers have it easy, don’t they?”
“Seems like it,” Donna said as she headed down the hall. “Just help out whoever’s busy, though it’s been quiet so far.”
Jessie headed out to Triage to see how things looked, but aside from Eddie, who sat huddled in a corner, and a few stragglers waiting to be seen, the area was quiet. Jessie sat down next to Eddie. “How are you, my friend? Had lunch yet?”
Eyes suddenly alert, Eddie straightened up. “A turkey sandwich. Got anything else?”
“I’ll make a run to the cafeteria. What do you want?”
“I won’t turn down a hot meal, Jessie.”
She returned with a roast beef dinner and sat next to him, watching as he inhaled the food. “Where do you stay on these cold Winter nights?”
“Here and there,” he said, running a slice of bread through the gravy. “I can usually find a warm spot.”
His hands were chapped, the skin dark, the joints swollen. “Where are your gloves?”
“Don’t have any.”
“Jeez, you need gloves. I’ll get some and bring them in later this week.”
“Thanks, Jessie,” he said, his gaze falling back to his meal.
The first snow of the season kept the ER quiet, just as she’d expected, and when Nick arrived, stamping his feet to release the snow and slush that stuck to his shoes, Jessie smiled. “Hey,” she said. “I need a ride home. Any chance you—”
Before she could finish, he pulled her close. “You don’t have to ask. You know I will.” He planted a kiss on her cheek just as his radio crackled to life. “Shit,” he said. “You’d think the snow would keep things quiet.”
That night, he was the old Nick, reliable, sweet and wholesome. “I’m going to take a shower,” Jessie said. “Interested?”
He grinned impishly. “What do you think?”
In the shower, he pushed himself tight against her, his hardness pressing against her belly, the warm rush of water as intense as the feel of him. She let herself surrender to him, to his touch, soft and yet insistent, and when release came, the thrill of it racing through her, she moaned with a pleasure she hadn’t known before. They sank to the tile floor, arms wrapped around one another, and stayed there, until the water washed away the last trace of their lovemaking, the pure memory of it burning into Jessie’s brain. Nick reached up and turned the water off, a sudden chill filling the small space. He stood and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around Jessie before carrying her to bed. And her seeds of doubt frittered away. He was a good man. She was suddenly sure of that, and when he whispered that he’d keep her warm, she kissed him deeply, her tongue lingering on his lips before she sat up and drew the towel out so that he could share it.
“Ohh, Jess,” he moaned, snuggling next to her. “I’m so lucky to have found you.”
“I feel the same, Nick,” she said. “I really do.”
They spent the night with arms and legs tangled together. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this kind of contentment. She drifted into sleep, secure in his arms and his promises.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The days flew. The snow melted with a heavy rain, and there were no news updates on Hart or Bert or even Ramos. It was almost three weeks since the Hart shooting, and for the first time since that night, Jessie felt safe from the drama swirling around Bert’s death.
Just as he’d promised, Sam called later that week. “Just checking in,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Any word on anything?”
“Turns out you were right about Hart. Seems he had a girlfriend.”
“I knew it,” she almost shouted. “Is she involved? Tell me everything.”
“Nothing I can share just yet, Jessie. Sorry. And keep that under your hat.”
Jessie’s mind was racing. “I bet she has his phone and wallet. I’m sure of it. Remember I said early on that he had an accomplice?”
“I do. I can’t confirm anything.”
“You’re going to leave me hanging?” She paused. “Poor choice of words, but you have to tell me.”
“I can’t. Shouldn’t have told you that much. It’s still a very active investigation.”
“Well, that’s good to know. Are the charges against Ramos going to be dropped?”
“No changes there. Holding him on the other murder charge. No final decision yet on his involvement with the Hart case. It’s up to the DA, and she’s not saying much.” He e
xhaled noisily. “Back to you. No messages from Hart? Nothing unusual?”
“No. Things are pretty good. For now,” she added quickly. She didn’t want to jinx herself. As soon as you started to settle in and believe things were good—wham! They’d blow right up. The lock on her door was still sturdy and no one seemed to be watching her, at least she hoped no one was. She hadn’t had that spooked feeling in days. And things with Nick were good. So, actually, things were better than pretty good, but why say it out loud and tempt the fates?
“Okay then,” Sam said. “Keep in touch.” The soft click on the other end told her he’d hung up, probably to keep her from asking more questions. A girlfriend, after all, threw a wrench into everything, and confirmed what Jessie had thought all along. Someone had helped Rob Hart, and a girlfriend seemed a likely suspect. She shook her head and checked her watch. She’d have time to stop at Target for gloves and a hat for Eddie if she left now.
At work, she passed through the waiting room and handed Eddie the Winter gear she’d picked up. He pulled the woolen cap tight over his head, slid the scarf around his neck and slipped his hands into the gloves, all the while a broad smile draping his lips, still chapped from the cold. “Hey, Jessie,” he called after her. “Thank you!”
“No thanks needed,” she said over her shoulder. “Just stay warm.”
She found Donna to get report, but instead Donna motioned her into a storeroom. “I have to tell you something,” she whispered.
“Am I in trouble again?” she asked, running through a mental checklist of the last week, but aside from the usual arguments with security when they wanted to throw Eddie and some others out into the cold, she couldn’t come up with anything. She braced herself for bad news.
“No, no. Why would you think that? It’s not that at all.”
“Why wouldn’t I? But if it’s not that, then why are we hiding in here and whispering?”
“Because it hasn’t been announced yet.” There was a giddiness in her voice.
Dead Girl Walking: Absolutely addictive mystery and suspense (Jessie Novak Book 1) Page 20