Oliver Quick

by Ditter Kellen

  Jason trailed off the porch and sauntered over to his Harley parked next to Oliver’s black SUV.

  He plucked up his helmet and threw his leg over the bike. “Think about what I said.”

  Oliver merely nodded. “Since when did you start wearing a helmet?”

  “Since I let my insurance lapse. You know how Florida laws are. If you don’t carry insurance, you have to cover the bean.”

  Oliver grinned, watching Jason pull the helmet over his shaggy blond hair.

  “Give it hell,” Oliver called out before closing the door. He blew out an exhausted breath, grabbed up the empty glasses, and carried them to the sink at the bar.

  Memories of April’s smiling face bombarded him as he grabbed a sponge, turned on the water, and absently began to wash out the glass he held.

  “You really should get the black leather sofa, Oliver. It suits your sexy, profiling self.”

  Her husky laughter swirled through his mind, bringing with it nearly unbearable pain.

  The sound of glass shattering brought Oliver out of his musings. He’d been so caught up in his memories, he hadn’t realized how much pressure he’d applied to the glass.

  He dropped the sponge, his gaze now fixated on the steady stream of blood washing down the drain.

  He’d cut his hand.

  Deep.

  Snatching up a dish towel, he wrapped it tightly around the now throbbing wound and grabbed his keys from the counter on his way to the door.

  From the look of the cut, he would definitely need stitches.

  Chapter Five

  Oliver arrived at Santa Rosa General approximately ten minutes later.

  Though the hospital was only a few short miles from his condo, the busy Destin traffic made it impossible to get there sooner.

  He climbed from his SUV, hit the keyless lock, and strode through the double doors of the emergency room.

  “May I help you?” An older woman wearing entirely too much makeup peered at him from behind a glass window.

  Oliver approached, already removing his wallet from his back pocket.

  He held up his bloody dish-towel-covered hand. “I’m pretty sure this’ll need stitches.”

  “I just need a copy of your ID and insurance card. There will be some paperwork to fill out as well.”

  “I’m already in your system,” Oliver informed her, handing her the required cards.

  She placed the paperwork on a clipboard and passed it to him through the opening at the bottom of the glass. “I understand, but we have a new system now, so I’ll need you to fill it out once more for me. One second while I make copies of your insurance card and ID.”

  Oliver ground his teeth in irritation as she disappeared from view only to return a short time later.

  “Here you go, Mr. Quick.” She pushed the cards through the bottom of the window. “Have a seat, and we’ll get you back as soon as possible.”

  Replacing the cards in his wallet, Oliver thanked the woman and made his way to a chair as far from the sickly as he could get.

  Upset children wailed in distress, drowning out the sound of the hacking taking place across the room.

  Oliver kept his lips pressed together, ensuring no unwanted germs passed between them.

  He filled out the paperwork, pausing at the small box next to the word spouse.

  No matter how much time had passed since April’s death, the pain never dulled.

  “Oliver Quick?”

  The sound of his name brought his head up. There, standing at a set of double doors was a short blonde nurse staring in his direction.

  Oliver stood, trailing across the room to tower over the petite woman.

  He handed her the clipboard, noticing how pretty her blue-green eyes were.

  His gaze swept over her, taking in every detail of her appearance.

  She cleared her throat as if uncomfortable by his perusal of her person. “Right this way.” She held the door open wider, waiting for him to pass through.

  Oliver moved past her, arriving in a small room with two chairs, a computer screen, and some medical equipment.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Quick.”

  Parking his ass in the correct chair, Oliver held his throbbing hand above his heart and glanced at the nurse’s nametag. Angie.

  Angie sat behind the computer screen, her fingers flying over the keys with precision.

  She spoke without looking up. “How did you injure your hand?”

  “A glass broke while I was washing it.”

  The nurse continued to glance at the paper on the clipboard while typing the information into the computer.

  Her fingers paused, and she blasted him with those blue-green eyes. “You’re an FBI profiler?”

  Oliver silently assessed her for a moment. “I used to be. I’m a private investigator now.”

  “I’ll update you in the system.”

  Oliver narrowed his eyes. “I was told you have a new system now, yet I’m still in yours?”

  She got to her feet, placed a blood pressure cuff on his uninjured arm, and stuck a thermometer beneath his tongue. “We do have a new system, Mr. Quick. But that doesn’t mean we lose all past information. It’s simply something to do with billing and codes.”

  Placing her stethoscope in the desired spot, she leaned in close and began to pump up the cuff.

  Her scent drifted up his nose, catching him off guard. Damn but she smelled good.

  She removed the cuff and thermometer, returning to the computer to type in the results of her findings.

  Oliver couldn’t take his gaze off her. Yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

  Sure, she was pretty, but it went beyond that. Her expressions, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when concentrating. Her hands…

  Her hands were smooth and soft looking, the nails clean and devoid of polish. Her unique scent. She wore very little makeup, if any, but it was her blue-green eyes that drew him in. They spoke of intelligence, compassion, and humor.

  “Mr. Quick?” she was saying, bringing him out of his own head.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I asked if I could take a look at your hand.”

  Oliver immediately lowered his arm, peeling the bloody towel free.

  Now that the bleeding had slowed, he could see the damage to his hand. There, on the pad of flesh beneath his thumb, lay a deep gash that extended across about two inches.

  Angie peered at the wound momentarily before covering it with the towel. “Come, we’ll have the doctor take a look at it. But I can tell you that it will need stitches.”

  Oliver stood, following her through another door that led to at least a dozen beds with curtain enclosures.

  “Right in here.” Angie pulled a curtain back, gesturing to the bed behind it. “Go ahead and get comfortable. The doctor will be right in.”

  A few minutes ticked by before the curtain was pulled back once more.

  “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Quick.”

  Oliver nodded to the tall, blond gentleman whose nametag read, Dr. Herring. “Sure thing.”

  Oliver waited for what seemed an eternity before a white-haired gentleman in an equally white coat appeared.

  “My name is Doctor Ahmad. It seems you’ve cut yourself on some glass?”

  “Seems I did.” Oliver unwrapped his hand and held it up for the doctor to see.

  Then the white-haired doctor rested his thumbs on either side of the cut and pressed down. Harder than Oliver thought was necessary.

  Oliver locked his teeth together to keep from growling obscenities. But damn the old fool’s chest-slapping, macho ass for his rough treatment.

  Ahmad finally released him. “It will require some stitches. Thankfully, it wasn’t deep enough to cause any nerve damage.”

  Angie appeared in Oliver’s field of vision, pulling in a stand with a silver tray on it that held gauze, possibly alcohol—Oliver couldn’t tell—and several other items.

  App
arently, she was planning on assisting Hitler with sewing him up.

  She set a small plastic tub on the bed next to Oliver’s hip and motioned for him to place his hand over it.

  The curtain was once again pulled back, and the younger doctor Oliver had met an hour ago poked his head in. “I apologize, Dr. Ahmad. I thought you were going home for the night.”

  The Hitler wannabe simply shrugged. “I had a motorcycle accident arrive not along ago. I’m waiting on some labs to come back.”

  Doctor Herring had intelligent eyes, Oliver noticed, watching the man nod to Hitler.

  “Do you want me to take over here?” Herring asked, still holding the curtain back.

  Yes, Oliver silently thought. Take over for Hitler.

  Ahmad shook his head. “I got this, but there’s one waiting in 12B.”

  Disappointed and slightly aggravated, Oliver listened to the two men exchange a few more words as Angie gently squirted what he assumed to be saline solution into his wound to wash it out.

  She then cleaned around it with alcohol and gauze before Hitler pulled up a chair and went to work.

  * * * *

  Half an hour and a 10mg pain pill later, Oliver woke to find Angie standing near his bed, holding a clipboard in her hands.

  She checked to be sure he hadn’t bled through his bandage and then handed him a pen. “If you’ll just make sure everything is correct on this page and sign the bottom, you can go.”

  Oliver accepted the clipboard, glanced over the information, and scrawled his name in the appropriate place.

  “Do you have someone to drive you home?” She took the clipboard and pen from his uninjured hand.

  “I can drive. I only live a few miles from here.”

  “You shouldn’t drive on pain meds, Mr. Quick.”

  Oliver blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine, I’ll call a cab.”

  With a nod, she turned to go.

  After a brief hesitation, she faced him once again. “Is profiling really an effective method in catching a murderer?”

  Caught off guard by her question, Oliver paused in reaching for his phone.

  He leaned back against his pillows and gave the nurse his full attention. “Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged. “It just seems a bit far-fetched to me. Kind of like relying on a psychic to solve a case.”

  Oliver wanted to laugh. But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he blurted, “You’re thirty to thirty-five years old. A single mother, recently divorced. You love what you do, even though you’re sleep deprived, and you struggle to pay the bills. You have a cat, though you’re not a cat person. You need glasses but rarely ever wear them.”

  He opened his mouth to continue, but she stopped him, her eyes huge in her face.

  “How…how could you possibly know all that?”

  Oliver flicked his wrist in her direction. “The charm on your necklace, of a mother embracing her offspring, tells me that you have a child.”

  He waved that same hand toward her attire. “Your scrubs are clean but well-worn, and there’s a small hole at the corner of your left pocket. Yet your shoes appear expensive. That tells me you’re practical. You need the shoes to be able to do your job without being in pain, but the scrubs are still doable.”

  Nodding toward her head, he stated, “You color your hair, but there’s at least three months’ worth of growth at the roots. Which tells me that you can’t afford the salon at the moment.”

  He briefly paused before continuing. “You wear very little makeup, if any, probably because you’re too tired or don’t have enough time to apply it before work.”

  He glanced down at her legs. “There’s cat hair on the legs of your scrubs where a cat rubs against you. Yet there’s none on your top, because you don’t hold him. Your thumb continuously rubs at your ring finger, a habit you’ve formed since removing your wedding band. The tiny lines at the corners of your eyes are not from age, but from squinting.”

  She held up a hand to stop him, her gaze full of stunned disbelief.

  Her mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she spun on her heel and practically ran from behind the curtain.

  He’d obviously struck a nerve.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned the squint lines. But he’d always been too outspoken. This was obviously one of those times.

  Chapter Six

  Oliver awoke the following morning with his hand burning like hell.

  He eyed the bottle of pain pills he’d gotten from the emergency room but decided on over-the-counter-meds instead. He’d need his wits about him if he planned on finding Jennifer’s killer.

  After showering and a shave, Oliver dressed in a black suit and flipped on the television on his way to start the coffee pot.

  A feminine voice spilled out from the TV, forceful and clear. “The FBI has been called in to assist in locating the Dockside Killer.”

  The woman continued speaking, but Oliver no longer listened. The media had given the sadistic bastard a name. The Dockside Killer.

  Oliver plucked up his cell phone and put in a call to Jason, who picked up almost instantly. “Morning, Quick.”

  “Hey, Jason, I know it’s early, but I need a ride.”

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  Pouring himself a cup of coffee, Oliver replied, “I left it at the Santa Rosa General emergency room last night.”

  Jason sighed through the line. “Should I even ask?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Jason muttered. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Don’t bring the Harley. I’m not dressed for it.”

  “Puss.”

  Oliver pressed the end button and took his coffee to the living room to watch the rest of the news.

  “All three victims of the killer are said to have blonde hair and blue eyes. They were all around the same age, and all left beneath a dock along the Gulf of Mexico.”

  Oliver glanced down at his freshly bandaged hand and thought about the nurse he’d met the night before. Angie.

  She also had blonde hair, blue eyes, and was around the same age as the other victims.

  He made a mental note to swing by the hospital later that night to remind her to be careful. With any luck, he would catch her between patients. Assuming she even works tonight.

  The pain in his hand was beginning to ease with the help of the over-the-counter medication. But not nearly enough. He wanted a prescription pain pill so bad he could damn near taste it.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “It’s open,” Oliver called, muting the TV.

  When Jason didn’t appear after several long moments, Oliver stood and made his way to the door.

  “I said, it’s…” His voice trailed off. Jason was nowhere to be seen, nor was his car in the parking lot.

  Odd, Oliver thought, on the verge of closing the door. His gaze was suddenly drawn to an envelope resting on the welcome mat at his feet.

  He bent and picked it up. It was addressed to SA Quick. Someone he hadn’t been in almost six years.

  Oliver shut the door, opening the envelope on his way back to the couch.

  What he found inside nearly stopped his heart.

  With an unsteady hand, he dumped the contents of the envelope onto the coffee table. The charm he’d bought April for their second wedding anniversary spilled out before him.

  It can’t be. But it was. The evidence of the Silencer lay on that table in the form of a heart-shaped locket.

  Oliver surged to his feet, sailed over the coffee table, and bolted across the room.

  He yanked the front door open and ran out into the parking lot, his gaze sweeping from left to right, to no avail. Save for a few dozen cars, the parking lot was empty.

  Several porch lights remained on in the surrounding condos, telling Oliver that most folks were still sleeping. No one would have seen anything. The Silencer would have made sure of it.

  And just
like that, the old familiar rage returned with a vengeance. It burned low in Oliver’s gut, fueling his long-buried obsession with finding April’s killer.

  He gripped the envelope in his hand, barely noticing the pain from his injury, and hurried back inside.

  Running to the bathroom, Oliver yanked open a drawer and withdrew a surgical glove.

  He’d already contaminated the envelope. He wasn’t about to chance destroying evidence left on the paper inside. Not that there would be any. There wouldn’t. But he couldn’t risk it.

  With his heart pounding in his throat, Oliver pulled the glove onto his uninjured hand as best he could. He then tugged the paper free and held it up to the light. It was a note, a handwritten note.

  He opened the paper and read the words aloud. “Have you missed me, Oliver? I sure hope so. I seem to have grown rather fond of you over the years. You haven’t remarried, I see. Not that I blame you. It would be rather difficult to replace someone like April. She was definitely two of a kind. Sincerely, S.”

  Oliver read the words once more, his mind refusing to believe what he held in his hand. After six agonizing years, the Silencer had resurfaced.

  “What the hell, man. I’ve been out there knocking for the past five minutes.”

  Jason’s irritated voice penetrated Oliver’s rage and confusion. He lowered the note and lifted his gaze to the closest friend he’d had since junior high school. “He contacted me.”

  “Who contacted you?” Jason reached for the note, but Oliver snatched it away.

  “You’ll contaminate it.”

  “Contaminate what? You’re freaking me out, man.”

  Oliver grabbed the envelope and moved around Jason, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “The Silencer. He left this note on my porch this morning.”

  Jason was tight on Oliver’s heels. “What the hell are you talking about? April’s killer contacted you?”

  Oliver flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” Jason apologized, following Oliver into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I’m just trying to get a grip on what’s happening. Slow down and tell me what the hell is going on.”