Raney & Levine

by J. A. Schneider

Jill stared at her email, frowning.

  Christine, her middle name. She never thought of it – why had it just popped up? She really didn’t like the name; it had been her mother’s. Mom the prosecutor. Mom the unhappy, frustrated Assistant D.A. who’d always wanted to rise higher, and never did. She got her name in the papers a lot, though. Chris Raney, Chris Raney, Assistant District Attorney battling bad guys. Jill used to come home from school to an empty apartment and read about her mother, online, in newspapers. Fighting at trials, addressing reporters, attending fundraisers; no mention that she was a divorced, absentee mother…not there even when she was at home. She was on the phone, studying briefs, always too busy. Jill had grown up lonely, bookish. Studying hard for good marks and a little attention from Christine.

  On other people, the name Christine was beautiful. It just made Jill mad, maybe that’s why it popped up. Feeling mad banishes feeling afraid, helpless. It helps you move forward.

  She stared again at her email, her finger poised over “Send.” Of course she felt afraid, but hadn’t wanted David to see. Instead she’d thought of Jenna Walsh, dying so piteously; had imagined the terror and suffering she’d gone through in that alley attack. And Nikki Sheehan, unknown but still so tragic… And snakes left just last night in the hospital chapel.

  Same creep, same signature. Excited, moving fast…

  Is it Nash? What are the odds?

  Jill took a deep breath, and sent the Dear Ralph email.

  Then went to find David. He’d gone to chew out the nursing supervisor who’d sent Phipps back with complaints about his handwriting.

  25

  Keri hadn’t called yet, and it was forty minutes till Jill’s clinic duty. David – uptight and just called to a delivery - told Jill to go help Phipps and Ortega update charts. He kissed her cheek hurriedly. And whispered, “Please rethink this. You’re going to be in a room with a crazy man.”

  “Okay,” she said with a look that didn’t reassure him.

  Which he expected, so he handed her a capped and loaded syringe. “Valium, 20 liquid milligrams,” he said low. “If Nash gets violent, don’t wait for the cops. Zap him.”

  She hugged him, right there in front of the nurses’ station, behind which three nurses grinned.

  “Go save a little life,” she whispered, pocketing the syringe.

  And joined Phipps and Ortega in the OB lounge. Nervously checked the time on the wall clock with the time on her phone, then gritted her teeth and read, flipped pages, took notes and checked on doctors’ orders. As they worked, Gary and Charlie muttered wistfully about donuts with sprinkles; Jill tuned them out and chewed on her lip.

  And only looked up when someone came in with a real dead-trees paper, its headlines blaring POLICE SEARCH WIDENS IN BOMB THREAT, POSSIBLE CONNECTION TO SURROGATE MURDERS. She only skimmed the first paragraph before feeling sick. Oh, reporters must have been digging all night. Had they seen the DevilSpawn website too? Probably. If David had found the search so easily, certainly hard-digging, excited reporters had. The police, said that first paragraph, were searching for one deranged suspect with a hatred for surrogacy and IVF, and who had threatened to bomb Madison Memorial for having “created” the ultimate of all test tube babies.

  Jill pushed the paper away and chewed her lip harder, felt so impatient she couldn’t stand it. Call, Keri, call, she kept thinking. Her heart thudded hard

  But her rote-mode still helped to override her anxiety. Luckily, pages in patient charts were color-coded, which made the going easier if you were half-dead exhausted, or anticipating meeting a horrific killer. Lab and X-ray reports were pink, doctors’ order sheets were light green, progress sheets were yellow, TPR (temperature, pulse and respiration) sheets were light blue, and nurses’ notes were white.

  Pages flipped. Charts came out and went back into their rolling rack. Nothing dramatic - until Jill’s phone dinged…and she frowned at it. An email, not from Ralph Nash or Kerri. “Righteous” in the subject line.

  Righteous?

  Oh… Last night, that second email she’d sent to SurroMoms Forum. Blitz-tired, she’d been “Desperate” and posted to “Righteous” who’d yelled at the others with all exclamation points.

  She froze. Leaned away and opened the email.

  “Dear Desperate, You are right to feel torn because God is speaking to your heart. And yes, I do live in nyc and could meet with you if you wish to talk. Name a place and time. I’ll see if I can manage it.”

  Jill stared at the message.

  Its voice sounded different from last night, and not just because it lacked exclamation points. Could this be more than one person posting as “Righteous?” Logging on to SurroMoms to make connections with surrogates?

  She didn’t know what to answer.

  Charlie next to her said, “Wanna order out for lunch?”

  “Sure,” she said, and then, “Oh, I forgot. Will you switch clinic duty with me?”

  “Sure, I owe you. This is boring.”

  She looked back to her phone, breathing faster. Started hesitantly to tap out an answer…and it buzzed.

  Keri Blasco, speaking in a low rush. “We’re going to see you at three? Would’ve called earlier but we’ve been investigating Nikki Sheehan’s murder. Found a link between her and Jenna Walsh.”

  Jill’s breath caught. She said nothing.

  “Sheehan belonged to an online group called SurroMoms Forum,” Keri continued. “There are other such groups but this is the biggest, comes up first in searches. Nikki’s friend said she made online buddies there, met with one of them to vent about flak she’d been getting from her family-”

  “Keri. Wait.”

  Jill stood jerkily and went out to the hall. Leaned her brow against the wall and spoke low. "I wrote that same group last night,” she managed…and told about Righteous, who had just answered and offered to meet and “talk about it.” Any time, any place.

  “Forward me the email,” Keri said.

  “Just did.” Jill finished punching keys. Her lips were dry.

  Seconds passed, and then, “Got it.” Seconds more to skim. “This is great. Okay, email back. Suggest meeting this Righteous at, say, 2:15, same neighborhood as your three o’clock with Nash but not too close. Let’s see, Nash is at St Mary’s on Avenue B…”

  “Tompkins Square is good. It’s just a few blocks.”

  “Right. Okay, here’s a place. Meet us at 1:40 at the Hookah Café at 107 Avenue A. That will give us time to explain the wire and scram and then for you to meet Righteous.”

  “Explain the wire?”

  “Actual wires are extinct. It’s digital now, you’ll see. So let me know if Righteous agrees to that time and location. We’ll be with you every step, watching, listening. Then you’ll have time to make Ralph Nash’s acquaintance, with us still listening. Hey, you got us a double. Two meetings with two crazy, maybe murderous zealots.”

  Jill listened, scribbling on her clipboard. “I’ve got another idea about the meeting with Righteous.”

  “What?”

  “Tell you when I get there. See you at 1:40.”

  She emailed, said she’d be wearing an old pea jacket, and heard back too fast, as if Righteous had been waiting.

  “Two-fifteen, yes, see you then at the Hookah,” went the bland message. She forwarded that email to Keri too, and pulled in a deep, shaky breath.

  No paranoia in that second email. No exclamation points, no suggestion of nastiness, the voice again sounding different from last night’s ‘Righteous.’

  How many people were involved in this?

  Real fear set in.

  Cheeseburgers had arrived. She grabbed hers, thanked Gary who had run down to pay the guy – “my turn next,” she said – and reminded Charlie to sub for her in the outpatient clinic.

  “I’m on my way,” he said, rising with his mouth full. “You going shopping or something?”

  “Ha!”

  In her on call room she changed and ate simultaneous
ly, nearly choking on a fry. Then called David, leaving a detailed voicemail including the second meeting with Righteous. Then got out her Mace, which she hadn’t used since last July. The label pronounced it “the most powerful pepper concentration allowed by law!” It also had a pretty, adjustable strap that looked like a bracelet.

  Now, as in last July, she strapped it on, then pulled on her oldest jeans and her beat-up pea jacket. The Valium syringe went into the jacket pocket. She tugged her sweater sleeve down over the Mace, then pulled on her grungy man boots, not used since some college hikes.

  Wig? No wig? She had two from last summer, one blond, one light-brown, both short. She hated them. They itched.

  Forget the wigs. It occurred that she was most recognizable to patients in the hospital, when she was in her element. Perception is everything. Looking scruffy, clomping down some dingy East Village Street, a movie star would go unrecognized.

  She brushed her long dark hair down and parted it in the middle, hippie style. Looked in the mirror again and pulled the sides forward to hide her face more.

  Dark sunglasses completed the look. Very Yoko Ono.

  Downstairs in the crowded foyer she almost bumped into George Mackey, looking tense and going the other way.

  “S’cuse me,” he said, not recognizing her.

  Three blocks away she rushed down cement stairs and took the Lexington Avenue Express, barreling south.

  26

  Drums, bongos, and guitars boomed on the train platform, the stairs, and before she was even out of the subway. Walking down Avenue A from Fourteenth Street, Jill passed a giant, walking artichoke and Thai, Punjab, Ukranian, and Vietnamese restaurants, small and squeezed close. It was said that the East Village was the neighborhood with the highest concentration of bars and restaurants in the city, perhaps in the world. Further down was a wall of elaborate graffiti screaming DIE, YUPPIE SCUM - a protest of the gentrification that had crept in and driven up realty prices. Also, no doubt, what had caused the closing of St. Mary’s. Jill remembered Tricia saying, “Condos! Argh!” describing the Archdiocese putting the church up for sale.

  This whole area was known as Alphabet City. Somewhere Jill had read that it used to be one big marsh, until developers started filling it in in the 1890s. In the next hundred years it went from crowded immigrant communities to cheap housing for artist types to Trendy. Condos and boutiques now crowding exotic pubs and clubs.

  But if the rent for a one-bedroom had gone up to three thousand a month, the area still kept its atmosphere of artists, musicians, students, and diversity. Four and a half blocks down, just past a guy pounding steel drums and a plastic naked woman leaning coquettishly forward for a kiss, Jill reached the Hookah Café.

  She was early. Keri Blasco and Alex Brand were earlier, already lounging at one of Hookah’s sidewalk tables and also in jeans and ratty jackets. Keri wore bangle earrings and her blond hair down. Alex had a black gym bag at his feet.

  Jill sat down with them, saying, “I just saw a walking artichoke.”

  Alex smiled and leaned closer. “A panhandler. He didn’t stop you?”

  “No.”

  “Then you look like you belong. He makes a beeline for tourists.”

  Keri said, “They love him. They get their pictures taken with an artichoke, then give him money. His father’s a hedge funder in Greenwich, but he likes to make his own way.”

  “Ha. Beats working.” Jill’s hands were clasped on the table, working nervously, and Alex looked at them.

  “Relax,” he said quietly. “Look high or something.”

  Jill did her best to. Alex ordered a café latte for her, it came swiftly, and chatty openers were over for anyone watching. The man at the next table really was smoking a hookah. Alex and Keri muttered to each other. Jill sipped the latte and checked her phone.

  One text from Tricia: “Where are you?” Jill texted back, “Out spying.”

  There was nothing from David. Probably in the O.R. or some delivery room. Jill felt afraid, and terribly alone. Switched to view Jesse sleeping, with some nurse’s hands gently adjusting his little blue blanket. He looked so darling. For an instant tears stung her eyes.

  Blinking them away, she looked back to see Keri pass her the bowl containing sugar and Splenda packets. “Don’t you want to sweeten that?” Keri asked pointedly, giving Jill a solid stare: Look in the bowl.

  Jill followed her gaze and saw it. A delicate necklace with a golden, praying-hands medallion wrapped around a sugar packet.

  “You’re right, this is kinda bitter,” Jill said, deftly palming the packet and medallion. She switched the medallion to her left hand as she tore open the packet and dumped in the Splenda; drank; and said, “Oh, better.”

  Alex leaned to her. “You can hide bugs now in buttons, pens, cuff links…” Jill was nodding and he stopped.

  “I know,” she said quietly.

  Keri checked the time. “Almost two o’clock. Put it on in the ladies room?”

  “Was just headed there.”

  There were two dingy stalls in the john. In one of them Jill studied the clasp, looked for long seconds at the two hands praying…nice…and slipped on the medallion. On the wall was scrawled Vodka/Xanax/Hashish WORKS!!

  When she returned Keri said, “By the way, what was that idea you had about this first meeting?”

  Jill leaned forward. “I don’t like it. What if Nash and Righteous are one and the same? Psych patients can fake normal, fake taking their meds. I’d rather watch first, see who comes.”

  The two detectives traded looks.

  “Better,” Alex admitted. “Where do you get these hunches?”

  “My suspicion radar. Maybe because my mother was a prosecutor.”

  Keri grinned and smacked her palm on the table. “I knew there was something about you.”

  They crossed the street to an Indonesian restaurant. Ordered syrup-colored coconut juice and watched through the window. Minutes passed, and then more minutes. Righteous was late.

  Finally, at 2:28, a thirty-something blond woman in jeans and a dark coat came and sat at the Hookah, ordered nothing, and looked around in annoyance.

  Jill almost choked on her coconut juice. “It’s Jenna Walsh’s sister-in-law!” She had a flash of Tricia saying, “That woman is scary. Did you see the muscles on her?”

  My God, she thought. Was Dara Walsh capable of the brutality on Jenna and Nikki Sheehan? There’d been no rapes, nothing sexual…just bashing those women’s heads, and the rest. Could Dara handle snakes?

  Keri breathed, “I’ll be damned. That SurroMom site is how she met Nikki Sheehan.”

  Alex was using his phone to tape Dara, who fidgeted and craned around, looking angrier. The corners of her mouth turned down. She reached for a paper napkin, wiped her hands furiously, and tossed the napkin onto the tabletop.

  “Good, her hands are sweating,” Keri said. “Sweating hands spill DNA.”

  Dara yanked the sweetener bowl to her, swiped a fistful of packets, pocketed them and then started pounding on her phone.

  Jill’s phone dinged. She read, “Are you still coming?” from Righteous, now known to them as – surprise! - Dara Walsh. The words seemed to leap from Jill’s phone screen. Her hands shook as she showed it to the others, then took a quick pic of Dara with her own phone and sent it to David: “SurroMom’s Righteous is Dara Walsh.”

  Was he still in delivery or surgery? Jill so wanted to talk to him, tell him. Open-mouthed, she blinked at Dara across the street again.

  “Tell her you were delayed,” Alex whispered.

  Her hands were cold, trembling. She punched letters, the emotion in her answer ironically real: “Oh, so sorry! Delayed! Another day maybe?” She hit Send. Seconds later they watched Dara read, then snap at a waiter and furiously punch her phone.

  The email torrent arrived. “Maybe! Another day you’ve delivered your soul to the devil! I could have helped you! If you still want to talk, I’ll give you one more chance to save your
self from burning in eternal hellfire!”

  Now exclamation points…

  The three of them squeezed together to read it, then saw Dara rise and stalk off.

  “Heading north unfortunately,” Keri said. “The way we want to go.”

  Alex held his hand up, and they waited a minute, Keri tapping her fingers and Jill twisting her juice straws into knots. Then: “There’s time,” Alex said. “Wait.”

  He crossed the street pulling on leather gloves. He badged the waiter, who made a face at the just-vacated seat and took a bill from him, nodding. Then he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket, bagged the sweetener bowl and the tossed napkin, and crossed the street back to them.

  “Fantastic.” He put his bagged evidence into his gym bag as the other two rose from their seats. “Now we’ve got Dara Walsh’s prints and her husband’s. Likely even Dara’s DNA from her sweating, thieving fingers. Jill, you should’ve become a cop.”

  “I almost did,” she said.

  Keri looked at her.

  Jill fingered the syringe in her pocket. “Long story. I’ll tell you on the way to St. Mary’s.”

  27

  David dropped to a bench, dropped his face in his hand and closed his eyes. He was beyond exhausted. His knees hurt from standing so long in the O.R. Behind his closed lids he pictured…bed, and Jill, her arm around him even as she slept. The image warmed him, helped him feel alive again.

  A nurse passing him smiled sweetly and said, “Just heard you saved that woman’s life. Te felicito.”

  He smiled wearily at her as she passed.

  Then got out his cell phone. Heard Jill’s first voicemail and frowned. Righteous? A second meeting with someone usernamed Righteous on top of the Ralph Nash meeting? He replayed the message, his frown deepening. The cops were with her, but still…

  Suddenly his phone dinged and there was Jill’s text and a photo, sent seconds ago: “SurroMom’s Righteous is Dara Walsh.”

  His breath stopped. He stared at the angry blond woman’s face in the photo.

  Dara Walsh? Posting on SurroMom.com? His breath quickened, his mind trying to figure, connect…