“It’s better to feel it.”
I climbed back into bed, biting my lip to avoid grunting in pain. I left the robe on. I was feeling cold. “Don’t you have patients to see?”
“I have a man covering it. I’m taking a couple of days off.”
“Good for you.” I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep, but Jerry’s words kept whispering in my ears. “It’s better to feel it.” I had felt such love once, and it was taken away from me. One experiences love like that once in a lifetime. My own thought tripped me. Was that true? Who was to say that a person only had one chance at love?
“Can I ask you something?” I watched him push the wheelchair into the corridor, then return to the seat by my bed.
“Sure. Unless it’s about cooking. I don’t know anything about cooking.”
“Oh, I don’t know, you pick up a mean take-out meal.”
“That’s true. I spend more time sitting alone in restaurants than I care to think about.” That image bothered me. “What’s your question?”
“Why haven’t you given up on me?”
He looked puzzled. “Given up?”
“It’s been almost a decade since my husband was killed and almost that long since your wife left you. You’ve been attentive, supportive, but never pushy. And you’ve never hidden your feelings for me.”
“True enough.”
“Yet, I’ve not repaid you in kind. I’ve never let us be more than friends.”
“Also true.”
I looked into his still-swollen face. “So why haven’t you given up?”
The answer came without deliberation or hesitation. “Because a man doesn’t give up on his heart.” He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and studied his hands. “Sometimes it seems to me that you refuse to fall in love with anyone else because it will somehow steal away your love for Peter. Your husband was a good man, and you should always love him. I have never tried to compete with him for your affections. Never if he were alive and not now that he is dead.” His eyes moved from his hands to my face. “I’d rather be in second place with you than in first place with anyone else.”
Jerry had been open about his desire for me, about his love, but he had never been this blunt, this plain. He looked different to me. His swollen nose, puffy face, and still-squinty eye had changed his face for a few days, but it hadn’t changed him, and I was beginning to see him in a new way.
“You are a wonderful man, Dr. Jerry Thomas.”
He smiled in an embarrassed way. “Yeah, I know. I keep telling people that.”
I closed my eyes again and the unbattered face of Jerry appeared in my mind. It felt good. It felt comfortable.
Sleep took me in its arms.
chapter 37
As Jerry pulled his car into my driveway I felt conflicting emotions. Home looked good. It was my place of peace, my sanctuary, but last night’s violence had breached its walls. Mixed with the joy of being home was the bile-tasting fear that had taken up residence in my gut.
“It’s a good thing I followed the ambulance last night instead of riding along. Because of my forward thinking, I was able to play chauffeur.” Parked at the curb was my parents’ car and Nat’s van. I was glad to see both.
“Were you really thinking ahead?” He switched off the car. I looked at the closed garage door in front of us, then to the side yard where my attacker had hidden. I had an urge to buy a big, foul-tempered, ugly dog.
“No. I was barely thinking.”
I could imagine what he was thinking. I was in the worst shape so he wanted the paramedics to focus on me. That would be Jerry’s way. He probably threw his I’m-a-physician weight around to get what he wanted.
Jerry exited and rounded the car to get the door for me. Normally, I just bounded out once parked, but this afternoon I was in the mood to be pampered. I had slept another two hours before waking an inch or two more refreshed but in serious need of ibuprofen. At six minutes past one I was sprung and thankful for it. Hospitals are lousy places to rest. Too much noise, too many people, and they smell too much like hospitals.
After helping me down, Jerry offered me his arm. I took it and leaned a little on him until I found my legs. No serious damage had been done beyond the broken wrist, bruised face and body, and sore muscles. I was already feeling better, but was certain it would be a couple of weeks before I felt good.
The afternoon sun was high overhead, doing the same work it had done yesterday, oblivious to our brush with death. The air was still and birds in a nearby fruitless mulberry tree sang a song whose meaning was known only to them. God’s creation was looking pretty good to me.
The front door opened before we reached the concrete stoop. My mother stood at the threshold, putting on a brave face, wearing a big smile, and her arms outstretched toward me. I hoped she wasn’t going to hug. We could hug next week. Over her shoulder I saw Dad, looking simultaneously pitiful and fiercely angry. Nothing angered him more than someone trying to hurt his family.
“Welcome home, sweetheart.” Mom’s smile broadened enough to fight back her tears. She leaned forward and placed her hands on my shoulders as gently as if I were as fragile as cotton candy. She gave me the tiniest kiss on the forehead, then gave way so that I could enter my home.
Despite my best intentions, my eyes immediately traveled to the stairway where I fought for my life less than fifteen hours before. It looked as it always looked. Once fully in the house I let my gaze wan der to the dining room and the sliding glass doors that had rained in on me the night before. They had been repaired and no little cubes of glass could be seen. The rug bore track marks from the vacuum and I could make out a few spots on the rug that appeared lighter than the rest. Mom must have cleaned up the blood that had poured from Jerry’s nose and mouth. The chairs were put back in place and the dining room table repositioned. On the table rested a dark briefcase.
Through the window I could see the deck, the lounges, and the small table Jerry had used to shatter the glass door. My memory reran the image of the dead guard. I forced it away.
I moved toward the sofa, Jerry constantly by my side. I was feeling like an invalid. This had to stop. Releasing Jerry’s arm I found my favorite spot on the couch and dropped my aching body onto it.
“Hey, stranger.” I turned in time to see Nat wheeling in from the kitchen. She pulled close and took in my appearance. “Purple’s not your color.”
“I wanted to try something new.” We made eye contact that lasted a very long second. Without words, we exchanged what needed to be said. She was sorry it happened, and I was going to be fine. “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“I invited myself. I’m rude that way.”
“Feel free to be rude anytime.”
“What can I get for everyone?” Mom asked. “We have soda, tea, coffee—”
“I don’t have soda in the house,” I said.
“I went shopping. You know your dad enjoys soda.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t rearrange my closets.” For years I’ve teased my mother about her tendency to mother a middle-aged woman.
“I’m almost done with that.” She was quick. I asked for a cup of tea, then decided that it would be too hot for my swollen lip. I opted for ice water. Everyone else went for coffee, except Dad. He was now obligated to have a soda.
When Mom got back with the drinks, I said, “The place looks great.”
“Your dad took care of the door,” she said. “The poor workmen could have been done an hour earlier if your father hadn’t been hovering over their shoulders.”
We chatted, just light conversation, everyone judiciously avoiding the terror of the previous night. Mom was constantly on the verge of tears. I held her hand for a while, then fought off her suggestion that I take a nap. “I haven’t slept well for several days, but if I sleep any more today I’ll be staring at the ceiling while you all are snoring in your comfy beds.”
“Well then, I’ve got a taco casserole to prepare
, and since I don’t fix things out of a box I have some work to do. Your dad’s going to help me.”
“I am?”
“Yes, you am.”
They disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later I heard water running, pans being shuffled, and other cooking hubbub. I looked at Jerry. He had taken one of the corners of the matching loveseat, his head rested on his hand, his eyes closed, and his breathing revealed a man fast asleep.
“He’s been a peach,” I said. “I owe him my life.”
“I doubt he’ll ask for anything in return,” Nat said. “He doesn’t seem the kind.”
“He’s not.” Something warmed inside me as I watched him snoozing.
“So what do you want?” Nat asked.
“What do you mean?”
“After my accident, everyone wanted to take care of me, to do things for me, fetching this and that. They meant well and I needed their help, but I used to wish someone would simply ask, ‘What do you want? Do you want to talk or be left alone?’ So I’m asking. We can talk or not talk. We can avoid the attack or address it. We can skip work or do some. You get to call the shots.”
“I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“It did.”
“I know. To tell you the truth, I’d like to work. That’s my best therapy.”
“I’ll be back.” Nat wheeled away. I watched her move to the dining room table, pick up the briefcase, and return with it. “You had assigned some work for me.” She removed a folder and handed it over. I took it and set it on my lap.
“What am I looking at here?”
“I did the research you requested on Rutger Howard and H. Dean Wentworth.”
“Ah, Horace. Find anything good?”
“I knew Rutger Howard was a big operator. He’s CEO of the Bennie’s restaurant chain, and he pilots its parent company, Howard Enterprises. I’ll spare you my research technique but between the Internet and the people I know, I’ve learned that Howard likes the eminent domain ploy.”
“As I said before, it’s being abused in many cities.”
“I know. I’ve been able to locate six occurrences in the last year where they’ve tried to obtain property through a municipality by orchestrating an eminent domain situation. In two cases allegations of under-the-table payments to elected officials were leveled. Both cases were dropped. In all six attempts at eminent domain it was granted and Howard Enterprises got a deal on the property—usually less than half what the fair market value would be.”
“In all six cases?”
“All six. What are the odds of that?”
“Not good. Do they have that much influence, or are there too few honest city officials?”
“It gets worse,” Nat said. “I found a report that alleges as many as 10,000 pieces of private property have been seized by cities for private developers in recent years. In Atlantic City a middle-class neighborhood was condemned to allow a tunnel to be built to a new casino. A man lost four commercial buildings he owned in New York because the city wanted to set up a parking structure. In Washington, a city took the home of a woman well into her eighties. It had been her home for over fifty years. Why did they take it? They said they wanted to expand a sewer plan, but when it was all over, her home went to an auto dealership. There’s one horror story after another.”
“What about legal challenges? Surely the property owners can sue.”
“Sure they can and they win—40 percent of the time.”
“That means they lose 60 percent.”
Nat nodded. “That’s right, and that only counts those that had the financial means to launch a lawsuit.”
“You know this is not new,” I said. “Eminent domain is derived from the Constitution. The Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments are supposed to limit how the government can use the power. The Fifth Amendment states—” I had to think, and my thinking was a little muddled. “That no person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law. That applies to the federal government. The Fourteenth Amendment says the state cannot deprive any person of life, liberty, or property without due process of law.”
My mind was chugging but at least it was moving. I called for my father. He stepped from the kitchen and looked glad for it. “Okay, Professor, didn’t you tell me that the railroads used eminent domain to gain the rights they needed to build the tracks?”
“You always were a good student. The railroads would come to town, have property condemned, and the owners given a dollar with the advice, ‘If you want fair and just compensation, take us to court.’ Of course, not many people could afford to sue the railroads. It happened with the highway system, too.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You going to tell me why you ask?”
“Not now. I don’t want to get you into trouble with Mom.” He looked disappointed and went back to the kitchen. I felt badly for him, but if he knew I was talking shop, then Mom would know, and if she knew . . .
“What’s happening, Maddy, is this,” Nat said. “Businesses are learning that they can acquire property without going through the bidding process and that they can obtain the property for less money. Assuming they can get the city council to go with them on it. If they do, then they can force themselves into neighborhoods that don’t want them.”
“So Rutger Howard sends his man to pave the way. He tries to buy me off with a big contribution, and when that doesn’t work, he starts to play dirty. He has his photo taken with me to imply I’m already on board. He works behind my back to try and influence council members and has some luck—although I was wrong about whom he had won over.” I explained about my debacle with Tess and what I had learned this morning about Titus.
“From everything you’ve told me about Titus, it seems so out of character. Why would he do that?”
I handed the folder back to Nat. I was too tired to read.
“Maybe he genuinely believes that having that new restaurant would be good for the city.” It was Jerry.
“Have you been pretending to sleep?” I asked. “You were eavesdropping.”
“I’ve dropped no eaves. I was just resting my eyes, at least for the last few minutes. I may have blacked out for a while. Don’t be jumping to conclusions.”
“You looked asleep,” I said.
“Not about me, about Titus. His wife didn’t say anything about eminent domain, only that he had been working on—how did she put it?—the restaurant thing. She didn’t say anything about eminent domain. Maybe he just likes Bennie’s. Some people do.”
Now I was feeling rotten inside as well as out. First I drew a wrong and hasty conclusion about Tess’s role in the matter, and now I may have repeated the error with Titus.
“So Howard Enterprises is doing all this to gain property at a reduced price,” I said.
“We don’t know everything they’re up to,” Nat added, “but that’s how it appears on the surface, and there’s sufficient history to back it up.”
“No one ever said this job would be easy.” I leaned my head back. Weariness was starting to win. “I need to make a call.”
“You need to rest,” Jerry said. “There’s no one who needs to hear from you today.”
“Yes, there is.” I started to reach for the phone next to the sofa but Jerry beat me to it.
He handed it to me, and I dialed information. A few minutes later I was talking to Jim Lynch, president of Atlas Security. It was time for me to offer my condolences for the man who died on my deck.
The next five minutes were rough.
chapter 38
Dinner had been wonderful. Mom’s taco casserole was as good as it had ever been, and I wished I felt well enough for seconds. It was the first food I had since turning my nose up at the hospital breakfast. I had slept through lunch. My parents reminded me that they were moving in for the next few days. I insisted that they didn’t need to, but was glad that they overruled me. I was also glad that Nat and Jerry had stayed for dinner.
Mom served
pound cake, replete with a scoop of vanilla-bean ice cream and chocolate syrup. I managed to force that down. We moved outside through the new sliding glass door for decaf coffee and to watch the sun set. The yellow ball had turned orange as it neared the horizon, and the band of light it painted on the undulating ocean glistened gold. The air smelled sweet, and the gulls and terns performed airborne gymnastics.
Still, it was hard to forget that a dead man had breathed his last on this same deck. I went back into the house. The thought was too much for me. Besides, something was nagging me. I lay down on the sofa and closed my eyes. Thoughts bounded and rebounded like ping-pong balls. I thought of the eminent domain problem. Money and expediency were the motives. Greed was a motive. At least I understood that. People always did things for a motive. The motive might not be logical or reasonable to anyone else, but it made sense to the possessor.
Then I thought of Robby Hood and Katie Lysgaard. What an odd pair. He was not an ugly man, but he was hardly a trophy. On the other hand, Katie was knock-dead gorgeous. What did she see in him, the man who spent his nights in an upstairs room in his house talking about ghosts, goblins, monsters, UFOs, conspiracies, and who knows what else? Maybe it was his intelligence. Maybe it was his wealth. Maybe West was right, and she was nothing more than a bodyguard.
Why would a killer go to such lengths to kill people somehow related to the Robby Hood show? I was no expert, but serial killers usually had some internal, dark motivation. They killed women because they hated their mothers; they killed young men because they were homophobic; some killed for pleasure. But these murders were tied to one man and his radio program. Each killing connected to a topic on Hood’s show. What did that achieve?
The newspaper ran articles about each death, and although I hadn’t had time to see it, I imagine the events had made the radio and television news. To my knowledge, no one was making the connection to the show. Four people had died and an attempt was made on my life, but the killer’s fascination with Hood’s show was still too dim for others to see.
Before Another Dies Page 24