by Samson Weld
I can’t believe he got away.
Collins was the softest target working for Osorio. It should have been easy. Ash hated himself for using the garrote. What kind of self-indulgent idea was that?
A shot to the back of the head, or even a sharp knife across the throat, it would’ve been faster and more efficient. And Collins would be dead, without Ash suffering any injuries. His arm ached with that dark thought and hot blood splattered on his thigh.
Damn, it was worse than he thought.
Ash pulled over to examine his injury. He peeled his coat off, then the flannel shirt. He sat there in a black Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, his coat on his lap to catch the blood. Slicing up his shirt into strips, Ash bandaged the wound as best he could. It slowed the bleeding to a manageable level, at least. Then he used his phone to find the nearest medical facility.
It was a clean cut, so he came up with a story as he drove the three miles to the small hospital. Dallas had dozens of hospitals north of Dallas. The wealthy in that area had amazing access to medical attention and their hospitals were quite luxurious, too. Nothing but the best, and yes, that meant hardwood floors.
Going to the emergency room, he signed in. Self-pay. He didn’t have insurance, despite the government’s demand he pay for it. Ash tried to live an all cash life as much as possible. Credit cards and bank cards helped him establish alibis.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t brought any cash. He had to pay with his bank card. No choice. Without money, they would send him away. What Hippocratic Oath? The Almighty Dollar was God.
Ash didn’t have to wait long before a pretty, dark-haired ER nurse stepped out. “Ashley Wexler?”
“Call me Ash,” he said.
She was taken aback, glancing between him and the form in her hand. He got that a lot. Ashley was his paternal great-grandfather’s name. Apparently, that was a male name in England.
To put her at ease he said, “I don’t have the curvy body or equipment to be an Ashley in twenty-first century America.”
She laughed.
“Hi, I’m your nurse, Deanna,” she said, giving him a shy smile. Her name badge said, Deanna McGrath, followed by a string of letters. He recognized RN. “So, why are you visiting us today?”
“I heard the food is pretty good.”
She snorted a laugh before he followed her back to a curtained alcove and sat on the bed.
“I cut my arm pretty badly,” he said, seriously this time. He acted embarrassed. “I never saw that jagged piece of metal. Heck, it only felt like a scratch at first, but then it started bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Their eyes met and locked for an intense second. Hazel eyes, just like Milly’s. Ash quickly averted his, and her face blossomed red. She busied herself cutting the makeshift bandaging off.
“Oh my,” she said. “That is ugly. You’ll need a tetanus shot, as well.”
Ugly didn’t begin to describe it. The actual cut was closed, but dried blood encrusted his forearm. It looked worse that it was, or at least he hoped.
Ash knew he didn’t need a shot. “Do I? I stepped on a rusty nail last year, and had to get a tetanus shot. Doesn’t it last a few years?”
He had been told those were good for up to ten years.
“Ah, then you’re probably okay, but you’ll definitely need stitches,” she said. “The doctor will know if you need a booster, but it depends on many factors.”
Deanna carefully washed away the blood. Then she got on the computer terminal.
“I don’t see a next of kin or anyone else to notify in case of emergency.”
Ash didn’t like revealing too much about himself. That’s why he tried to avoid doctors. They asked too many questions and recorded it all. Besides, it was still kind of embarrassing to admit he no longer had any friends. The path he’d chosen was too dangerous to endanger innocent people.
“No. I live alone, and there’s no one close enough to call.”
“Aw,” she said. Deanna looked him over with a bit more interest. “Wait here. I’ll get the doctor.”
Ash watched her go. She looked good in her scrubs. He guessed her age around mid-thirties, with a toned, athletic body. Deanna gave off a sweet vibe similar to his late wife.
No. Can’t even think about it. I have to stay focused, and I damn sure don’t want to endanger her if it all goes south.
While he waited, Ash heard a disturbance. It took a moment, but he figured out someone seriously injured had arrived and they were scrambling to help him. Deanna returned a few times to assure him they hadn’t forgotten him, but she had to take care of an emergency first.
It took over an hour before Deanna returned with a young Vietnamese woman who looked sixteen. The doctor couldn’t have stood more than five feet tall.
“Hello, Mr. Wexler, I’m Dr. Vu,” she said. “Sorry for the wait.”
“First name ‘Déjà’ I hope,” he said, unable to resist the joke.
Deanna rolled her eyes, but grinned.
“Uh huh, I haven’t heard that one ten million times,” Dr. Vu said. Her voice was just as tiny as her body. She gently lifted his arm to examine it. “And that’s just from the people working here.”
“Guilty,” Deanna said.
Dr. Vu pulled the cut open, making blood well up again. Oh, that stung!
“Martial artist, I see,” she said, examining his callused knuckles. “Any other injuries?”
“I dabble,” he said. “But it’s just the cut.”
“My brother teaches martial arts and his knuckles aren’t that callused,” Dr. Vu continued. “I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley.”
“If we did meet there, I promise I’d be doing my best to help you in any way, Doctor.”
“Ah. Good. Deanna, you said he was cute, but never mentioned he was such a player,” the doctor said. Then she was all business. “How did you cut yourself?”
“I’m not really sure,” he said, acting embarrassed. “I was just going about my business and I guess I got too close to a jagged piece of metal. I never saw it until it was too late. Happened in a flash.”
“Rust metal?” she asked.
“Not that I noticed,” he replied. “I had a tetanus shot last year.”
“Nurse McGrath told me,” Dr. Vu said. “I’m going to sew you up, prescribe a pain killer, and I think we can forgo the shot today.”
“I don’t need a pain killer.”
“Ah, tough guy, huh? That is best,” she said, and started cleaning out the wound.
The pain was acute. His breath caught and Ash ground his teeth. Dr. Vu glanced up and grinned, but continued to torture him ruthlessly. At least Nurse Deanna fretted a little over his discomfort.
“Having second thoughts on the pain killer, Mr. Wexler?” Dr. Vu asked.
“No, but I’m trying to figure out what bad thing I ever did to you,” he said.
She laughed, and started to glue his wound shut.
“How lucky are you to get liquid stitches?” Dr. Vu said. “No extra charge.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The Vietnamese doctor patted his hand and left. “See you tomorrow, Deanna. Drive carefully.”
He looked at Deanna. It was the end of her shift? Was that the doctor’s way to let him know something? The nurse looked flushed as she entered information into the computer terminal.
“I bet she’s a handful.”
“Dr. Vu is quite a character,” Deanna replied.
“I heard that!” the doctor’s tiny voice called.
They laughed, eyes meeting again. It was Deanna who averted her eyes first this time. Ash felt his heart rate increase, but knew it couldn’t be.
“You live out in Royce City?” Deanna asked, staring at his chart on the computer. “I grew up in Mesquite. I have friends in Royce City.”
“I actually live on a farm outside of town.” She tapped on the terminal a bit more, entering all the information. “Can I go now?”
“Yes,” she said, pausing to stud
y the screen a moment longer. “Just making sure everything is in order. Looks like you’ve already given us your card number, so come with me and I’ll get your receipt.”
Ash didn’t get ten steps before he was brought short. A uniformed cop was speaking to a very familiar face. Collins came here?
He knew why the cops were there, but how did they get there so fast? Then he remembered how long he’d been waiting. Ash continued walking, turning his face away as he passed by the cops and Collins. The CPA’s mistress was nowhere to be seen. He wanted to linger and hear what story Collins gave to them. Would he confess that the attack happened in his mistress’s house?
Does Collins know how badly he injured me?
The cops might ask the emergency room staff questions, too, that could lead to him. He looked at Deanna, witness number one.
“So your shift just ended?” he asked Deanna when she handed him a three page summary and receipt.
Her expression was expectant. “Yes.”
His next words were the hardest he’s spoken in the last five years. He could see she would agree, but he almost stammered. Was it too soon? But his family was killed years ago, despite it feeling like yesterday sometimes.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to buy you a drink as thanks for everything you’ve done for me this evening.”
“I’d enjoy that,” she said, suddenly acting shy. “I stop at the Applebee’s for Happy Hour sometime. It’s only a few minutes from here.”
He glanced back at Collins and the cop.
“Perfect.”
Chapter 12
Bellucci stared at her monitor. She had Osorio’s rap sheet pulled up. How did a monster like that survive so long?
Every single one of his ex-girlfriends had shown up dead. The poor woman’s family was killed or chased out of town more often than not. Yet, the police hadn’t found enough in any case to arrest that lousy bastard.
Sometimes the justice system doesn’t work all that well.
When the system failed, it just meant cops like her had to work harder, better. So she’d spent hours scouring through the Osorio organization structure and files, trying to discern a pattern, a reason why one person was targeted and not another.
Were they targeted for a reason, or was each killing a crime of opportunity? There had to be a pattern she could use to discover the killer.
Cagle, on the other hand, had spent the time socializing with the other detectives or on the phone with his wife about a birthday party for his eldest kid. Bad guys killing bad guys wasn’t a problem for him.
Captain Perot strode into the room. Everyone paused and looked his way expectantly. Bellucci looked the six foot tall, middle-aged man over and wondered if they cloned Homicide captains somewhere. Michael Perot looked like her old Captain in New York. Both were fit late-fifties, shaven heads, and determined faces.
“I hope you weren’t planning to go home, Cagle and Bellucci,” he said.
Cagle groaned. Bellucci’s breath caught. Her boyfriend wasn’t going to be happy.
“I just got word that Dave Collins was attacked. He escaped alive and is being treated at the Baylor Hospital, up in Addison.”
“Addison?” Bellucci asked. “Is that a borough or…”
“It’s a suburb,” Cagle said. He frowned at their commander. “But, Captain, if the crime happened in their jurisdiction…”
“It didn’t. He was attacked in Dallas, but the nearest ER was Addison,” he replied. “Get up there. This might be the break we’ve been looking for, so get a move on. The ER staff is going to try and keep him there as long as possible.”
Bellucci hastily called up her browser and did a search on Baylor Hospital Addison Texas. It was further than she expected, but not that far by New York standards. Dallas rush hour traffic was a lot lighter. Still, Addison was due north and literally sat on the northern edge of the city of Dallas.
“Come on, partner,” Cagle said. “Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. I did have plans for tonight.”
Dallas Police Headquarters sat in a fairly new building south of downtown Dallas. The first thing Bellucci saw when they exited was the Reunion tower, not that far away. It was full dark, showing she’d already worked past her shift. She took the opportunity to send her live-in boyfriend a message.
Hey, Rocco, got a break in a case. Will be working late. Sorry.
That little line under her message appeared a second later that showed Rocco had read her message. No reply came back. Her shoulders tightened. He was pissed.
Everything angered him since losing his job back in Manhattan. The fact that he hadn’t found a new job in Dallas made it worse, but they’d only been in Dallas two weeks. Rocco liked instant gratification. No patience.
Cagle called his wife as they walked. She didn’t want to hear anything about working late and an argument commenced. Bellucci took the opportunity to snatch the keys out of his hand. She immediately unlocked the driver’s door and slipped behind the wheel. Cagle swore under his breath, whether it was directed at her or his wife, she didn’t know or care.
“You drive like a grandpa,” she said when he got in the other side and glared at her. “I’ll drive and you can tell me where to go.”
“How about Hell?”
“Got to be warmer than this.” She started the engine, and left the parking lot. “Preston or Central Expressway?”
Bellucci knew the main thoroughfares in Dallas. There weren’t that many compared to back home. She was still learning the traffic patterns in the city, so didn’t know when to avoid certain roads due to time of day and traffic.
“Six one way, half a dozen the other,” Cagle said. “Take Preston. That’s almost a straight shot to Addison.”
“Perfect,” she said. Preston started on the other side of downtown. “So, the wife is not happy?”
“That’s an understatement. I’m missing my son’s birthday party. Again. I’m already late and now I just told her I wouldn’t be home until after it’s over. Yeah, I’m in the doghouse.”
Bellucci’s phone dinged, indicating a message. She glanced at it. Rocco finally responded with a terse, Fine.
“Me, too,” she said, putting the phone away. “Who is Collins? I only saw him mentioned as a known associate of Osorio.”
“Dave Collins came to Dallas with Osorio three or four years ago. He’s Osorio’s accountant, and maybe more. Some say he’s the money man, the one who made Osorio the powerhouse he is today by hooking him up with Russian mobsters.”
Bellucci nodded. She remembered seeing a lot of Russians named as associates, too. So Osorio’s rise was financed by the Russians. That meant strings attached.
“Could there be a rift between Osorio and the Russians?” she asked. “What do you know about the Russian mobsters in Dallas?”
Cagle gave her a sharp look. “No more than anyone else.”
His tone was dismissive.
Traffic on Preston wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated. At least everyone was going the same way and everyone was in a hurry to get home. They reached Addison city limits in less than thirty minutes. The hospital looked like a small office building.
“Dallas sure has a lot of hospitals,” she said, pulling into the ER parking lot.
She parked next to a battered gray Dodge pickup. There was blood on the ground by the driver’s door.
Chapter 13
Peeking through the window, Bellucci spotted a bloody coat on the passenger side floorboard. The cop in her wondered what had happened. But it was an ER, so… Not everything was a crime.
“You don’t in New York?”
“We have a few big hospitals. Dallas has a million small hospitals.”
“Then you haven’t seen Parkland.”
The nurse at the admissions window immediately told them to take a clipboard, fill out the form, and wait their turn. Bellucci pushed her badge in the stout, old woman’s face.
“Detectives Bellucci and Cagle here to interview
David Collins, who I understand is a patient in the ER.”
A few minutes later, a very short, slim Vietnamese woman in scrubs stepped out.
“I’m Dr. Tera Vu,” the diminutive woman said. “And you are?”
Cagle showed the doctor his badge while a dark-haired nurse came out behind the doctor, putting her coat on. Bellucci noticed an average looking man in a black Jimi Hendrix t-shirt behind her. It almost seemed like he was trying to hide behind the nurse. They left together.
“You’re here to interview Mr. Collins?”
That pulled her attention back from the departing couple. The doctor was pretty, with a cute bob and slim build. If seen from behind, she would’ve assumed Dr. Vu was a child.
“Yes,” Bellucci said. “He is still here, isn’t he?”
“Barely. You better hurry,” she said. “Follow me.”
The ER proved a lot more sedate than Bellucci expected. Doctors and nurses tended the injured, but no frantic rushing around or shouting. Just quiet professionalism. She spotted where Collins was being treated, since an Addison uniformed cop still stood there as if guarding a prisoner.
“Are you the Dallas detectives?”
“Yes. I’m Bellucci and he’s Cagle,” she said, shaking the other cop’s hand. “That’s David Collins?”
“Yep, and a real ass… vocal citizen,” he said, and they all grinned knowingly. “He’s all yours. And if you don’t need me…”
“We’re good. Thanks,” Bellucci said, and turned to regard Collins.
Dave Collins stood beside the hospital bed, in the middle of putting on a very nice white button down shirt. He looked like a wealthy accountant, but not a mobster. That wasn’t the body or face of a killer. Collins glared at them.
“I got nothing to say to you,” he snapped. He grabbed his suit jacket and started to leave. “I’m out of here.”
“No, no,” Cagle said, blocking his way. “We have a few questions, Mr. Collins.”