Cited to Death

by Meg Perry

  "Sure."

  "We'll need to take your fingerprints too, so we can exclude yours from the ones the techs are lifting."

  "Sure." That seemed to be all I was capable of saying. I reached for the inhaler in my jacket. The smoke was definitely getting to me now. Pete asked Evers, "Can we go outside for this? We came here from the emergency room. Jamie had a bad asthma attack this morning, and he spent most of the day there. He needs to get out of this smoke."

  "Sure, sure. Let's do that." Evers went back to where Tim and Kevin were standing. "Tim, the brother’s here, but he’s getting over an asthma attack and needs to get out of the smoke."

  Kevin apparently hadn’t noticed I was there. He whirled around at me. "What are you doing in here?" He grabbed my arm and started hauling me outside.

  "Stop dragging me." I yanked my arm out of his grip and kept walking. We made it to the outside stairs, and I turned to face all of them. Kevin paled at the look on my face, and Tim started moving towards the bench at the end of the hall. "Why don't we sit? I need to ask you some questions."

  "Sure." Again. I sat on the bench, and sagged. I was exhausted.

  Tim pulled out a notebook. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

  I shook my head. "Not who, no. No idea. But I might know why." I gave him the basics, with Kevin and Pete filling in when I got too short of breath - Dan's death, his letter, the articles, the visit from Oliver, meeting Goldstein at the funeral, the computer attack. "All I've been doing is research into these two articles, and I haven't even turned up anything suspicious in my research. But someone seems to be trying to discourage me from looking."

  Tim looked unhappy. "Where was this death?"

  "Cedars-Sinai."

  "That's Wilshire Division. I'll talk to whoever took the call and see what the status is on the autopsy."

  “Don’t bother.” Kevin was leaning against the opposite wall, scowling, his arms folded. “I already did. No sign of foul play.”

  “Okay, but I’ll call and get a copy of it for this file.” Tim turned back to me. "The fire was on your bed. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that this was focused on you."

  "No." I sighed. "And whoever is behind this either doesn't know about Kevin, or doesn't care, right? Anyone that would willfully incur the wrath of the LAPD must be nuts, right?"

  Tim snorted. "That'd be one way to describe it." He tucked his notebook into his pocket. "Let's get you fingerprinted. Then you can get out of here. There's nothing else you can do in there tonight. Tomorrow, after the place has aired out and the crowds are gone, you can go through and see if anything's missing and if anything's salvageable. You gonna bunk with Ferguson tonight?"

  What? "Uh - no -"

  "Yes, he is." Pete's tone said he would brook no argument.

  Kevin chimed in. "Good."

  I whirled on him. "Where are you going?"

  “To Abby’s sister’s. She’s already there. And no, you can’t come.”

  Pete slapped me on the back. It looked hearty, for public consumption, but was gentle. "C'mon. You're dead on your feet. There’s plenty of space for you in the guest room."

  I got fingerprinted, and we were released. We headed to the parking lot. I turned in the direction of my assigned slot, then remembered that my VW was still in the shop, getting its tires replaced. I groaned. Pete heard me.

  “No worries. We’ll get your car tomorrow. You’re in no shape to drive tonight anyway.”

  I wanted to argue with him but couldn’t dredge up the energy. We were silent on the way to Pete’s townhouse. As soon as we were in the door, the full force of the day hit me, and my knees nearly buckled. Pete grabbed my arms and guided me to the sofa. “Take your shoes off. I need to change the sheets on my bed.”

  “No.” I waved at him weakly. “Don’t do that. Put me in the guest room.”

  “There aren’t any sheets on that bed at all, so it doesn’t matter. Besides, if I’m with you, I’ll notice if you start having trouble with your breathing again. I’m gonna get you a bathrobe, and you can get undressed.”

  He disappeared up the stairs. I started pulling off my shoes and socks. I was anxious to get out of my clothes, and I needed a shower. My body was completely drained, but my brain was wired from the side effects of all the meds I’d had over the course of the day. I felt grungy from the hospital, and I smelled like smoke.

  Pete reappeared with a bathrobe. “Here. You can use the guest bathroom and just leave your clothes in there. I’ll toss them in the washer. Do you want pajamas?”

  “Do you have just a pair of gym shorts?”

  “Yep. Coming right up.” He headed back up the stairs. I left my computer bag on the sofa and followed him, then turned off into the guest bathroom. I dropped my clothes on the toilet lid and put on the robe, then headed for the master bedroom.

  Pete was putting the comforter back on the bed. “I put a pair of shorts in there.” He indicated the master bath with his head. “There are clean towels in there and a new toothbrush. Help yourself to shampoo or whatever else you need.”

  I nodded. I was too tired to form words. The shower had a seat molded into its shape; I turned on the water and sat down. Once I was done and dry, I put on the shorts and the robe, brushed my teeth, and headed for the kitchen.

  Pete was starting the washing machine. “Feel better?”

  “Cleaner, anyway.”

  “Well, that’s a start. Want something to eat?”

  I didn’t feel hungry, but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “I guess I’d better. But not much.”

  “How about tomato soup? Some crackers?”

  “Actually, that sounds great.” And it did. I sat down at the little dining table and waited.

  We ate. I needed to check my peak flow again, but realized the flow meter had been in the apartment. I wasn’t going to do anything about that tonight; I’d get it replaced in the morning. I rubbed my face. I was whipped, but the worst side effect of all the drugs dumped into me over the course of the day was a jittery exhaustion that made sleep impossible. So there wasn’t any point in going to bed. Pete arranged a mass of pillows on the sofa, and I propped myself up with my laptop and a glass of water. Pete went out briefly to get my prescriptions filled, then settled on the love seat to grade papers.

  Pete was coming down off the adrenaline of the day and was soon napping. I leaned back and closed my eyes, but sleep still wasn’t coming. I sighed and decided to take a crack at rearranging the translated Welsh article. I wasn’t going to be able to read anything tonight, but maybe I could unscramble some of it.

  I pulled the document out of Dropbox and paged through it. The article was arranged in sections, similar to the research articles I was used to seeing – abstract, introduction, review of literature, hypothesis, methodology, statistical analysis, results, discussion. I decided to start with the methodology. That would be the most interesting comparison to Oliver, Wray, and Goldsmith’s article. I took a deep breath – at least as deep as I was able to – and jumped in.

  About an hour later, Pete woke up. “Whatcha doing?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to tell you. The Welsh-language article came today. I’d run it through the translator and saved it before Harley came in.”

  “You’re working on that now?”

  “Well, I have to do something. I’m still all juiced from the drugs. The worst of it will wear off in a couple of hours” …breathe… “and I’ll be able to sleep then, but until then I might as well do something. And I can’t do anything that requires concentration or precision. So I might as well do this.”

  Pete just shook his head. I turned back to the article. I’d almost finished with the methodology section. The terminology sounded very similar to that of the Americans’ article, but that was no surprise. If the successful procedure was a modification of the earlier one, the methodologies should be somewhat similar.

  I completed the last paragraph of the section, saved it, and logged off. It was
after midnight now. The jitters were wearing off and exhaustion was starting to steal over me again. I decided to check email before shutting down. Nothing important, except for a message from Detective Blake.

  Dr. Brodie,

  We’ve taken a preliminary look at your computer and haven’t found any evidence that it was hacked into from outside the UCLA network. I interviewed Ms. DeLong today, and she denied having done anything to your computer. She was quite upset by my questions, however.

  We have several other things to look at, and I will let you know the outcome. Just wanted to let you know that, so far, this looks like an inside job.

  Regards,

  Roger Blake

  I considered that. The possibility of an inside job was the only logical explanation, really. But who at UCLA would want to do that? I didn’t remember any students getting mad at me. And it was hard to imagine Roberta, the unfriendly staff assistant, going to these lengths.

  I yawned. Pete looked up, then laid down his book and stood up. “Okay. Time for bed.”

  I didn’t argue.

  I'd been in Pete's bed before, but not this one. He'd upgraded since we'd dated. I slipped in between the clean, soft sheets and almost groaned with pleasure. I wouldn't mind sleeping here for a few nights.

  That thought snapped me back to wakefulness. I couldn't stay here for long. This would be pushing friends with benefits too far, way too much like a real relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to Pete.

  And it scared me. Because, if I was really, truly honest with myself, I was already a little bit in love with Pete.

  Maybe even more than a little bit.

  So I couldn't stay here long.

  But where could I go?

  I'd have to talk to our apartment manager. Maybe there was a studio apartment I could sublet or get a short-term lease on while our place was being repaired.

  Finding a place of my own was probably a good idea anyway. When Kevin and I had first moved in together, we were fresh off our divorces (that's what Ethan's breakup had felt like to me). Neither one of us wanted to be alone. Now Abby was there. She and Kevin didn’t have any plans to get married, but even so I was starting to feel like the third wheel, in spite of the fact that my name was still on the lease. But neither one of them would ever ask me to move. At least I didn't think they would. So I'd have to do it on my own.

  No time like the present.

  So I could kill two birds with one stone. Find a place of my own to get out of Pete's house and to give Kevin and Abby more privacy. And I liked our apartment complex a lot; I could get a studio apartment there and still be close by Kevin and Abby in case they needed help with anything.

  Okay. I'd try to do that tomorrow.

  Tuesday June 5

  I slept late the next day. When I woke up, Pete was gone and the sun was streaming in the cracks between the blinds. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was 9:30. Shit. I'd slept longer than I'd intended. My bladder was screaming at me to get up.

  I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, sat up, and was overcome with a wave of dizziness. God, I felt terrible. I sat there to clear my head and took stock. My head hurt a little. My rib cage hurt a lot. Every breath was a reminder of the strain my rib muscles had been under yesterday. I had random bruises on my arms, a couple from IV insertions, and a couple that I couldn't identify. Probably got banged on the stretcher or something.

  And I had no clothes.

  The dizziness passed, and I stood up. I was dizzy again, but not as bad, and I walked into the bathroom. My clothes from yesterday were folded and stacked on the toilet lid. I sniffed them; the smoky smell was gone. Pete had washed, dried, and folded them. I sighed. I could get used to being treated this well, and that was a problem.

  I took a longish shower, letting the hot water beat on my ribs and the steam penetrate my lungs. I washed my hair again; I might be imagining it, but there seemed to be a smoky smell still hanging around in it.

  I got dressed, and realized I had no toiletries. Crap. I looked around and didn't see anything. I walked back out into the bedroom and saw that I had missed another thoughtful gesture from Pete. On the top of the dresser was a new deodorant, razors, and a tube of travel toothpaste. He'd left a note as well: "I had these already, help yourself."

  I could really get used to this.

  I had to get out of here.

  I was eating breakfast when Pete got home. I'd put my clothes from yesterday back on, but I felt overdressed. He came in and dropped his computer bag at the door. He looked tired.

  "Hey. You found your clothes."

  "Yeah. Thanks for doing that for me."

  "No problem." He got a bottle of Coke out of the fridge and leaned on the counter. "I figured that was easiest. And they smelled like smoke."

  I washed my bowl and spoon and remembered that I hadn’t looked at my phone since yesterday in the emergency room. There was one voice mail. I started listening - oh, shit. It was from Diane. I must have turned paler than usual because Pete said, "What's wrong?"

  I put the phone on speaker and started the message over.

  "Hello, Jamie Brodie, you fucking ASSHOLE! Guess what? I just had a visit from the fucking UCLA cops asking me if I had sabotaged your fucking computer. The answer to that is FUCK NO! How could you think that? You asshole!! Here's another question: are you and I still friends? The answer to that is FUCK NO! Fuck you! And the horse you rode in on! You can go fuck yourself! Or better yet, get one of your PIG friends to do it! But no, wait, you'd like that too much! So just fuck off! I never want to see your fucking face again! GOODBYE!"

  There was silence for a moment. I erased the message. Pete made like Mr. Spock. "Fascinating."

  I groaned. "I was going to call her yesterday morning, then I got busy, then I had the attack."

  "That was pretty nasty. And she doesn't have much of a vocabulary."

  I put my head in my hands. "I don't know if I can fix that."

  Pete sat down across from me. "I'm not sure you should try. At least not today."

  And my phone rang.

  I looked at the caller ID; it was a UCLA number. "Hello?"

  "Jamie." It was Liz. "How are you feeling?"

  "Hey. Better, definitely."

  "Oh, that's great. I was afraid they were going to keep you overnight."

  "Nah. I've got to be a lot closer to death for them to do that."

  "Oh, don't even joke about that. Listen, I wanted to tell you something. That girl that was in your class in library school? The one with the orange Mohawk?"

  Uh oh. "Yeah. Diane DeLong."

  "Yeah, her. She was here late yesterday looking for you. She was really mad and kind of made a scene. Dr. Loomis had to ask her to leave."

  Oh, shit. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry about that. Will you apologize to Dr. Loomis for me?"

  "Sure. But she doesn't blame you." Liz paused. "You know, I never wanted to tell you this because she was your friend, but Diane used to make some really homophobic remarks when you weren't around. Not against you personally, but in general. And also sometimes about Mark Gladwell, who was in my class. Remember him?"

  I did. Mark had been young, small, and effeminate. And not yet out. He would have been an easy target. "Really."

  "Yeah."

  "Well, she said some pretty homophobic things in her message. And she used the P word in reference to my cop friends. And I don't mean P for police."

  "Wow. Well, then, maybe she's not such a loss."

  "Maybe. But I've got bigger problems than her right now." I told Liz about the fire.

  "Oh my God! Do we need to start an emergency drive for you?"

  I laughed. A little. "No, I'm fine. Relatively speaking. I'm staying at Pete's for now." That got a look from Pete. "And my computer bag was with me, and I have the clothes I was wearing. And I think I had laundry in my car, which is still at the shop. And we had renter's insurance, so I'll get a check at some point. So don't start collecting anything."

  She la
ughed. "Okay. When are you coming back to work?"

  "Tomorrow." That got another look from Pete.

  "Okay. I'll tell Dr. Loomis."

  We hung up.

  Pete's voice was soft. "What do you mean you're staying here for now?"

  I cleared my throat. "Well, I was thinking. Who knows how long it's going to be before they get our place fixed? Kevin's fine at Abby's sister’s, but I can't impose on you for an indefinite time. I can check with our apartment manager and see if they have any studio apartments that are going to be empty just for the summer. That way I'd be back near campus and out of your hair."