Tony shook his head. ‘Just do your thing, man.’
The interior of the house was gorgeous. Better Homes and Gardens cover story gorgeous. Hardwood floors, refinished molding around all the doors and windows, a kitchen I’d stab a guy for, set up with all new stainless steel appliances, pans better than what they use at your favorite restaurant hanging from a rack over the island. The whole place was a story of new hedge-fund money moving in to take advantage of low property prices. The comparative bargain of the most expensive neighborhood in a cheap town. The robber barons of the twenty-first century squatting in the palaces of the robber barons of the nineteenth.
The grieving widow could have been on a magazine herself. Probably early forties, but holding age back with a bulwark of cosmetics, surgery and personal training routines. She was dressed impeccably. I don’t follow fashion, but looking at her, I didn’t have to.
The detective led us up the stairs, through a tastefully decorated bedroom, through a small doorway into a crawlspace to the attic. There we found our patient.
He was in his mid-forties, in good shape, well groomed, stark naked, and may have been considered handsome if not for the fact that he’d been hanging from a rafter for the past few hours. A leather collar was around his neck, attached to a line which ran over a pulley fastened to a rafter. The loose end of the rope lay slack near his right hand. A pillow was on the floor in front of him; beside him was a glass of wine and a bottle of lotion.
This didn’t look much like a suicide to me. He hadn’t stepped off a chair or anything so dramatic. He was on his knees, sagged against the cinched rope. A close look at the set-up showed that the rope had slipped off the pulley and snagged. It looked as though he’d indulged in a little autoerotic asphyxiation, blacked out, let go of the rope, expecting to slump harmlessly onto the pillow—and the safety mechanism failed him.
‘The wife says she was out of town last night,’ said the detective. ‘Her story checks out. Looks like he took advantage of having the house to himself. Glass of wine, head to the secret love dungeon for some relaxation…’
‘I guess Whitney Houston was wrong,’ said Pete quietly.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Clearly, learning to love yourself isn’t the greatest love of all.’
While Pete finished his paperwork, I chatted with the cop. ‘How’d you get pulled into this one? I thought you were on Graffiti Patrol.’
He shook his head. ‘The guy’s wife’s in total denial. Called it in as an execution, so dispatch kicked it to the Gang Task Force. There’s a theory that the Russian Mob is trying to move into town.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Why does anybody think they’re moving in here?’
He shrugged. ‘Plenty of heroin comes through here. Plenty of cars get stolen and chopped. There’s money to be made. It may be nothing, but somebody’s been muscling a few dealers. White guys, which is rare enough. Sounds like Russians, from the descriptions, but how a Puerto Rican tells a Russian from a Swede I don’t know. Like when the Korean doughnut shop opened and I was getting tips about Cambodian gangs moving in. Shit, racism’s bad enough without getting your minorities wrong.’
A group of Russian sounding thugs moving in was the last thing I wanted to hear.
‘So,’ I angled, ‘any solid evidence?’
‘Nah,’ he replied. ‘Nothing I’d call definitive. Like I said, some Caucasian hoods have been moving on the small dealers. And there was a home invasion. Description from the neighbors was white guys speaking “probably Russian”, but who knows?’
‘Home invasion? I didn’t hear anything about it? Anybody hurt?’
‘Not really. I think the guys busted into the wrong apartment. Kicked in the door, tossed the place, tried to scare some info out of the tenants, but looks like they figured they didn’t know anything pretty quick. Family was just some Vietnamese immigrants, barely spoke English, these white guys break in and start screaming “Where is he?” kinda thing. Even a dumb thug must’ve realized his info was bad when Mama-san can’t understand his question, let alone answer it.’
I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. ‘Where was this?’
‘That’s the thing. The apartment building on the corner of Hawley Street. The big drug trade is on Holly Street. Guys must’ve gone to the wrong side of town.’
‘Sounds like,’ I agreed. ‘Nice to know we’re not the only ones who drive to the wrong street all the time.’
The feeling in my stomach got worse. I used to live in that building. In fact, that was still the address on my paychecks because, regardless of the fact that I’d submitted the paperwork three times, the glorious HR department at FirstLine persisted in keeping the old one on file. Since my money was directly deposited and I picked up the stub at work every week, I gave up caring that they had the wrong address.
For the first time ever, I felt relief that I worked for a company that couldn’t tie its own metaphorical shoes.
On the other hand, my secret admirers had graduated from surveying the homeless to kicking in doors, and somehow gotten into my records, even if they were out-of-date records. I didn’t like the chances that I’d be as lucky next time. They were smart enough to get into the records, and they must have gotten my name right somehow.
My less admirable voice pointed out that this might be a good time to disappear. I tried to think of a good counterargument, because I really didn’t want to leave, but that voice is usually right, as well as craven. My history of grievous bodily injury is pretty much directly related to how often I ignore that voice. Right at that moment, the voice was pointing out a lesson I learned repeatedly during my many years in uniform: when the incoming rounds start landing too close, it’s a good idea to find someplace else to be.
Leaving wouldn’t be that difficult, physically at least. I’d made preparations against the need for a quick exit. A locker at the train station two towns over held a small stash of emergency cash and a set of documents that would let me establish a new life and get a job under a new name. I could be gone tomorrow, said the little voice, and start fresh anywhere. Seattle, the voice offered, was supposed to be a nice town.
As we drove away from the house, leaving the deceased for the Medical Examiner, Pete kept up the expected chatter about the situation—which, I had to admit, was one for the books.
‘So,’ he wondered aloud, ‘do you think you can sue the hardware store if your home masturbation equipment fails and kills a loved one? How do you think they test that kind of thing for safety?’
‘Why?’ I forced myself to join in. ‘You looking for a second job?’
He chuckled at that. It was rare that I got him with a one-liner. He leaned back in the seat, pulled his cap over his eyes and drifted off. Within two blocks he was snoring. I envied him. I never could get to sleep in the seat of a truck.
I sipped at my coffee as I drove and tried to think. Did I want to run? Well, no. Was it really that dangerous? I mean, I had survived worse. Although worse included crawling back to the perimeter on Guadalcanal with half a dozen bayonet wounds, and did I really want to go through that kind of thing again?
What was worth sticking around for? Well, I liked my job, I had some good friends here, I had a guilty affection for this town, and I’d just met a girl.
Was that it? Was this real love?
I enjoyed her company, we laughed, the sex was great. That was half of any relationship, as far as I was concerned. And when I held her or looked in her eyes, I felt safe and warm and happy, and that had to be the other half.
Alright, so maybe it wouldn’t last, but nothing ever does, and what point is staying alive if you don’t get to enjoy life?
My survival instinct tried to argue that there would be other cities and friends and jobs and women, the world was full of all those things, but it was only half-hearted. Being cynical, my survival instinct knows when to give up a hopeless fight.
‘Hey, man,’ Pete said suddenly, blink
ing the sleep from his eyes, ‘you doing anything tomorrow?’
‘I didn’t think you swung that way.’
‘A bunch of us are going to the Harp.’ He ignored me. ‘Drink some beers, shoot some pool. Bring the new boyfriend,’ he smirked. ‘Or don’t, if you’re looking to play the field.’
I thought for a moment. I could use some relaxation. I should be working on figuring out who my stalkers were, but since I couldn’t think of my next step, I may as well clear my head. ‘Sounds like a plan. Who’s coming?’
‘Nique and the ball and chain, Tina, and Katie the multiply pierced.’
‘Is Katie bringing the boyfriend of the moment? And if so, is he a cop or a fireman?’ Katie was a good EMT, if you could keep her from flirting too much on scene. She had a somewhat deserved reputation for sleeping with anybody in uniform. Not that it made her a bad person.
‘As far as I know, she’s single at the moment.’
‘Does Katie shoot pool?’ I wondered.
‘Who gives a shit? I just invited her so I can see her bend over the table. You think she’s got any piercings below the neck?’
That was a subject of speculation and debate among many of the medics we worked with. Besides her ears, she had a ring in her nose, her lip, her tongue and two in her left eyebrow for all to see. Rumors of others circulated.
‘Couldn’t say,’ I replied. ‘The answer’s probably written in a stall in the bathroom of the police station.’
‘Like cops are literate enough to write on walls,’ he sneered. ‘It’d be like looking at pornographic cave paintings.’
‘The fire station?’ I offered.
‘You’ve seen them do a physical exam. They probably can’t name half the places she’s pierced.’
‘Good point.’
‘Maybe I’ll just bring some refrigerator magnets along and throw them at her. See where they stick.’
‘So much respect for a colleague.’ I smiled.
‘I respect her plenty,’ he replied. ‘I just want to respectfully put my cock in her mouth.’
‘Fair enough,’ I observed.
‘I want to see what that pierced tongue is worth,’ he clarified. ‘You ever get a blow job from somebody with a tongue stud?’
I grinned. ‘No, but I dated a girl who used to call me Tongue Stud.’
‘Say goodnight, Gracie,’ he laughed. ‘Seriously, you do that?’
‘Live for it. I’ll admit the first people to try it must have been the world’s bravest couple, but yeah. Best idea since the wheel. You mean you don’t?’
‘Strictly quid pro quo,’ he replied. ‘I feel it just perpetuates the myth of the female orgasm.’
‘Ya know,’ I said, ‘sometimes I wish I had a sister just so I could not let her date you.’
Chapter 16
I CALLED SARAH’S NUMBER.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi. Can Sarah come out and play tonight?’
‘Who’s asking?’ she inquired.
‘Her sexy new boyfriend.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘Ouch,’ I said, as she laughed on the other end of the line. ‘Well, I was hoping I could see you tonight, but now I’m not sure.’
‘Tonight’s not good anyway,’ she replied. ‘I have a lesson plan to work out, and an early class tomorrow. Don’t you know it’s a school night?’
‘It’s been a while since I paid attention to school days,’ I admitted. ‘Sure you can’t ditch and play hooky?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m a good girl.’
‘Hmm. I may have a wrong number. I’m looking for Sarah Deyermond.’
She laughed. ‘If you’re free tomorrow, I’m off work after one. You can try to corrupt me then.’
‘It’s a date.’
‘Oh, by the way, I may have something for you.’
‘Yeah?’ I asked.
‘Well, that, obviously, but I may have a lead on your inscription.’
‘Great,’ I replied, surprised. ‘How’d you find anything?’
‘The wonder of the Internet. One of the linguist forums.’
‘Sounds too wild for me. You try to save some of that energy for tomorrow.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ she laughed. ‘Have fun tonight. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘I shall count the minutes,’ I replied. ‘Take care.’
‘You too.’
* * * *
The small EMS group descended on the Harp at about seven o’clock that evening. There was myself, Pete, Monique and her fiancé Joe, who was as unrealistically attractive as she was, tall, dark, and laconic with a slow, easy smile. He was also secure enough that he could be engaged to a woman as hot as Nique without becoming a jealous asshole. The aforementioned Katie was there, low slung jeans and a short top displaying yet another piercing, no doubt enabling Pete to check off a mental box labeled “navel”. Rounding out the group was Tina Ferrel, a short, bubbly EMT who was just starting Paramedic school. Her ready laugh hid a sharp mind, solid street smarts and intuitive rapport with patients. She would make a good medic.
We staked out a table, Pete racked the balls and we selected cues. I’d brought my own. I took it out and assembled it, enduring ribbing, hoots and accusations of being a hustler.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘I like pool. You can drink while you play, and it’s usually played in bars filled with men who don’t stand on ceremony and women of questionable virtue.’
‘So what are you saying?’ asked Tina.
‘That virtue is overrated,’ I replied, lining up a shot.
A waitress arrived and took our drink order. I ordered a Guinness. Pete ordered a Bud, since he claims it’s easier to order smashed, and nothing makes a bartender shut you off faster than slurring the name of your drink. Katie ordered a Miller Lite, which told me her questionable taste wasn’t limited to dating. Nique and Joe each ordered a Long Trail Ale, because they had impeccable taste and were disgustingly in synch, and Tina ordered a Margarita.
‘No salt,’ she added.
‘A Margarita with no salt?’ asked Pete, scandalized.
‘I’m watching my blood pressure,’ she shrugged.
That made me laugh just as I shot, sending the cue ball wide of my mark.
‘Nice shot,’ Tina remarked, stepping up to the table. ‘I thought you were a hustler.’
‘Watching your blood pressure?’ I grinned.
‘It’s a silent killer,’ she said, lining up her shot, ‘often under-diagnosed in women.’
‘And that wasn’t an attempt to distract me?’
‘I thought you were a paramedic with nerves of steel. Sink a tube though an airway full of blood and broken teeth in a speeding ambulance bouncing over a street full of potholes.’ She sank a ball, walked around the table and picked her next shot. ‘At least that’s how we humble EMTs look up to you. Maybe I was wrong.’
‘I thought you were pretty smart, but now I find out you look up to paramedics.’
The waitress returned with our drinks. I paid for this round, adding a generous tip and a smile.
As I turned back to the table, reverently taking my first sip, I noticed Nique looking at me.
‘What?’
‘What is it with you and waitresses?’
‘Pretty girls who bring you booze? What’s not to like?’
She replied with an elegantly arched eyebrow.
‘I’m on my best behavior,’ I assured her. ‘I’m just friendly out of instinct. It’s pure reflex.’
The eyebrow remained where it was, but her lips twisted into her indulgent smile.
‘My conduct will be unimpeachable.’ I raised my hand. ‘Honest.’
At that moment, Pete’s phone rang.
‘Yo!’ he answered it. Suddenly his expression turned to shock. ‘What? When?... She alright? Yeah, there’s a bunch of us here...We’ll head over.’
‘What’s up?’ asked Nique. ‘You look terrible.’
‘That was Juan. They just pic
ked up an assault victim. Chick got the shit beat out of her. Turns out it’s that hot girl from admitting at the General. He says her face was so bruised and swollen he didn’t recognize her right away.’
The assembled group uttered variations on ‘Oh my God!’ and ‘That’s terrible’. I just froze. This had to be connected to Doors.
Which meant it was my fault.
I sank half my pint in one long swallow. I needed it. Needed it more than my next breath, though my stomach wondered what it had done to deserve that.
‘Tiffany,’ I said. ‘She’s in the ER now?’
‘Yeah,’ Pete replied, grabbing his jacket. ‘We should swing on by.’
She wasn’t an EMT, but she was one of our own, in a way. We saw her almost every day in the course of getting patients registered. We saw pain and injuries and death routinely, and we got used to it. It just wasn’t the same when it was somebody you knew.
We arrived at the ER, barging in through the ambulance entrance like usual. Juan was waiting, sitting by the EMS desk. ‘She’s in Special Care Four,’ he said. ‘Jane’s her nurse. Just check before you go in.’
‘How is she?’ Nique asked with deep concern, her earlier disdain for Tiffany banished.
‘She’s in and out. Got hit on the head bad. They’re just waiting for CT. Got a bunch of bruises on her face. Not much below the neck.’
‘They see who did it?’ asked Pete.
‘Not really. She was walking to her car when this dude jumps her. Brian from security chased him off. Said the guy just vanished into thin air. He called 911 on his cell, since he didn’t want to move her and carry her into the ER.’
‘Vanished into thin air?’ said Pete. ‘Yeah, right, happens all the time. You mean Brian couldn’t catch him ‘cause he wasn’t dressed like a doughnut.’
I walked toward the room. I caught Jane’s eye on the way, gave a quick concerned look and pointed at the door. She nodded.
I pushed open the door and walked in. There was a tech checking the monitor but she recognized me and looked away quickly. I looked down at the form on the hospital stretcher. She was still on a backboard, the cervical collar on her neck. She was breathing on her own. Small, sobbing breaths through split lips crusted with blood. Her face was a swollen mass of bruises. There was an IV line in her left hand, and another up high in her forearm. Her right hand was hastily splinted, the once deft, graceful fingers reduced to purple sausages sticking out from the wrapping.
Out of Nowhere (The Immortal Vagabond Healer Book 1) Page 11