Rick didn’t understand his need to come down to the UCSF Medical Center each Saturday. It hadn’t absolved him of his guilt, but it eased his conscience to be with her. God alone knew how much he needed Nikki Hart to live and forgive him.
Buck maintained Jason had no reason to feel guilty. He’d gotten there within thirty minutes from the time the call had come in. The only one who might have gotten there faster was Superman, and he didn’t exist. Jason had probably saved Mandy’s life by using the sirens that had scared the killers off.
Buck was wrong. He could have gotten there at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes faster if he hadn’t dawdled at the house and then stopped at the store. A lot had happened in those fifteen minutes. And he didn’t come back each week only because of the guilt. It was the woman herself who drew him.
He admired her will to survive. It had taken guts to dial that phone and incredible determination not to cry out and possibly wake her daughter when she’d been stabbed and beaten.
Visions of another woman filled his mind—another woman he’d failed—one who’d foolishly put herself in danger and paid the ultimate price. He’d been in LA working a serial rapist case twelve years ago, when he’d met Denise Cummings. He liked his women tall and leggy, and with long, black hair and legs that seemed to go on forever, she’d fit the bill perfectly. The model and socialite had knocked the wind out of his sails the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Within two weeks he was spending more nights in her bed than in his hotel room, so at her suggestion, he moved in for the duration of his stay. That had been his first mistake.
He’d worked insane hours with the BAU trying to catch the killer before he struck again, but each time they thought they had the profile right, the perp changed his MO slightly and managed to get away. Jason had been frustrated and irritable. Denise, on the other hand, was up and down like a yo-yo. The sex was so hot, he sizzled, but her manic temperament had him confused until he realized her effervescent personality was fueled by cocaine.
She’d laughed at him, said the thrill of doing it under his nose always added to her high, and called him every name in the book—none of them flattering—when he’d gone through her drawers and flushed her coke down the toilet. It had been a hell of a fight, and, in the end, he’d packed his bags and walked out on her. He should’ve arrested her. That was his second mistake. He didn’t get to make a third.
They’d found her brutally battered body in an alley off Crenshaw where she must have gone to replenish her stash. There’d been an investigation, and their personal relationship had come up as had her drug use—coroners rarely missed the obvious. He’d been in Long Beach following a lead that finally panned out when she’d been killed. He’d gotten a reprimand, been forced to undergo mandatory drug screening, and had been suspended for six months. He’d been reassigned to another department. He should have lost his badge. He blamed himself then, and he blamed himself now. If he’d done his job and played by the rules, she might be alive today. The memory of Denise’s battered body brought the vision of Nikki’s similarly beaten body to mind, and he shuddered. They’d never found Denise’s killer. Was that why he was so determined to solve this crime?
Nikki’s recovery hadn’t been an easy one. At one point, when she’d been on the respirator, her chance of surviving slim, he’d been prepared to get a court injunction to stop her father from pulling the plug. Why that bastard would even consider doing that was a mystery. His old man had been a good cop, if not much of a father, but he’d have fought tooth and nail to stop anyone from giving up on his son. Jason had sat beside her for more than thirty-six hours, begging her to stay alive, and the crisis had passed. She’d been improving since then.
Today, he was on his way to her bedside on a Wednesday because Dr. Marion had called, somewhat agitated, and had asked to see him. He prayed Nikki hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. She’d overcome so many things, she couldn’t give up now.
He turned into the hospital parking lot, pulled a ticket from the dispenser, waited for the arm to rise, and drove into the crowded staff parking lot. The place was busier than it was on Saturday when he usually came to visit. Obviously more staff were on the job during the week than on weekends.
There was an area reserved for law enforcement. He put his police banner up on the dash next to his parking voucher and exited the SUV, locking the doors as he did. He thought about leaving his weapons in the gun locker in the back of the vehicle but changed his mind. They’d set off the security censors, but he had his badge and ID. It would only cost him a minute of his time, and he hated being without his weapons when he was on duty. The trail might be cold, but this was still an active investigation.
He wore a Sig Sauer under his navy FBI jacket and carried a Beretta Jetfire 950 in his ankle holster. He’d learned his lesson from the one and only time on duty when he’d been caught without his gun. They’d been babysitting a high-profile witness. There’d been three agents on duty, and he’d gone to get dressed to do the outside sweep. He’d removed his vest and holster, put on a warmer sweater, and was about to replace the vest when he heard a squeal from the kitchen. Curious, he’d gone back into the living room and walked smack into a bloodbath. The sniper was firing from a vantage point outside. He took one in the shoulder, and if Brad hadn’t jumped in front of him, he’d have bought the farm. It wouldn’t happen again.
Jason was a damn good agent, but sometimes, he just didn’t have his head screwed on right—Denise, Brad, Nikki—those were just a few people who’d been hurt by his impulsive behavior. Well, not anymore. From now on he’d be as by-the-book as he could get. If he stayed with the bureau, no one else would get hurt on his watch.
Jason crossed the lot to the main entrance. As he’d expected, all the bells and whistles went off when he went through the door with its automatic censors. He pulled out his badge and photo ID and was quickly allowed to proceed.
In spite of the sound and light show he’d caused, he attracted little attention when he stepped into the elevator. This was San Francisco and, like others who lived in large cities, most of its residents weren’t surprised by anything.
He exited the elevator and walked briskly down the hall to the neurology wing. Dr. Marion had planned to reduce the drugs and wake Nikki from her coma this week. Had something gone wrong?
He’d felt Nikki relax on that bloodied kitchen floor and thought she’d passed away when he’d told her that her daughter was safe. She’d clung to his right hand as if it were the only thing keeping her in this world. Maybe it had been. Lord knows, with all the blood she’d lost, she should have died.
When the paramedics had arrived, he’d stayed with her while she was stabilized for transport and had gone with her in the air ambulance to the UCSF Medical Center. He’d sat there and waited with her mother while she’d undergone hours of surgery.
He wasn’t a man prone to prayer. He’d seen too much ugliness in the world to believe in a kind, benevolent God, but he’d prayed that night, begged the Lord to let her live, so he could somehow atone for the mess he’d made of this.
Her heart had stopped twice during the surgery, but it was as if she refused to die. Once she was in critical but stable condition, he’d returned to Larosa with her father. He’d sat up front with the chauffeur. Thomas Lincoln didn’t fraternize with inferiors. Rick had turned custody of Mandy over to Mr. Lincoln, a man Jason disliked, but one who had the law on his side and the appropriate temporary custody papers with him. They’d sent Mandy to live with relatives on a ranch in Tehama County up near Redding. Mr. Lincoln assured him the place was a fortress with state-of-the-art security.
The man had insisted on hearing the 9 1 1 tape, standing stoically throughout the thirty-five-minute audio presentation—a presentation that had almost brought Jason to his knees. When it was over, he’d turned to Rick and Jason, his face a mask of rage.
“Find the bastards who killed my grandchildren and injured my daughter. Ask for whatever you need. The Lincoln name a
nd money are at your disposal but, Sheriff, make sure you do find them.” Then, he’d focused his attention on Jason.
“Spark, I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you. I’ve had you checked out, and if I find you were negligent in any way ... taking half an hour to answer a 9 1 1 call in a town the size of Larosa is unacceptable.”
The threat was there. If they didn’t solve this crime, neither of them would ever work as lawmen again. While he wouldn’t let the bastard get away with intimidating Rick, he knew the man could make his life hell if he wanted to.
If it weren’t for the 9 1 1 tape, they would have very little evidence to go on. The floor had been awash with shoe prints—his, Buck’s, and Pete’s, as well as others. They knew there’d been three men there, but searching for size eight, eleven, and twelve hunting boots, especially those easily available online and in almost any sporting goods store, wasn’t much help without suspects. They couldn’t exactly collect every boot in the world, let alone California.
Jason walked up to the nurse’s desk. It wouldn’t be long before the pretty, petite blonde would be on maternity leave. “Hi, Cassie, how’s my favorite angel of mercy?” He flashed what he’d been told was his award-winning smile. “Irene called and asked to see me. Good news I hope?”
“You’ll be happy to know Mrs. Hart woke up this morning. It looks like she’s out of the woods for good. We took the bandages off her face, too. She’s still in a lot of pain, though. I’ll buzz the doctor for you.”
Cassie picked up the phone and pressed three numbers.
“Dr. Marion, Agent Spark is here … Okay.” She hung up. “She said she’d be out in a minute. Why don’t you go into the family lounge and have a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, Cassie.”
He continued to stare at her. Surely the young nurse understood he wanted to know more than she’d told him. He was surprised when she tore her gaze away from his.
“She’s really stiff and sore, but she was wide awake around eleven this morning. She’s been in and out a couple of times, but we’re keeping her sedated the rest of the day.”
She’d spoken openly to him of Nikki’s condition for six weeks. Why the sudden reticence? A patient’s call button sounded. Cassie looked up at the display above her head and smiled, the relief visible on her face.
“Mrs. Newcomb’s lonely. She probably wants her pillow fluffed. She goes to rehab tomorrow. Grouchiness aside, I’ll miss her. Not many of the patients up here can even talk, let alone complain.” She laughed. “I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. By the time they can argue with me, they’re out of ICU and off to another part of the hospital.”
She stood and waddled down the hall in the direction he’d just come.
Surprised by the way she’d dismissed him, Jason went into the lounge to wait for the doctor, but he didn’t like the situation one damn bit. The family lounge, donated by one of San Francisco’s wealthier families, was a quiet and inviting place, unlike most hospital waiting rooms. The walls were painted a soft blue, and through the bank of windows, the top spans of the Golden Gate Bridge he’d crossed on his way here were visible. Instead of hard metal and plastic chairs, the room boasted several comfortable recliners as well as two love seats and a sofa long enough to accommodate his six-foot-four-inch frame. The muted forty-inch flat screen mounted to the far wall had been left on CNN.
A single brew coffee machine stood in the corner with all the necessary fixings, and he made himself a cup. How many was that today? Five? No, six. He probably should cut back on the caffeine. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped.
Beside the coffee machine was a basket of snacks, and he helped himself to a package of cheese and crackers. He’d left Larosa around half-past one, and it was almost five. His stomach grumbled—a definite reminder he’d skipped lunch.
Jason took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and opened the top button on his crisp, white shirt. He wished he’d taken the time to go home and change into jeans and a polo shirt, but the minute Dr. Marion had called, he’d dropped everything. He had a clean shirt and a few basic toiletries in the car that would do him for the night, and he’d asked Molly to book him a room at the Essex—it wasn’t five star, but it was clean.
He stared out the window watching the clouds gather on the horizon and the fog rolling in from the bay. They would have rain tonight. A cold, damp sixty degrees chilled him to the bone and made his shoulder ache. He sighed.
Six weeks and they were still spinning their wheels. They needed a break soon. The killers had to be pros. The bodies had been found in the garage and the kitchen. Other than the master bedroom and the den, no other part of the house had been touched, and there hadn’t been a single print they couldn’t account for. Thomas Lincoln had posted a $100,000 reward for information leading to a conviction in the case, but so far, other than the usual cranks and nut jobs, not one viable lead had come in.
His cellphone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text message from Molly. Brad, his old partner now working in the San Francisco office of the FBI, had asked to see him as soon as possible.
With Nikki awake and now Brad’s need to see him, he informed the dispatcher he’d be staying for the rest of the week. The door opened and Irene Marion, dressed in her usual green scrubs entered. Her hair was shorn as short as she could get it and covered her head in tight curls. Her café au lait skin was clear of any cosmetics, and the bags under her eyes testified to the fact she was tired. She went straight to the coffee machine and brewed the strongest coffee there. As soon as the cup was full, she swallowed a healthy mouthful of the scalding beverage.
“Early start today. We had a gang shooting late last night. A seven-year-old girl got caught in the crossfire. I’ve removed the slug from her brain and stabilized her, but she’s in God’s hands.” She took another mouthful of coffee. “I get so angry when it’s the innocent ones. Thanks for coming in, Jason. I knew what traffic would be like today, but I really needed to talk to you.”
“Like I’ve told you. Nikki Hart is a priority case. You want to see me—I’m here.”
She nodded. “Cassie told you Nikki came out of the coma this morning. There doesn’t seem to be any severe brain damage. She can see and speak, understand what you’re telling her, and appears to have all of her working memory intact. But she has a severe case of retrograde amnesia.”
“Damn!” Jason shook his head. They’d talked about that possibility as well as permanent brain damage, but he’d hoped they’d get lucky. “Temporary?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped any memory loss would be lacunar—limited to the events of her attack—but it looks more serious. There was substantial bleeding in the medial temporal lobe as well as in the hippocampus. She doesn’t know who she is and didn’t recognize her mother, which suggests more memory loss than we expected.”
The doctor took a final mouthful of coffee, and Jason could see her trying to figure out how to explain things simply.
“Like most people who suffer retrograde amnesia, Nikki will have access to most of her working memory. She’ll be able to read and write, play the piano if she knows how, and since she was a graphic artist, she’ll be able to draw, but it’s a crapshoot as to whether she’ll recover recent memories. In time, older memories may come back, but I can’t guarantee that. We do know she doesn’t have anterograde amnesia. She remembered me from the first time she saw me, so she can create new memories.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that Nikki won’t be able to help us solve the crime.” He sighed. “This will end up another unsolved mystery, and those bastards will get away with four murders—Dr. Hart, his nurse, his son, and his newborn daughter.”
The infant girl had hung on for all of seven minutes, and her death had hit him harder than anything else. Her mother had tried so hard to save her. He’d heard the tape. If only he’d arrived even ten minutes earlier...
Irene fixed her gaze on him. “I didn’t say that. What I mea
nt was, it’s unlikely, but unlikely isn’t impossible. In many cases, retrograde amnesia is temporary and can be helped along by revealing information to the patient concerning the memories they’ve lost. Some doctors have had success with electroshock therapy, but do you really want to put the woman through that? We both know Nikki has defied the odds for six weeks. She should have been dead long before she made it to my table. I wouldn’t count her out.”
She grabbed a package of chocolate chip cookies from the basket, took one, and offered him the other. He declined.
“So, we still have a chance. How long will it take?”
“I don’t know. A lot will depend on her character and her state of mind. Sometimes, after near death experiences, character changes. Passive people become assertive. Some even become aggressive. A person afraid of flying suddenly enjoys it. We’ll start running tests tomorrow to see how her brain is functioning. Most of her physical injuries healed well, but she has yet to eat and walk on her own. Her speech is slow and slurred, but that’ll correct itself over time. What concerns me are the possible psychological ramifications of both remembering and not remembering. She panicked this morning when she realized she couldn’t recall anything about herself. In some ways, losing some of those memories may be a blessing, but there’ll be a lot of guilt once she learns the whole truth about what happened to her.”
Irene stared out the window. The clouds had moved inland bringing darkness earlier than usual. Jason stood next to her, drinking his own brew, impatient for her to continue, well aware by now that she wouldn’t be rushed. She hadn’t become the country’s second-best neurosurgeon working at one of the top teaching hospitals in the United States by rushing.
On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1) Page 5