“Did a number on her, too, I hear. Thompson!” Hayden called, and the uniformed cop came over and removed the restraints. Hayden sat beside me on the pew. “Tell me about it.”
I did.
“Well, the witnesses confirm she shot your brother. After they finish with her at the hospital, she’ll be booked. Then we’ll look into the rest of it. Here,” he handed me a set of keys. “One of the patrolmen gave them to me. The black lady with your brother asked him to see that you got them.”
I stared at Brenda’s ring with keys to the house and both cars. Richard’s Lincoln was still parked on one of the side streets.
“Thanks.”
“They took him to ECMC,” Hayden said.
“Where?”
“Erie County Medical Center. Used to be called Meyer Memorial.”
I nodded. “I know the place.”
“You can give us a detailed statement tomorrow.” He clapped me on the back, a gesture that almost resembled friendship. “I know where to find you, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
Hugging my broken arm, I got up and headed for the back entrance.
A block from the church, I found Sharon’s station wagon. The little boy was asleep on the back seat, his tear-streaked face at peace. He didn’t know his mother would never come for him.
The driver’s side door was unlocked. I opened it, poked my head inside. “Hey, partner.”
The boy blinked awake, unafraid of me. “Go away.”
“Remember me, sport?”
“You’re the bad man who wants to hurt my Mommy.”
“That was a misunderstanding. Do you know any policemen?”
He shook his head.
“I know a cop who’d love to meet you. He’s got a shiny badge. Want to see it?”
He shrugged.
I offered him my hand.
The boy looked at the empty driver’s seat. “My Mommy’s not coming back. Is she?”
“Not right now.”
The boy looked back at my outstretched hand. His eyes had a dull cast to them. He’d seen more of life than a kid his age should. Reluctantly he took my hand.
We walked in silence to the Basilica. One of the uniformed officers recognized me and let me cross the police line again. We entered the cavernous church. The detective spoke with the priest in front of the main altar.
The kid held my hand tightly while I spoke to Hayden, cowed by the building’s size and grandeur. The pitch of his fear was familiar—I’d been living with it for weeks.
I crouched down in front of him. “Jimmy, Detective Hayden will take you downtown. You’ll be okay.”
“Where’s my Mommy?”
I looked up at Hayden, who towered over us. “Don’t worry, kid,” the burly man said, “we’re taking care of her. Did the Easter Bunny visit your house today?”
The boy shook his head.
“Well, he came to the police station, and I think he left something there for you.”
With Sharon’s son in good hands, I once again headed for the exit. It was then I saw the rack of row upon row of dancing candlelight. I turned for it and thought of Richard. I’m not religious, but right then I needed God on my side.
My throat tightened as I stuffed money into the slot in the brass box. My hand trembled as I lit the candle. I watched it flicker and steady before I turned and started for the car without a backward glance.
I retrieved Richard’s Lincoln and struggled to remember the way to ECMC. I got lost and had to stop at a mini-mart to ask directions. Once there, I parked the car in the hospital lot. I’d been eager to drive, but not under these circumstances. I yanked the keys from the ignition, pocketed them, and sat with my fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. Would Richard ever drive it again? I’d only just found my brother. What would I do without him?
I was wasting time, yet fear kept me from moving. Brenda was alone. She probably needed me . . . I knew I needed her.
I hadn’t needed anyone for years.
I got out, locked the door, and went in search of her.
The emergency room wasn’t crowded—major mayhem seemed to be taking a holiday on this most holy day. I found Brenda sitting alone in the far corner of the waiting room, my mother’s rosary beads wrapped around her fingers. She saw me and stood. After a quick embrace, she pulled back.
“How’s Rich?”
“They had a hard time stabilizing him—he lost a lot of blood. There was a closer hospital, but they said it was better to bring him here. They’re more experienced with gunshot injuries.” Her voice was so quiet, so lost.
I motioned for her to sit, and she took her seat once more. She bit her lip. “I’m scared, Jeffy. I’m a nurse and I know everything that can go wrong.”
I reached for her hand. “You know they’ll do everything they can.” I was quiet for a moment. “He’s going to make it.”
“You know this for sure?” she asked.
I couldn’t lie to her. “No.”
She fingered the rosary beads. “I’ll have to seriously rethink this marriage business. I’ve lived with your brother for seven years. I know him as well as I know myself. But when he came in here, I was nothing more than a friend. I’m a nurse, and they won’t tell me anything. His blood is under my fingernails, and they won’t tell me anything.”
“Well, they’d better tell me.”
I got up, headed for the information desk, with Brenda tagging along behind me.
The receptionist wasn’t helpful. Having a different last name than the patient was not an asset. I’m surprised she didn’t ask for a blood sample for DNA analysis before one of the nurses took pity on us. She made a phone call and found out Richard had been taken to surgery only minutes earlier. Being short-staffed because of the holiday, the surgeon hadn’t had time to come out and speak with us. The bullet had ripped through Richard’s right lung, causing vascular damage.
“Why don’t you go upstairs to the surgical waiting room?”
A TV crew barged through the emergency room entrance. Brenda’s eyes widened in panic.
“Is there a way—?”
“They know the drill,” the nurse said, eyeing the cameraman. “They’re not allowed anywhere near the surgical unit.”
Brenda and I followed her directions to the third floor, which was even more quiet than the emergency room. The two of us had the small room to ourselves and settled in for a long wait.
We took turns sitting, pacing, sitting. We didn’t talk much. The TV bolted on the wall was tuned to CNN, the newscaster’s voice an annoying monotone. I couldn’t turn it off, so I hit the mute button and occasionally glanced at the news in mime.
Over and over I relived those terrible seconds at the church. Sharon Walker’s skill with a handgun equaled her skill with a bow. If I hadn’t stooped to pick up that stupid umbrella, she would’ve nailed me with the first shot. At least then Richard wouldn’t have had to suffer for my . . . what? Stupidity? Stubbornness?
Please don’t die on me, Rich.
Time dragged.
After the first hour, the numbness around my brain cells wore thin. I hunched over on the uncomfortable couch, my thoughts going in circles.
Exactly four weeks ago it had been me in a hospital emergency room. For four days I was a comatose John Doe. No one had worried about me. No one had known. No one had cared.
Four scant weeks ago, my brother had been a stranger. Now I could only grieve for the wasted years when I’d rebuffed his gestures of friendship.
You can’t die on me, Rich. You just can’t.
I never believed in fate, but the random pattern of my life didn’t seem so random any more. Was it preordained that I return to Buffalo? Was it inevitable that crime should continue to touch my life? Shelley murdered by a drug dealer; me beaten and left for dead by a couple of crackheads; Richard shot by a murderer I was chasing. My life’s path seemed to follow a downward spiral. If the pattern continued, then Richard was as good as dead.
&n
bsp; No!
I looked across the small room at Brenda. Lost in her own thoughts, her gaze was vacant, her eyes haunted. She and Richard had shown me such generosity. Richard had shoved me aside—taking the bullet meant for me. I swallowed a pang of grief. It took me thirty-five years and this tragedy to make me realize how much I needed—loved —my brother.
Anger raged through me. Why hadn’t I been warned about this? What good was this psychic crap if it didn’t work for me? Sophie said good would come of it. Yeah, then why was Richard being punished?
Some cosmic force had brought me back home, had shown me Sumner’s death, compelled me to find the murderer, and I never had a clue or a vision or even a funny feeling that Richard could be in any danger because of it. Sumner was a liar and a cheat. Why was it so important that I find his killer, risking my brother in the process?
Brenda got up, wandered over to the window. She peeked through the slats in the narrow blinds, her expression placid. “You know,” she said, breaking the quiet. “Richard wouldn’t volunteer at a women’s clinic because of the potential for violence. Instead, he gets shot in church. Does that make any sense?”
I let out a shaky breath. “It’s all my fault. If I’d never come back here, this wouldn’t have happened.”
Her eyes flashed. “Jeffy, don’t do this to yourself. You made Richard happy. He hasn’t been happy for a long time.”
“You could’ve fooled me. He’s been preoccupied, depressed—”
“He was worse before you came home. Now he wants to go back to work. He’s talking to lawyers about unloading some of that money. He’s getting back to being his old self—the man I fell in love with. It’s because of you. Can’t you see how special you are? What you mean to him—to us?”
No. I couldn’t.
The minutes dragged.
Four o’clock.
Five o’clock.
I was about to swear that time had absolutely stood still when an Amazon of a nurse, dressed in surgical scrubs, approached. Her expression was sour, no-nonsense, and short on compassion. Brenda and I were instantly on our feet.
“We had another gunshot emergency,” the nurse said succinctly. “Doctor Elliott had to go directly back into surgery. He asked me to speak with you. Mr. Alpert came through the surgery well. His vital signs are good and he’s in recovery now.”
“Can we see him?” I asked.
She looked directly at me. “Next of kin only.”
Brenda’s gaze shifted. “That would be you.”
“No.” I grabbed her hand. “We’re family. We’re going in together and no one’s going to stop us.”
The nurse straightened to her full height. “You want to tell that to security?”
Brenda shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “You’re wasting time, Jeffy. Just go!”
I clutched her hand, experienced the conflicting emotions roiling through her.
The nurse heaved an exaggerated sigh, and I realized her gruffness was only a facade. “Okay, both of you. But only for a minute.” She pointed her finger right in my face. “One. Minute.” She turned on her heel.
Hand in hand, Brenda and I jogged to catch up with her.
I’d never been in a recovery room before, never seen anyone fresh out of surgery. Swathed in a sea of white sheets, Richard looked ghastly, his skin tinged an odd green. Startled, I paused. Brenda’s grip on my hand tightened—she pulled me closer to the gurney. A cardiac monitor beeped in rhythm with his heart. IV bags hung overhead.
My stomach tightened. This was me, four weeks before.
As though sensing our approach, a groggy Richard opened his eyes.
“My two favorite people,” he rasped. We both reached for his hand. He captured one or two fingers from each of us.
“How do you feel?” Brenda whispered.
“Horrible.”
“You’ll be okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “The shoe’s on the other foot. When you get home, I can bully you around.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
My throat tightened. Sorrow and remorse threatened to choke me. “Why’d you do it, Rich? Why’d you shove me aside and make yourself a target?”
He squeezed my fingers ever so slightly. “You’re my kid brother . . . I couldn’t let her hurt you.” His eyes closed and he was asleep.
Brenda and I hung around the hospital for another three hours until Richard was taken to his room—the best in the hospital—and sleeping peacefully.
We took the elevator downstairs, exited, and walked straight into a mob of reporters with video and still cameras.
“Give us a quote!”
“What’s your relationship with Sharon Walker?”
“No comment,” I said, pushing Brenda through the crowd.
I thought we’d successfully left them behind when a voice called out, “Jeff Resnick!”
I turned: Sam Nielsen, his eyes bright with anticipation, waited.
Though I might regret it, I made my decision. “Give me an hour to shower and eat, Sam. I’ll call you at your office.”
“Exclusive,” he demanded.
“Yeah.” I turned, took Brenda’s arm, and guided her away.
The clouds were gone, the crescent moon a slash of pure white light in the cold, dark sky. We pulled up our collars against the cold and, hand-in-hand, headed for Richard’s car.
# # #
Read on for more about the author and her books, plus a SNEAK PREVIEW of DEAD IN RED, the second Jeff Resnick Mystery.
Chapter 1 of Jeff Resnick’s second adventure
DEAD IN RED
by L.L. Bartlett
My footsteps echoed on the pavement that cold night in early March. Huddled in my old bomber jacket, I dodged the mini skating rinks that had once been puddles on the cracked pavement. Preoccupied. By the creepy thing I’d experienced only minutes earlier. By thoughts of a new job. Of the fifty bucks I’d just won playing pool at the little watering hole near my apartment. Five months of unemployment had cleaned me out. I was on a roll and determined not to let anything spoil it.
Then two imposing figures stepped out of the darkness, demanded money. I gave them what I had. It wasn’t enough. One of them grabbed me, decided to teach me a lesson.
Not if I could help it. I yanked my arm back, kicked one of them in the balls—and paid for it.
Backlit by a streetlamp, I saw the baseball bat come at me, slam into my forearm, delivering a compound fracture that sent skyrockets of pain to obliterate my senses.
Couldn’t think, too stunned to move as the bat slammed into my shoulder, knocking me to my knees.
The bat came at me from the left, crashed into my temple, sent me sprawling. My vision doubled as I raised my head and the bat walloped me again.
“My cousin’s dead.”
The voice brought me out of my reverie, or rather the nightmare memory that claimed me at inopportune moments.
Tom Link’s bottom lip quivered and he looked away. Heavyset, with a barroom bouncer’s countenance, I hadn’t expected him to reveal any trace of what I was sure he would call weakness.
My fingers tightened around the cold pilsner glass as something flashed through my mind’s eyes: The image of a sparkling red, woman’s high-heeled shoe.
I tilted the glass to my lips to take a gulp of beer. Bursts of insight—if that’s what they are—bring with them a certain creep factor, something I doubted I’d ever get used to.
I concentrated on breathing evenly as I sipped my beer and waited for Tom to continue. It isn’t often a bartender confides to a customer. I know. Years before I’d spent time on that side of the counter, listening to the stories of lonely men—and women—who had no other confidants.
Tom wasn’t just a bartender at the little neighborhood sports bar that teetered on the verge of going under—he was also the owner of The Whole Nine Yards. I’d been patronizing the unassuming place for the past couple of months, getting the feel of it, a part of me
hoping I could one day be a part of it.
I’d heard about but hadn’t known the murdered man—Walt Kaplan. He’d opened the bar early in the day, whereas I’d never been there before eight p.m.
“How can I help?” I asked.
Tom’s gaze shifted to take in a group of regulars crowded around the large-screen TV bolted to the wall, before turning back to me. “You said you used to be an investigator—”
“Before I got my head caved in,” I said, referring to the mugging I’d suffered some three months before. I’d read about Walt’s murder in the paper, but Tom probably knew more about it than the news had reported. “What happened?”
Lips pursed, Tom ran a damp linen cloth over the old scarred oak bar. “Walt worked here part-time. He left here on Saturday afternoon and never came back.” His worried brown eyes met mine. “Your name’s Resnick. We’re landsman, Jeff. Would you be willing to look into it? I’ll pay you.”
We weren’t “landsman.” I was a lapsed Catholic, not Jewish, but now wasn’t the time to dispute that. Besides, the idea intrigued me. I’d been hanging out at the little neighborhood tavern with the idea of eventually asking Tom for a part-time job, and now he was offering an employment opportunity far different than what I’d anticipated.
“What about the cops? Don’t you trust them?”
“I’ve been robbed four times in the last twelve years. Did they ever catch the guys? No.”
Part of me—the smart part—knew if I accepted his offer I’d be sorry. Another part of me wanted to jump at the chance to feel useful again. I tried to keep my eagerness in check. “Tell me more about Walt.”
Tom’s jowls sagged. “You woulda liked him. He was a lot like you.”
My stomach twisted. “How so?”
A small smile twitched Tom’s mouth. “Quiet. A loner. He wasn’t one to talk about himself. You’ve been coming here for a couple months now and I know your name and what you used to do before your accident, but that’s all.”
He had me pegged there. Spilling my guts to strangers wasn’t in my program. At one time I’d been a top insurance investigator, but office politics weren’t my forte. I screwed myself one time too many and ended up on the unemployment line. On the eve of starting a new job, I’d been mugged by a couple of street thugs. The resulting brain injury had changed my life forever.
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