I was stuffing the phone back into my backpack when it rang. I crossed my fingers it wasn’t Fischer calling back to announce she would no longer be leasing me the house, that our deal was off. Instead it was Mark White.
“I take it you got my message.”
“I did. And I’m glad you called. There are some things I need to speak to you about. Can you come by my office?”
White has a pleasant, smooth voice, which I suspect is part of the reason he does so well in business. Today he sounded drawn. Theft and subsequent legal troubles didn’t suit him.
“What time?”
“The sooner, the better.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I kicked the Cushman to life and motored out of the parking lot.
Mark White has an office in the Key Bank building on Howes Street downtown. Real estate mogul that he is, he has lots of business ventures. He oversees them all from this central location. I parked on the street, which was relatively empty, and went in. When the elevator let me out on the fifth floor, I made a left and let myself into White Real Estate headquarters.
A smart-looking brunette greeted me then pushed a series of buttons on her keyboard. As usual, Tandy, White’s long-time secretary, looked perfectly attired and groomed, as attractive as she was intelligent. I have always liked and respected her. Today, however, I noticed her hair seemed a little flat and her suit slightly wilted. Even she was feeling the stress of the current situation.
A minute later, I heard a door open, and White strode out to meet me. Our greeting was awkward. Then I followed him into his office.
“Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Water?”
He settled behind his desk and smoothed his tie before folding his hands on the blotter. Always as smartly dressed as Tandy, he, too, showed small signs of wear that would have gone unnoticed by anyone who hadn’t seen him at his usual best.
“No, thanks.”
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” he said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to call you back immediately.”
White is nearing sixty, but only a handful of people actually know this. He looks forty-five. No doubt his religious workout routine and green goop vegetable shakes play a part in that. Maybe some genetics, too. Tall, trim, athletic, he’s barely graying around the temples, and his brown eyes are clear and sharp. He smiles easily, most days, and has a friendly, open face. Behind it is a shrewdly intelligent mind that has taken him far in life.
“I’m sure your life is more complicated since this morning.”
He leaned back in his chair. “You have no idea. I can’t believe—” He stopped and sat forward again. “Let’s start at the beginning. First, I know you didn’t take that money.”
“Thank you,” I said. That was a big relief.
He shook his head. “But I’m afraid it isn’t that simple.” He took a breath. He seemed uncharacteristically hesitant to tell me what was on his mind. “You should know, after Paige ‘fired’ you, he took all the ‘evidence’ to the police.” He used air quotes as he spoke, and his face clearly conveyed his annoyance.
“Paige,” I said on a sigh. I should have known.
“Berry Paige has officially been suspended. My attorneys tell me I can’t fire him. Not at this point, anyway. Either way, he’s finished at White Real Estate. But the damage has been done. The case he laid out for the police seems pretty black and white. You are the one and only suspect. And they’re moving on it pretty quickly.”
“And why wouldn’t they, when everything came gift wrapped and tied up with bows?”
“I’ve been trying to focus on problems I can deal with,” White went on. “I have an independent accounting firm reviewing my books. As soon as Paige showed me those documents, that was the first call I made. I want to know where that money came from and where it went. They should have information for me soon.
“Meanwhile, I have a business to run. I can’t close the Fort Collins office while this is sorted out, so I need someone to take Paige’s position. I’m also opening a Weld County office in Greeley next month. I’m going to need someone to run it.”
Translation: I’m offering you either job; take your pick.
“Why don’t you have Spinulli take over for Paige?”
Frank Spinulli is Paige’s equivalent in the Loveland division of White Real Estate and Property Management. He’s better than Paige and might one day be as good as me.
“Eventually I will fold the Loveland and Fort Collins divisions into one,” White said. “But that isn’t a strategic move right now. Growth from the Fort Collins office has been less than ideal, far less than projected. I need someone who can make up for lost ground and gain more still. You’re that someone.”
“Is promoting me right now a good idea?” It would be hard to manage the office from jail, which was where the police seemed to want me.
“I think it will be good to see the company is backing you. I told the police more than once today I know you didn’t take the money.” He gave me an apologetic look. “Unfortunately, it’s going to take more than my word to convince them. Plus, I need you. What’s it going to take, Zoe? I don’t mind telling you I’m in a tight spot here; I’m willing to make a deal.”
I’d been considering a vacation anyway. And I don’t mind admitting, after the last couple days, some time off held its appeal. I’m normally one to plow ahead, but I decided to take advantage of the opportunity. White was willing to deal; he’d give me what I asked for, even if it wasn’t what he wanted.
“I’d like to think about it,” I said.
He was nodding as if this was good news.
“Absolutely. Take all the time you need.”
“I’d like two weeks off. I’ve got some things I need to sort out.”
He didn’t like this request, but he granted it. Apparently “take all the time you need” didn’t mean two weeks.
“Fine. I’ll have Henry Davis step in for the interim for Paige, then we’ll make more permanent arrangements in two weeks.”
“Davis is an all right guy,” I said reassuringly. “He’s learning quickly, and he has some good ideas.”
“I know. He’s a serious candidate for the Greeley office, assuming I don’t get my first choice.”
I stood. “Will you let me know what your accountants find?”
White stood with me, then moved around the desk. He pulled a card from his pocket. “Of course. You’ll be my first call. I asked my attorneys to represent you, but they tell me it’s some kind of conflict of interest in this case. They gave me this guy’s name; apparently he’s one of the best. Call him. I’ll pay for it.”
I accepted the card, slipped it into my pocket, and tried for my most positive, confident smile. “Thank you, but I’m sure it isn’t necessary. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Better not to take any chances.”
I left the office and returned to the Cushman. I was stopped by the first light. My head was busy with a hundred thoughts, most of them slanted by my own problems, but in moments of inactivity, some of those thoughts consistently veered to Stacy. As I sat waiting, I wondered how she was doing. Guilt pulled at me. When the light changed, I buzzed down to Mulberry and made a left. The hospital was only a short distance away.
I knew I needed to let the whole thing go. I knew I’d done all I could, given the circumstances, and that I couldn’t go back and change anything. But the feelings persisted all the same. The police were looking into her case, and if the way they picked apart the crime scene was anything to go by, they appeared to be taking the attack seriously. There should have been no doubt on my part that they would discover the assailant. But someone needed to answer for what happened to Stacy Karnes. I wanted to make sure that happened.
4
Traffic from the front door of Poudre Valley Hospital is funneled down a long hallway to a desk manned by purple-shirted volunteers during regular business hours. Today was no different; a hunched-back volunteer with blue ha
ir and thick glasses sat there. A sign told me this was the place to ask about patient room numbers.
“Can I help you?” the volunteer asked from her chair, her voice warbling with age.
“I’m looking for patient Stacy Karnes.”
“Do you know which floor?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Though I guessed she’d be in ICU. That seemed appropriate given her injuries. I said as much to the volunteer, who had turned her steadied attention toward the computer hulking before her small, fragile frame.
With fingers knotted from arthritis, she tapped out a few keys and clicked at the computer. I felt the Earth move under my feet in the time I stood there waiting.
“All right,” she finally announced with such victorious pride I couldn’t help but smile. “5608. Fifth floor, Medical. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” I lied. I thanked her for the information and hurried away from her desk toward the elevators. The line had grown behind me, and I didn’t want to spend any more time there.
I crowded into the first available elevator car with a large Hispanic family, a young couple I guessed to be newly dating, and some teenagers. I was pretty sure at least one of the teenage boys was wearing the same scent as me: Axe Phoenix. The couple and I got off on the fifth floor, the last stop. The couple knew where they were going and quietly made their way down a hall to the left. I followed the posted signs until I arrived at the Medical Unit. Then I navigated by room numbers, counting off doors until I arrived at number eight.
I glanced up and down the hall, but there was no one in sight. And I saw no one at the desk. I wanted to ask if Stacy was up for visitors, but I didn’t have the patience to wait for any more information.
The door was open an inch or two and I heard voices inside. I knocked and pushed the door open slowly, listening. A sure voice rang out.
“Come in!”
Whoever this woman was, it was clear she was used to being in charge.
Some instinctual part of me was compelled to obey. Another, more familiar, part wanted to rebel. In the end, I pushed the door open.
“Okay,” the voice was saying. “This will be Carrie with those pain meds. Last cold wipe here. Good. Now, take a deep breath and try to relax. You’ll feel some pressure.”
I saw two people dressed in scrubs standing on either side of the bed, which had been elevated to waist-height. I saw bare feet on the end of the bed. Bare, hairy feet. And they seemed too big.
The woman on the far side of the bed, a brunette in her forties wearing clear gloves, pulled a beige-colored, flexible tube out of a white plastic container positioned on the bed between the feet. She glanced up at me briefly as she gripped the tube. I noticed there was something clear and jelly-like dripping from the end.
“Oh,” she said, having realized I was not the person she was expecting. “Can I help you?”
After a couple steps, I saw enough to put it together.
With her other hand, she was holding a penis. Bringing her hands together, she put the end of the tube into the end of the penis and shoved. My mouth dropped open as the patient shot up off the bed.
“Aaaahhhh!”
The sound had come from both of us. Him in a scream, me in a panic.
The patient (obviously a male) with pain etched into every part of his face, struggled against the second scrub-clad figure who tried to push him back down on the bed. He caught sight of me, question in his eyes. But I was already moving backward.
I banged into the door, which had drifted shut. Crying out again, I spun around and practically flung myself through the doorway. I jerked the door closed behind me then stood leaning against the wall, my hands over my eyes. I knew the image was permanently burned into my brain.
“Can I help you?”
The frosty tone cut into my thoughts, drawing me back to the present.
I peeked through my hands and spied a woman an inch taller and several pounds lighter than me who screamed “high-maintenance.” Everything from her hair and makeup to her skin and nails to her clothes and shoes cried time, money, and deliberateness. I instantly disliked her. And I had the depressed feeling she would give me further reason for this opinion by the time our exchange was through.
“I was just leaving,” I said, attempting neutrality. I pushed myself from the wall and sucked in a deep breath as I started walking.
“Who the hell are you?” she snapped. Then I saw her flinch slightly, her nose working. She’d picked up on the shampoo. “What were you doing in my husband’s room?”
What were the chances the man in the room I’d been mistakenly sent to also wore Axe Phoenix?
A long, painful howl rolled out of room eight. Both of us looked at the door. I took a subconscious step backward.
“Baby!” she cried under her breath. Then she turned back to me, fire in her ugly brown eyes. “What did you do to him?”
Standing up a little straighter, pushing my shoulders back a bit further, I stared at her head-on and gave a little smirk. “He has enough company at the moment, and he’s more than entertained. Guess he wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” I infused this with enough suggestion to cause her blood to boil. It would be temporary, but I was satisfied.
She wanted to have a few more words with me, but her jealousy and hatred consumed her. Spinning on her expensive heel, she marched her (slightly dimpled) bottom, stuffed into pants just a bit too small, through the door into the room.
I couldn’t help but laugh softly to myself as I turned to continue on my own way. I was greeted by a young blonde girl smiling at me.
“I see you’ve survived your run-in with the Wicked Witch of Medical.”
“Aw, and I hoped it was just something I brought out of her.”
The girl laughed and shook her head. “Not even close. I’ve never seen her that mad before, though; you really got under her skin.”
I’ve heard this before.
“You must not be a friend of the family.”
I shook my head. “No. The volunteer sent me to the wrong room.”
And I’d suffered permanent damage. Maybe it all worked out for the better that I’d never finished college and become a nurse. Had I, it would have been me doing the penis-and-tube thing. I shuddered involuntarily.
The blonde nodded knowingly, as if this sort of thing had happened before. She indicated I should follow her as she walked to a nearby computer.
“Which patient are you looking for?”
“Stacy Karnes.”
“Karnes with a K?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the problem. The volunteer heard Barnes with a B. She sent you to Stacey Barnes. Was it Millie? Sometimes she forgets her hearing aids.”
I confessed I didn’t know the name of the blue-haired volunteer. The blonde looked up the correct room number and sent me with directions. I thanked her and beat a hasty retreat. Suddenly I was ready to run out of the hospital and never return. But I hadn’t done what I’d come to do yet. So instead of 1, I hit 4 when I got back on the elevator.
Stacy was, in fact, in ICU. Now that I was on the right unit, I counted off room numbers until I found Stacy’s. This time I peered inside cautiously before going in; lesson learned. Inside I saw a middle-aged man and woman sitting together beside Stacy’s bed, their hands grasping hers. I guessed these were her parents. The woman in particular bore a striking resemblance.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked softly on the open door and stepped inside. They both turned to look at me, and I saw their eyes were wet and bloodshot. I couldn’t imagine what they were going through.
“Can we help you?” the man asked.
“I’m sorry to intrude, but I was there when . . . it happened. I’ve been worried about her. How is she doing?”
They rose and walked toward me. He grabbed my hand and shook it, squeezing it tightly. She wrapped me in a tight hug. They were both crying again.
“We can’t thank you enough,” he sobbed. “Who knows
what would have happened if you hadn’t been there.”
Who knows what would have happened had I been there on time.
The woman was crying now, too. They clutched one another’s hands. This wasn’t what I’d envisioned. And I was uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. How is she?”
“The doctors say it could be much worse,” the man began, turning to look at Stacy. “She was in surgery for six hours, but they say they got everything cleaned out and closed up. They had to remove a small portion of her intestine, and her liver was bleeding pretty badly, but nothing truly vital was damaged. So, we just have to wait.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“You bet,” he said firmly. The woman was bobbing her head in affirmation. “Our Stacy, she’s strong. She’s a fighter.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” I was truly relieved. And now it was time to go. “I don’t want to take too much of your time. I better go.”
The woman sniffed and wiped at her nose with a tissue.
“You’re welcome anytime. If there is anything, anything at all, that you ever need, don’t hesitate to ask.”
The man nodded vigorously in agreement.
After another long minute of thank-yous and hugs, I finally pulled myself away from the parents and headed for the door.
I retreated to the elevators. My mind was a whirlwind of thought. I wondered where the police were in their investigation and if any progress had been made. I wondered who their suspects were, and what they were doing to follow up. Not for the first time, I wondered why Stacy had been in that lobby to begin with. Why had she wanted to see the apartment? Why did she want to move? I remembered her voice on the phone. “Panic” was too strong a word, but she was stressed. She wouldn’t take no for an answer; she’d been determined to submit her application and see the apartment that day.
What was bothering her? Why was she in such a rush? Was she running? Did that have something to do with her attack? Was her attacker someone she knew? I tended to think so, but that was mostly because I couldn’t fathom a masked attacker randomly stopping by the lobby of Elizabeth Tower to stab someone. Who did she know that could do something like that?
The Trouble With Murder Page 5