by Tripp Ellis
He’d been hit!
18
Jack lifted his shirt. He had a layer of padding where there used to be ripped abs. His winter coat of barbecue and beer may just have saved his life.
"God damn, that stings!”
Blood seeped out of the wound, but it didn't gush. The entry wound was just lateral of the midline between the rectus abdominis and the obliques.
I wasn't a doctor, but I'd seen enough combat injuries. I knew my way around gunshot wounds fairly well. This one wasn't as bad as it could have been.
I poked around the wound with my fingertip.
“Quit that!” he yelped.
I could feel the slug embedded in his skin. But, in my amateur opinion, it hadn't punctured the peritoneal space.
That would've been a disaster.
Gut wounds are some of the worst. When a bullet punctures the abdominal wall and rips through the intestines, spilling bile, it creates an environment ripe for infection. Even with the proper medical treatment, gut wounds can often cause sepsis.
With today's resistant strains of bacteria, even the most powerful antibiotics are becoming less and less effective.
This wasn't a direct shot.
The bullet must have ricocheted off the wall, then punctured the skin.
I helped JD sit down, leaning against the alley wall. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"Nonsense. I don't do hospitals. We just need to dig the little son-of-a-bitch out and stitch me up."
I rolled my eyes.
JD was a tough bastard, but he needed medical attention.
I called a cab, and we zipped across town to an emergency room. Jack kept pressure on the wound, but the oozing blood still stained the cab’s leather seats.
We staggered into the ER, and the cab driver helped. He took off before I had a chance to pay him. The nurses triaged JD, taking blood pressure, and monitoring vitals. He was put on a gurney and wheeled into a treatment room.
We didn't have to wait, due to the nature of his injury. The ER wasn't that busy, anyway.
The craggy peaks of JD’s heartbeat pulsed on the bedside monitor. Nurses swarmed around him, wearing sterile clothes and purple nitrile gloves. They started him on IV fluids. The clear bag of saline hung from a stand by the side of the bed. JD winced when the nurse stuck the IV portal into the vein on the back of his hand. She covered the site with a clear adhesive patch.
With a pair of blunt-end scissors, a nurse cut off JD's shirt.
His face crinkled with distress. "What are you doing?"
"The shirt and the pants have to come off."
"At least by me dinner first," JD said. "I'm not that easy."
She wasn't amused.
“That’s my favorite shirt, by the way.”
“Think of it as an excuse to update to a more contemporary style,” the nurse said, dryly.
JD’s scowled at her subtle assault upon his fashion sense.
A doctor entered into the room and his eyes glanced to the vital signs monitor. A nurse updated him on the situation.
The doctor was maybe 35 years old. He had curly brown hair, green eyes, wore teal scrubs, and a white lab coat. His nose was long and angular, like a shark fin, and he had a narrow jawline. He spoke English with a thick accent. “Do you know what type of weapon you were shot with?"
"I didn't get a chance to inspect it," JD said with a hint of sarcasm.
"9mm, I think," I said.
“At what distance were you shot?" the doctor inquired.
"Close enough," JD said.
"Maybe 20 feet," I clarified. "I think the bullet ricocheted.”
"Do you know who shot you?"
"My ex-wife is not in the country, so I think I can rule her out."
The doctor was not amused.
"Vitals are stable," a nurse said in French.
“What were you doing at the time of the shooting?”
A perplexed look twisted on JD’s face. “What the hell does that matter? I was minding my own damn business.”
The doctor and nurses inspected JD's body for additional wounds. Bullet holes can be remarkably small at times and can appear not much larger than a mole.
JD groaned as they rolled him onto his side to check his back and hindquarters.
"Hey now," JD said as a nurse poked and prodded around his bum.
I could've done without seeing JD's ass.
The nurses returned JD to a supine position, and the doctor examined the entry wound.
JD grimaced as the gloved finger pushed around the bloody wound.
“Probably superficial, but let's get an abdominal CT just in case,” the doctor ordered.
An X-ray tech rolled JD out of the room and down the hall to imaging. A few minutes later he was back in the room. The CT had confirmed the doctors initial suspicion.
The doctor numbed Jack with a local anesthetic and cleaned the area and debrided necrotic flesh. The nurses used a retractor to hold the wound open, and the doctor removed the twisted bullet from the fatty part of the abdomen with a pair of forceps.
He held the bullet up to view so JD could see. The bloody thing was twisted and mangled.
Jack had gotten lucky. There was no major damage. No rupture of the abdominal wall.
The doctor asked JD if he wanted to keep the bullet as a souvenir.
“Hell yes!” JD said.
The doctor stitched him up and prescribed a course of antibiotics for the next 3 days, as well as some pain medication.
The incident had been reported to local authorities, and by the time JD was nearing discharge, Inspector Géroux showed up and started asking questions. "Can you tell me what happened?"
"It's not illegal to get shot, is it?" JD asked.
"No. But shooting someone is. What can you tell me about the incident?”
"A car drove by and opened fire," I said.
"Make? Model? License plate?"
“4 door, late-model, black sedan,” I said. “I didn't get much more than that."
"Any idea why you two might have been targeted?" Géroux asked.
There could've been several reasons why we were targeted. Maybe somebody didn't like us snooping around? Maybe the cartel had seen me on television and had sent a hit squad? I would likely never know, and I didn't feel like discussing it with Géroux.
"My personality is so radiant, some people just want to snuff it out,” JD said.
The inspector was not amused.
"This is a very safe city,” Géroux said. “We pride ourselves on that fact. Yet trouble seems to follow you, Mr. Wild.”
"What can I say? Mystery and intrigue surrounds me."
"Then perhaps it should surround you somewhere else?” the inspector said, urging me to leave town. "Monaco has an image to protect. This kind of thing is not good for business, and it makes the residents feel uncomfortable."
"Believe me, I feel pretty uncomfortable right now," JD said. "I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, but it seems like you’ve got a few murderers running around out there. Maybe that's where you should focus your attention?”
Géroux’s eyes narrowed at him. He was silent for a long moment. "If you two can think of any additional details about the attack, please contact me."
I assured him we would.
Géroux left, and JD didn't want to stay in the hospital any longer than necessary. The hospital typically discharged superficial wound patients the same day. Gunshot wounds involving bones, or deeper structures, required a multi-day stay.
I paid the bill, and we caught a cab back to the hotel. Transferring in and out of the car was painful for Jack, and he winced with pain. It hurt every time he flexed, and each turn and bump in the road tugged at his stitches.
By the time we got back to our room, JD's abdomen was black and blue. The bruising had finally set in. I had filled his prescription at a 24 hour pharmacy near the hospital while he waited for his discharge papers. JD popped two more pills of hydrocodone with acetaminophen
. He washed them down with a glass of whiskey and crawled into bed.
Jack groaned like he was dying.
“Don’t be such a wuss. You’ve been shot before.”
“But at least I got to shoot back then. This time I had to run away like a little bitch.”
“Don’t you mean waddle away?”
His eyes narrowed at me. “Shut it. It’s a good thing I had a little extra padding. Besides, haven’t you heard? Dad-bod is in. Chicks love it.”
“I’m just saying, someone your age should be mindful of excess abdominal fat.”
“Respect your elders, young man,” he chided. “Besides. My cholesterol is perfect. It’s a proven fact beef brisket is good for the heart. Keto, bitch!”
I rolled my eyes. “Please, you eat carbs.”
“Beer doesn’t count,” he insisted.
“We just ate pizza?” I said incredulous.
“Splurge day,” he said, dismissively.
“Every day is a splurge day for you.”
“YOLO.”
“Are you allowed to say that when you’re over 50?”
His eyes narrowed at me. “All the more reason to live for the moment.”
He smiled.
I chuckled and shook my head at his bullshit. JD didn’t much look after his health and didn’t seem to give it a second thought. Jack planned on eating and drinking whatever he wanted until the widow-maker took him out. In truth, he was more likely to die from a gunshot from a jealous husband than a cheeseburger. And I think that’s the way he hoped he would go.
Jack woke up sore as hell in the morning and instantly reached for another round of the hydrocodone.
“Go easy on that stuff,” I cautioned. “Those opioids will block you up.”
JD scowled at me. “I’ll go easy when this stops hurting. Who are you, my mother?”
“Well, you are a child.”
He sneered at me.
I left the room, went downstairs, and grabbed breakfast. The food was good, but the coffee was shit. It had been sitting too long and was over-heated.
I brought a plate back to the room for JD. ”Will you be okay while I go pay our little art dealer friend a visit?”
“I’ll go with you,” JD said.
My face twisted. “The hell you will. Stay here and take it easy.”
“I’m fine. It’s a scratch.” He tried to sit up and winced with pain. “Okay, maybe I’ll sit this one out.”
I chuckled.
JD picked up the phone and dialed guest services. “Can you send up an extra pillow and some more towels? Thank you.”
“Try not to get into any trouble while I’m gone.”
JD grinned, mischievously.
Vincent’s art gallery was only two blocks from the hotel. It was a beautiful morning, and I stopped at a coffee shop across the street from the hotel to get a caffeine fix before heading east to the gallery. I had to put the horrid, stale hotel coffee behind me.
I grabbed a tall cup of coffee, then strolled down the block toward the gallery. It was another beautiful morning.
I knew something was wrong as I rounded the corner.
A crowd gathered around, and police cars with flashing blue lights were parked near the entrance to the gallery.
19
I asked an onlooker, “What happened?"
She shrugged. "I'm not sure. I think there was some kind of break in, or something. A man was killed."
I pushed through the crowd and peered into the large glass windows of the gallery.
Vincent lay dead on the floor enveloped by a pool of blood.
A forensics photographer took pictures, illuminating the gallery with flashes of brilliant light. Uniformed police officers kept onlookers at bay, while an investigative team bagged and tagged evidence.
Inspector Géroux hovered near the body, talking with a colleague. His eyes randomly caught sight of me peering into the window.
His face crinkled with frustration. He excused himself from his current conversation and marched out of the gallery. He found me in the crowd. "What are you doing here?"
I smiled. "Just enjoying my coffee and a short stroll."
“Do you know anything about this?"
"Only what you're willing to tell me."
His stern eyes gazed at me for a moment, then he said, “Come with me.”
I followed him into the gallery, and he pointed at the body. "Do you know this man?"
I shrugged. “Not really.”
He gave me a dirty look.
"I've never met him, but he was at Bree's party the night of her death. I've recently learned that she purchased a piece of art from him which turned out to be a forgery."
His brow lifted with surprise. "And how do you know this?”
"I hear things. I know people. They know people."
Géroux eyed me suspiciously for a moment. "Who are you?"
"I'm just a guy who was supposed to be on vacation. Then things took a turn."
“I ran a background check on you when you were detained. The profile doesn’t fit. It's too clean. Too perfect."
I said nothing.
“I have a friend in the DGSE,” he said.
He let it hang there for a moment.
The Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure (General Directorate for External Security) was the French equivalent of the British MI6 and the American CIA.
“He thinks you could be CIA. Or, perhaps, a private contractor?”
I said nothing.
“I believe we could help each other. But we must be very honest with one another."
"Have you come across a Picasso on the premises?"
A glimmer of recognition sparkled in his eyes. “Oddly enough, there was one in the storage area. Come this way."
He led me into the back of the gallery where hundreds of paintings were stored. He showed me the painting that had been hanging in Bree's master suite. I filled him in on its history.
"Are you telling me that it is a fake?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you. I suspect, if you analyze other masterworks here, you may find more forgeries."
"That would certainly make Mr. Villeneuve a target,” Inspector Géroux said. "This was meant to look like a burglary gone wrong."
I told him that Bree was threatening to expose Vincent, and that could have provided a motive for her murder.
He agreed.
Without saying as much, I gathered Géroux had been pressured to wrap up Bree’s case in a hasty fashion. But I sensed he had his own suspicions.
"You think Vincent killed Bree, don't you?" Géroux asked.
"It seems highly probable."
“That gives you motive to kill Vincent, doesn't it?" he asked casually.
I scoffed. Not this again? “If you want to know my whereabouts this morning, I was at the hotel with my friend. You know where I was last night,” I said. "You and I both know I'm not a very good suspect for this."
Géroux gave a subtle, apologetic nod. "I must do my due diligence."
"I understand."
"How long do you plan on staying in Monaco?"
"I told myself I would stay until the circumstances surrounding Bree’s death became clear.”
“And are they clear to you?”
“I don’t know. Vincent certainly had motive.”
“But you’re not convinced?”
“Perhaps we will never know? "
He paused. "Who do you think was trying to kill you last night?"
"I have my ideas, but they are just guesses."
"You're an interesting man, Mr. Wild. You seem to be adept at making both friends and enemies."
"People either love me or hate me," I said with a grin.
We shook hands, and Inspector Géroux escorted me out of the gallery.
"I may contact you with further questions."
I smiled sincerely. "Happy to help."
I strolled back to the hotel and sipped on my coffee that was lukewarm by
now.
JD was up and about by the time I returned to the hotel room. Despite his injury, he was surprisingly chipper. He held up a pain pill. “I discovered that three of these little bastards, plus a glass of whiskey will just about make my pain nonexistent."
"You're not supposed to drink with those."
His face twisted with a dismissive scowl. “Please. Those warnings are just for amateurs. I'm a seasoned professional."
"That acetaminophen is really bad for your liver."
“I’m just seeing if my liver will respond to the challenge,” JD said. “It's like going to the gym and working out. The heavier you lift, the bigger your muscles get."
JD knew better.
My phone rang, and I pulled the device from my pocket. It was my agent calling. "Meet me at the casino in 20 minutes."
"Why?"
"I have a meeting with the head of a major studio. She wants to meet you. She likes the concept."
I let Joel know that Vincent was dead, and that I thought he probably killed Bree.
"Did you kill him?" Joel asked in an almost gleeful tone.
"No."
"Well, we can take dramatic license in the movie,” he replied with a hint of disappointment.
I told him I'd meet him there and hung up the phone.
JD insisted on tagging along, despite my protests.
"I feel fine. What could go wrong? I'm just gonna play a little blackjack. Maybe a few slots. What am I gonna do, tear open my stitches pulling a slot machine lever?"
"Maybe you’ve forgotten, there's someone out there trying to kill us."
"They're trying to kill you. Everybody loves me,” he muttered, full of himself.
I rolled my eyes.
We caught a cab over to the casino. It was too far to walk in JD's current condition.
The casino looked like a palace, fit for a king. The exquisite architecture was lavish—elegant Beaux-Arts design with 19th-century flair. The main entryway was lined with marble columns and had a high vaulted ceiling with a stained glass skylight. There were intricately decorated panels on the walls. A Formula X car was on display in the center of the entry hall.
In the gambling areas, the floors were covered with an intricately woven silk rug. You couldn't walk into this building and not feel like you stepped onto the set of a James Bond movie.