by K. K. Beck
Later, she could barely remember the interval of time between the wonderful sound of a police siren coming over the hill down Pine Street, and the sensation of cool hospital sheets.
There had been the police. First two, then a lot of them. Their radios had crackled in the morning air and they’d bent over where she sat in the receptionist’s chair and she’d told them to go back and find the body.
Then a fire department aid car arrived, and a man and a woman in dark blue uniforms looked her over and told her they’d take her to the hospital. She kept telling them she was fine and didn’t want to go to the hospital.
Next, two detectives arrived. A tall, dark one sat opposite her and asked her questions.
“I had an appointment with Richard English,” she heard herself say in a deceptively calm voice. “I was here on time—at seven—and I walked in and went back there.” She pointed to the studio door. “It was dark, but there was some light. Then, all of a sudden, all the lights went out, and he attacked me. First, he stalked me in the dark. Then, when I fell over the body, I screamed, so he found me.”
“Do you know who attacked you?”
“No. I never saw him.”
“Not at all?”
“It was pitch black. That studio is sealed against any light.”
“But you knew it was a man?”
“Yes. He walked into a table in the dark and then he groaned a little, and I thought I could tell it was a man. Later, when he was choking me, I knew for sure it was a man. I could feel it. All I know is that he was taller than I am.”
“And how tall are you?”
“Five-six.”
“What were you seeing Mr. English about?”
“The dead man—he’s Richard English?”
“Looks like it. His wallet was in his pocket, with his driver’s license. You never met him before?”
“No.” And then, in her woozy state, she heard herself say, “There was a dinosaur with a pizza.”
“What?”
“On the floor.”
“That’s right. It looks like he was working on a pizza commercial. Clay animation. We found a what-do-you-call-it—like a comic book of the script.” He had a nice voice. Why was he talking about pizza commercials? He must be humoring her.
“A story board,” she said. She put her hand up to the back of her head.
“The medics here say you should go to the hospital,” he said now.
“I already told them I don’t want to.”
“You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “Sometimes when people get hurt they think that by pretending nothing’s wrong, everything will be all right. But you could be seriously injured. You might have a concussion, or even a fractured skull. You’ve got to go to the hospital.”
“Can you make me?”
She looked at him carefully for the first time. He had an amiable face with crinkles around his brown eyes. He was smiling at her, and he said, “Well, I suppose I could arrest you as a material witness.”
“Don’t be patronizing,” she said. “Just because I’ve been beaten up doesn’t mean you can treat me like a child.”
Now he took on a brisker tone, and looked away from her face. “Tell me what you were doing here.”
“I wanted to talk to Richard English.”
“What about?”
Jane didn’t know what to tell him. She had to have time to think. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go to the hospital.”
“Fine,” the detective said after a little pause. “I’ll see you there later. We can talk then.” He gestured to the two medics.
Jane shook her head. “I can drive myself,” she said.
“No, you can’t. We’re going over the car. The rental car at the curb. He searched it.”
“He did?”
“That’s right. And your purse too. I’ll bring it to you after we’ve finished with it. The contents are scattered all over the floor. They’re photographing and fingerprinting now.”
“They won’t find any fingerprints,” she said. “He wore gloves. Thin rubber gloves.”
“He did? You felt them?”
“That’s right. When he had his hands around my throat. They felt clammy.” She thought for a moment about her purse and what had been in it. She had an international driver’s license and her credit cards had an address in Paris. Her printed checks hadn’t arrived. And the car rental papers had been filled out with the name of Mr. Montcrieff’s firm. She had thought it looked more respectable and was afraid of what a check on her Visa status would reveal.
“There wasn’t anything there with my address on it,” she said. “I’m pretty sure of that.”
“I noticed that,” he said. “Just what is your address?”
She gave him the address on Federal Avenue.
“Until we find out more about this,” he said, “I’m holding your name and address. I don’t want the press to get at you. And I don’t want your assailant to find you. He may have thought he killed you. Any idea what he was looking for?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. But she did have an idea. She’d told Richard English she’d be bringing Linda’s notebooks to their meeting.
Chapter 16
Jane had spent the morning in a hospital gown being examined by doctors. They looked in her eyes, lifted up her hair and peered at her scalp, and ran her through a CAT-scan. She was also, she discovered, a piece of evidence in a homicide investigation. Her bruises were photographed, scrapings were taken from under her fingernails, her clothing was taken away in a search of hairs and fibers.
Then she was put to bed and fed. She polished off the whole tray—mixed vegetables, some sort of a meat patty, roll, butter, and lime Jell-O with fake whipped cream. After lunch, she lay in bed and closed her eyes, and listened to the hospital sounds: nurses chatting at their station and metal carts being wheeled down the hall, and the steady hum of television sets. She had to decide what she’d tell the police. She had to tell the truth, of course, but she didn’t want them to constrain her in any way from pursuing her own hopeless case.
A woman wearing a blue dress and carrying a clipboard came into her room and asked her about health insurance.
“Health insurance?” Jane repeated blankly. “I forgot all about it. I’ve lived in Europe so long, I just assumed—”
The woman frowned. Jane imagined the woman wanted to stuff her into a cab and ship her off to some Dickensian public ward. She supposed she should feel pathetic. An indigent, whom no one would want to care for. If she let herself, she could fall apart now. But she wouldn’t let herself.
“All my bills will be taken care of by my lawyer’s office. That’s Carlson, Throckmorton, Osgood, Stubbins, and Montcrieff,” she said grandly. She’d faked her way through worse situations than this.
The woman wrote down each partner’s name suspiciously. “I’ll still need you to fill out the rest of this form,” she said, shoving the clipboard at Jane.
Jane didn’t reach for it. “Carlson, Throckmorton, Osgood, Stubbins, and Montcrieff handle all my paperwork,” she said. “They know my social security number and all that kind of thing.” The woman glared at her and Jane smiled a condescending smile.
Damn, damn, damn, Jane thought. This is all Uncle Harold’s fault. Why should she have to put up with all this? She’d been given a vague task, been beaten by an unknown assailant, and now she was being hounded by this woman in blue who presumably had health insurance of her own and remembered to clean out her gutters when they filled with leaves and returned her library books on time and led a thoroughly respectable and dull life. Why couldn’t Uncle Harold have left Jane his money? Period.
“We need some basic information, or we can’t treat you,” said the woman.
“I’ve just had a blow to my head,” said Jane. “I’m not filling in anything right now. I’m sorry.”
“Is there someone who can help us? A husband or someone?”
“There isn’t anyone like that,” said J
ane, feeling rather ashamed that there wasn’t. Most people had people who cared about them near at hand. “Call my lawyers. They’ll straighten it out.”
The woman sighed and left.
Through the pain, and blotting out the self-pity, Jane felt a surge of energy and an eagerness to press on. She was too damned angry at whoever it was who had beat her to stop now. There was a lot to do. A lot to find out.
Jane picked up the telephone at the side of her bed and called Calvin Mason. A recording came on. “We’ve stepped out of the office for a moment,” it said. Who “we” were, Jane couldn’t imagine, unless you counted the orange cat. “Just leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
“This is Jane da Silva. I’m in the hospital. I was attacked. I need you to—”
Just then Calvin’s real voice came on. “My God,” he said. “What happened to you?”
Jane told him about her appointment with Richard English and its aftermath.
“My God,” he repeated softly. “If I’d known it was going to be like this I would have tried to stop you. How are you feeling now? Is anything broken?”
“No bones. I just feel the way you looked the other day. I should have been more sympathetic.”
“Yeah, well I wasn’t stumbling over corpses. This is pretty major shit you’re talking about.”
“Anyway,” she said, “I was hoping you could go to my house and get three notebooks from the drawer in the bedside table in the main bedroom upstairs. And then hang on to them.”
Calvin, bless his heart, didn’t ask any more questions. “All right,” he said. “Is there a key?”
“No.”
“Is there an alarm?”
“No.”
“Okay. No problem. Just give me the address.”
“Be careful,” she said. “Whoever attacked me might try to search my house.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Calvin heartily. “Just get some rest. I’ll come by and see you later.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I’m checking out.”
She hung up, and a volunteer with a cart of magazines came into the room. “The police won’t let me have my purse,” Jane said. “Do you think you could get me a brush and a mirror?”
The volunteer, a pleasant-looking woman with a round face, seemed glad to be able to help and left on the errand. When she’d gone, Jane decided she’d better call Kenny and Leonora and warn them.
Kenny answered.
“This is Jane da Silva. I’m in the hospital.”
“What happened?” Kenny sounded shocked.
“I had an appointment with Richard English. Someone who apparently knew Linda years ago. Around the time she died. I was attacked in the dark.”
“My God!”
“Well, it was worse for Mr. English. He was murdered.”
Kenny was silent for a moment. “It’s the Fellowship of the Flame. You must have let them know, somehow, that you were after them. Jesus, we never should have opened up this can of worms.”
Jane didn’t point out that Kenny hadn’t opened up anything.
“I guess you’d better drop the whole thing, huh.” He sounded frightened. “I’m sorry I ever let you get involved. It was crazy.”
The volunteer came back and handed her a small pocket mirror, a plastic comb, a toothbrush, and a bottle of hand lotion in a plastic packet. Jane, still on the phone, mouthed a thank-you.
“Well, my main concern,” said Jane, “is that Leonora might be in danger.” She looked at her face in the mirror and gasped. Half of her lower lip was swollen. There was a purplish mark along one side of her face, and a red, scratchy patch on the other. On her throat were two dark blue marks, where a pair of thumbs had pushed their way into her windpipe.
“Bastard!” she said to herself.
“What?” said Kenny.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just inspecting the damage. I was hurt badly. I think he might have been after Linda’s diaries, and I’m worried about Leonora. Is there somewhere else she can stay?”
“I guess so.” Kenny sounded overwhelmed. “I guess it’ll be okay. I mean, we’ll just drop it.”
“Drop it? Hell, no,” said Jane, turning her face in three-quarter profile to the mirror. “They killed a man. And you should see what they’ve done to my face. Kenny, I want you to tell me about Linda’s last days. Where was she going the last time you saw her? Were there any special friends she had in the group?”
“It was so long ago,” said Kenny. “She was all wrapped up in this Flame stuff, and she wanted to move in with them. She was there all the time and I was home with the baby.
“Anyway, the last time I saw her, she left with some woman. Her name was Robin; she was one of these Flamers and they were going off to a special meeting—for the chosen few or something. The whole thing was so dumb.
“We had a fight about it, I remember. Anyway, she kissed the baby good-bye, and then she and Robin drove off. Some guy picked them up.”
“Who was Robin?”
“Just some chick. That’s what we called women then. Anyway, like I said, Robin was one of the Flamers. They sometimes went around in pairs, like nuns. You were supposed to have a buddy, like when you go swimming at camp. Another member of the group to keep you brainwashed, basically.
“Robin was your typical airhead, but she had great legs. I remember that day when Linda left and didn’t come back, Robin was wearing a purple suede miniskirt, and I was looking at her legs. She had a cute little black mole on one thigh, like a beauty spot. I remember Linda and I were squabbling and I was holding the baby, who was squirming, and I looked at that thigh and that beauty spot and thought what the hell am I doing here? How did I get trapped like this?”
“Do you remember anything else about her? What she did for a living or anything?”
“No. I never saw her again. You see, I didn’t report Linda’s being missing for about a week. I figured she’d gone away on one of those Fellowship retreats or something. Boy, I was really pissed off at her, too.
“Finally, I got scared and I went to the police. They had me come down to the morgue, and there she was.” He stopped for a moment. “She looked terrible.”
After some time in the water and nearly a week in the morgue, Jane was sure that was true. “It must have been horrible,” she said simply. “But what happened to Robin? Did she tell you what happened?”
“No. I never saw her again. I didn’t know her last name. I told the police about her, but I doubt they looked for her. They did talk to the Fellowship of the Flame, and those liars said they hadn’t seen Linda for some time, and they never heard of Robin. The death was listed as an accidental death, but everyone thought it was suicide.”
“Except you.”
“It was such a confusing time. Maybe she did kill herself, but she never seemed like she would. She had a lot of crazy energy, you know? It’s true, she wasn’t happy, but Linda never was. She kind of got off on being miserable.
“Anyway, I’ve always blamed the Fellowship of the Flame, and thought they were responsible, whether or not they’d actually done it. In a way, they’d already taken her away from us. From me and Leonora.”
“Is Leonora there?”
“No, she’s not. She’s at her piano lesson.”
“Well, tell her I’ll call her later. I hope neither of you are in any danger. Be careful, will you?”
A nurse came in carrying Jane’s clothes—presumably neatly vacuumed by the police—and her purse, and put them on the chair next to the bed. “The police say they’ll be back to interview you this afternoon,” she said, fluffing up Jane’s pillow.
After she left, Jane got out of bed and started dressing. When she was almost finished, she rang the buzzer. She was sitting on the bed, looking through her purse, when the nurse reappeared.
“I’m leaving,” Jane said.
“Oh, but you can’t. The doctor—”
“If you get the doctor here, I’ll be glad to listen
to any reasons I should stay here, but otherwise I’m leaving. I feel fine.” This wasn’t strictly true. Her head ached.
The nurse scurried out of the room and returned just as Jane was tucking her blouse into her skirt and slipping her feet into her shoes. The nurse had a young, curly-haired male intern with her.
“We’d like you to stay just for the night,” he said pleasantly. “Just to be sure.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m leaving. But I would like you to tell me what you found out from those tests.”
“You’ve got a pretty hard skull. You don’t have a concussion or any fracture. Still, we’d like to observe—”
“I don’t have time,” said Jane.
The nurse and the doctor exchanged glances.
“And I had a watch,” she said. “Where is it?”
“But if there’s anything wrong with you—” the doctor began.
“I know, I know,” she said impatiently. “If there’s anything wrong with me, you’re afraid I’ll sue you.” From what she’d heard, Americans had spent the years she was away in a litigious frenzy. “If you want, I’ll sign some form that says I’m leaving against medical advice. Would that make you feel better?
“You’d better hurry, though,” she added, looking back in her pocket mirror and fluffing up her hair. “Because I’m on my way out.”
The nurse rushed away and came back with the woman in blue and her clipboard. Jane hurriedly signed something they thrust in front of her. “If my brain is scrambled,” she thought to herself, “my signature won’t mean anything anyway.” The nurse handed Jane her watch, a simple gold circle on a brown leather strap. She noted with chagrin that the crystal was broken.
The first place she went, after emerging onto the street, was a drugstore. She bought a bottle of face make-up, and a lipstick that covered the bruise on her lip. She put it on at the mirror on the cosmetics counter, while the clerk, a young girl, stared at her, fascinated. Her lip hurt as she applied the lipstick, purplish to match her bruise.
Jane toyed with the idea of coming up with some explanation for her battered face, and then decided to forget it. Women mostly got beaten up by men they loved and then lied about it. The girl wouldn’t believe her anyway. Jane smiled at her, and she looked away, embarrassed.