by Diana Miller
“He never said.”
Jillian watched over Andy’s shoulder as he went into a bookmarked directory and entered Mark’s name, then waited. Two Mark Jeffersons lived in the New York City area, one in Brooklyn, the other in Queens, but both were in their twenties.
“He said his family’s in Connecticut,” Jillian said. “Maybe he lives there. Or in New Jersey.”
But Andy didn’t find a Mark Jefferson living within commuting distance of New York City in either state. “Maybe I’ll have better luck with accountants.” He typed in more information. “Still nothing. Firms and companies don’t always list their employees, so I’ll pull up a list of CPA’s in New York state. Why don’t you get the wine?”
Jillian went to the living room. Andy had no doubt figured out she’d done more than have dinner with Mark, and she felt guilty. Although why should she? For all she knew, Andy had been with Tiffany or some other woman that night. She picked up the wine bottle and carried it to the study.
Andy was scanning a list on the monitor. “I can’t find a single New York CPA named Mark Jefferson. Maybe he never got his CPA.”
Jillian set the wine bottle on the top of the bookshelf, next to a carved wooden moose. “He went to Harvard Law School.”
“Which makes not bothering with a CPA unlikely. Everything Mark told you might have been true, and he lied about his name because he’s married.” Andy swiveled to face Jillian. “Except you have dinner with him, go skiing with him the next day, and voila, someone shoots at you. You never see the man again, but three nights later, your car blows up. You feel as if you’re being followed, then someone tries to push you in front of a bus. Maybe he was trying to avoid more than a jealous wife.”
Jillian got up stiffly, as if she’d aged half a century, and shuffled to the only window. She flipped open the chrome blinds. A couple streetlamps illuminated a street as cold and empty as she felt. “Because I got involved with him, Kristen is dead.”
Andy squeezed her shoulders. “Stop it. The cops determined the car explosion was an accident, right?”
“They left me a message yesterday.” Jillian watched a man walking a dog. The dog’s shape and jaunty gait identified it as a terrier, although in the dim light, its breed wasn’t obvious.
“So it most likely was. Maybe Mark did lie because he’s married, the shooter was a kook, the car explosion was a fluke, and some schizophrenic thought God told him to shove you. Maybe you’ve just had a spectacular run of bad luck. Even if it’s more than that, it’s not your fault.” His breath tickled her ear. “You’re the victim.”
“The victim.” Jillian wrapped her arms around her midriff, trying to warm herself and crush the pain that filled her stomach and chest. Kristen might have been killed because someone had tried, and was still trying, to kill her. All because she’d spent the night with the wrong man.
Andy turned her toward him and shook her gently. “The most likely explanation is a series of horrible coincidences, but if it isn’t, I promise you’ll be safe until we can stop it.”
She just looked at him, pain and helplessness overwhelming her.
He led her back to the living room sofa then sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You can stay here. I’ve got a doorman, a fancy security system, some of the best locks anywhere.”
Jillian nodded.
Andy rubbed her arm. “Tomorrow morning I’ll check with the Keystone police. I’ve also got a contact who’ll know if anything’s going on around Keystone that you might have stumbled into, maybe some major drug action. After I talk to Phil, we’ll figure out what we do next.”
“I have to work at seven.”
“Call in sick.”
“I can’t. They need me.” She forced herself to straighten and focus. “I’ll tell one of the guards I was threatened by a gang member. Under our new hospital policy, that means he has to shadow me for a few days.”
Andy gripped her bicep. “You haven’t gotten any threats, have you?”
“Only the usual, guys acting tough to impress their friends. They forget you the instant they leave. We all think it’s a ridiculous policy.”
“The hospital administrators clearly had more sheltered upbringings than you did.” He released her arm.
“You mean they distrust anyone who doesn’t wear a suit and make at least six figures a year?”
“Or their lawyers do. Are you ready to order takeout? I’ll be your official food taster.” Andy grinned. “You never know, the Royal Orchid might be trying to poison you.”
She wasn’t hungry, but she didn’t want to worry Andy, not when he was being so nice. She managed a wobbly smile. “You’re trying to get more than half of the food.”
“You know me too well.” He took her hand. “I’ve missed you Jillian. A lot.” He looked away. “Sorry, I know this isn’t the right time to bring that up.”
“Not right now.”
He studied her face. Then he dropped her hand and reached for his cell phone.
* * * *
After they ate, Jillian and Andy spent a couple hours sitting on the sofa, sipping wine and listening to music, jazz with an occasional country or blues selection thrown in. It was exactly what she’d needed. She moved her stocking feet off the wagon wheel table. “Thanks for taking me seriously.”
“I hope it turns out to be nothing.”
Which she was optimistically beginning to think was a real possibility. “It makes me feel better that I’m trying to figure things out, rather than simply reacting.”
Andy tapped his chin with his knuckles. “Kristen said you’ve never been able to handle feeling out of control. That’s why you don’t like skiing.”
Her eyes stung. “Kristen loved analyzing me. I can’t believe I’m actually going to miss that.” She refused to think about Kristen tonight. “Believe it or not, I now like skiing.”
“You’re kidding.”
Andy had tried to teach her several times, with no success. Why had Mark succeeded? Obviously because as either an accomplished criminal or a seasoned adulterer, Mark was skilled at manipulating people, at using his mesmerizing eyes to his advantage. She wasn’t going to think about that either. “It’s true. For some reason, things clicked this trip.”
“I still think Kristen had a point about your need to stay in control.” Andy faced her and rested his hand above her knee. “I always felt that even though you said you loved me, you were still holding back. A big part of Tiffany’s attraction was that she didn’t do that.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You chose Tiffany for a lot of other reasons, including that she’s younger and has much bigger boobs than I do.”
He grimaced. “And because I was an idiot. I know you don’t want to talk about it tonight, but I want to say that Tiffany was a mistake and so was leaving you.”
Jillian glanced at the gold Yale Bulldogs desk clock on the end table. “It’s nearly eleven. I’d better get to bed.”
“I’ll drive you to work tomorrow morning,” Andy said.
“I can take a cab.”
“Let me drive you. After how rotten I’ve been to you, it’s the least—”
Jillian pressed her fingers against his lips. “All we’re going to talk about tonight is how much you’ve helped me now and how much I appreciate it.” She kissed his cheek then headed for the guestroom.
Chapter 8
“Jillian, line 2. Andy.”
Jillian carried the piece of cold pizza that would have to suffice for lunch over to the phone. She’d slept surprisingly well and woken up convinced she’d overreacted last night, that Mark had lied about his name because he was married, and everything else was either bad luck or the product of stress-induced paranoia. Andy had insisted on checking out a couple things, but he hopefully was calling to give her the all clear.
“Your friend told the Keystone police his name was Mark Jefferson and gave a New York City address and phone number,”
Andy said. “The address is for a street in Upper Manhattan, but the number doesn’t exist. The phone number belongs to an Ida Franklin who lives three miles away and has never heard of him.”
“Uh-huh.” Jillian set her pizza on the counter. Lying to her was one thing, but lying to the police?
“Jillian, a probable ear infection in room 4. Shawn said to have you handle it since you’re so good with kids.” Sarah strode toward her with a chart. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the phone.”
“Shawn’s afraid if he gets near a kid, some paternal instinct will kick in, and he’ll end up monogamous or, worse yet, married.” Jillian took the chart, happy for the distraction even though it was her fifth ear infection today.
“Shawn’s also a sexist pig who believes women should handle all the kid cases.”
“That too. I’ll be there in a minute.” Jillian reluctantly returned to the telephone. “Sorry, Andy. You were saying?”
“That a Mark Jefferson flew from New York to Denver on United and rented a car from Hertz. The address he gave was the same the cops had, and he must have shown a driver’s license to get the car and board the plane. He used a Visa card, but I haven’t gotten information on that yet. The car was returned to the drop-off at the airport sometime the night you were shot at, but no airline shows Mark Jefferson ever leaving Denver.”
The chart slipped from Jillian’s fingers onto the counter. She sank into the nearest chair. “Does that mean he’s dead?”
“Or made a quick getaway,” Andy said. “I think it’s safe to say you got caught in the middle of something, and it centers around this man.”
Jillian clenched the phone so hard she was surprised the hard plastic didn’t crack. Damn. “How did you find that out so fast?”
“I’m worried about you,” Andy said. “The more information I got, the more worried I got. So I called in several favors, including from Phil Mathers.”
Phil was a law school friend of Andy’s who’d spent his career at the Justice Department. For the past five years, he’d been working out of its Denver office. “What did Phil say?”
“That he hasn’t heard of anything the feds or anyone else is into around Keystone, and that if there were anything, he’d know. He also said this warrants checking into. He wants to talk to you.”
Slumping in her chair, Jillian closed her eyes. “Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up after work and take you to Phil’s house. We’ll go out to dinner afterwards.”
“Okay.”
“In the meantime, promise you’ll be careful. Is the guard there?”
A uniformed guard had stayed in her vicinity since she’d mentioned the nonexistent gang threat. “He’s sitting beside the entrance reading Sports Illustrated.”
“Good. We’re going to get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
“I hope so. See you at seven.”
“Who’s dead?” Sarah asked.
Jillian started. She hadn’t realized Sarah was there. “No one, I hope. A friend’s dog is missing.”
Sarah smiled faintly. “You and dogs. You should go ahead and get one. You’d spoil it so rotten that it wouldn’t mind being apartment-bound.”
“Jillian,” a nurse called.
“I know, room 4.” Jillian dropped her half-eaten pizza into the garbage then headed to the ear infection.
* * * *
Jillian spent the next three hours exactly as she’d spent the previous six, rushing. She’d finally found a minute to relax into one of the tacky but comfortable vinyl recliners in the staff lounge when she was paged to the front desk. She released the footrest. She’d probably made a mistake on those Medicaid forms, something trivial but guaranteed to give government bureaucrats an excuse to delay payment. The ER was switching over to electronic records in August, and she was dreading it. God knows how many more things she’d screw up then.
She approached the desk clerk. “What now?” Those government bureaucrats probably never had to work twelve-hour shifts.
“Over there.” Emily cocked her head toward the uniformed police officer beside the center island.
“Jillian, Shawn said to give you this. Room 3, ASAP.” Eric handed her a chart. “Hey, I’m a poet.”
“Don’t quit your day job. I’ll be there as soon as I deal with this cop.”
The police showed up often in the ER to see patients or to ask questions about former patients. Jillian sympathized with their jobs, but their appearance usually complicated hers since she had to figure out how to avoid annoying them while staying on the right side of doctor/patient privilege.
She strode over to the officer. “I’m Dr. Rodgers. Can I help you?”
“Robert Jones, Denver PD.” The cop held out his ID. “We need to talk to you about Keystone.”
Jillian’s pulse quickened. “Did Andy call you?”
The policeman pulled a small notepad from his pocket. “That would be Andrew Dawson with the district attorney’s office?”
She nodded. “You’re questioning me because Andy called?”
Officer Jones looked sheepish. “Sorry, I don’t know. I was just told to bring you to the station.”
“I can’t leave now. I’m working.”
Officer Jones checked his notepad again. “A Dr. Thomas Binger said you could leave. They called him at home.”
Her heart beat faster. “I’ll get my coat.”
“Are you all right?” Sarah asked when Jillian passed the desk.
“I have to go to the police station and answer some questions about Keystone. The police actually called Tom at home and got permission for me to leave.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t have a clue. Tell Shawn I left.” Jillian skimmed the chart Eric had given her then held it out to Sarah. “And tell him he’ll have to take back the little girl in 3. She’s puking.”
Sarah grinned. “My pleasure.”
Jillian retrieved her ski jacket and purse. She slipped the jacket over her scrubs as she followed Officer Jones.
The security guard at the doorway gave them a quick glance then returned to his magazine. People jammed in the waiting room stared. Police never hauled one of the doctors away.
Jillian followed Officer Jones through the revolving door. The sky was so overcast the street lamps had already switched on, and the air felt cool, although it wasn’t cold enough to frost the damp sidewalks. There wasn’t a police cruiser anywhere. “Where’s your car?”
“Here.” Officer Jones opened the back door of a dark Buick idling in the circular drive. “An undercover unit’s involved in this, but they didn’t want to go inside where they might run into someone they don’t want knowing they’re cops.”
Jillian slid in beside the undercover cop in the back seat. Officer Jones followed and pulled the door shut.
The glass windows, including the one that separated the front and back seats, were all so deeply tinted the world looked black. They certainly didn’t have to worry about being recognized by anyone walking by. She fastened her seatbelt.
The car started moving, and they drove in silence for several minutes.
Too many minutes. The station was only a few blocks from the hospital.
“How are the roads?” Officer Jones asked.
A tinny voice came over the speakers. “Not too bad yet, according to the radio.”
Jillian’s stomach clenched. The only warnings she’d heard were for the roads outside the city, nothing Denver cops would care about. The cop’s ID had looked valid, but ID’s could be faked, and she hadn’t called it in.
The car stopped at a traffic light. If these guys were on the level, she’d apologize later. Jillian launched herself over Jones and reached for the door handle.
“Calm down, lady.” The undercover cop yanked her back to her seat. He had a Texas accent.
She had to get away. She struggled against his hold.
Texas secured her arms against
her sides. “I said calm down!”
“You got her, Alex?” Jones cracked his knuckles.
“Yep.” Alex’s hands loosened slightly as the car resumed moving.
Jillian jerked one arm free.
Alex immediately restrained her. “Goddamn it, I told you to calm down!”
“Take me back.” She matched his tone. “Now.”
Jones and Alex exchanged a look. Alex tightened his hands around Jillian’s arms.
Her heart hammered. “You can’t haul me away. People will miss me, and they’ll remember I left with you. Everyone I work with and all the people in the waiting room saw you.”
“Everyone will assume the questioning took so long you decided not to come back to work,” Jones said.
“Andy won’t, and he’s picking me up.”
“When you get off at seven. By then, we’ll be long gone.”
Her blood turned to slush. “Where are we going?”
“Hang onto her,” Alex said. “I’m tying her up. I don’t feel like holding her arms for hours.”
Hours.
Jones secured her arms behind her back. Alex knotted a cord around her wrists, just below her jacket cuffs, then pulled it tight. The thin rope cut into Jillian’s cold skin. Her heart was pounding hard enough to break through her chest wall. She was going to die—
Stop it! She needed to think, not panic. They’d eventually hit another stoplight, and her legs were free. Maybe talking would make them lower their guard. “Who are you?”
Alex laughed, a low and unpleasant sound that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. “We’re sure as hell not cops.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Devlin will explain.” Alex touched Jillian’s cheek with his pointer finger, his thumb raised to mimic a gun.
The pressure triggered a shock that sizzled from Jillian’s face down her neck and spine. She shuddered.
“Let me warn you, lady, Devlin’s not someone you want to piss off,” Alex said. “His nickname’s the Devil, and it’s fucking accurate.”