No Pain, No Gaine

by Edwina Franklin

  “There are too damn many ifs in that equation, partner,” replied Joe, annoyed. “I think you’ve got Mr. Vanish on the brain. Let’s just stick with the evidence in front of us, all right?”

  “And call it a suspicious death?” Ted insisted quietly.

  “Okay, it’s suspicious,” said his partner reluctantly.

  By midafternoon, an impatient Sandy had decided to resolve the Allen Storm situation herself once and for all by paying a visit to the orderly on his own turf.

  She would be tactful, of course. There was no point in drawing undue attention to her unauthorized presence in Emergency by making a scene. She would tell him calmly and quietly that although she appreciated his attention and flowers, he just wasn’t her type. She would ask him to please not contact her again. Then she would return to her own floor and be a model patient until Thursday morning…or until Ted Gaine’s next visit, which she hoped would come first.

  At 3:00 p.m. sharp, as though drawn by a huge magnet, all the ninth-floor staff headed toward the nursing office for the changing of the guard. As soon as the door closed behind them, Sandy walked to the elevators, pressed the down button and held her breath. Not until she was inside the elevator and moving toward the ground floor did she release it. With luck, Emergency would be too busy for anyone to notice that she didn’t belong there. With luck, she would find Allen Storm, deliver her message and be back in her room before the afternoon nursing shift discovered she was gone.

  At ground level, Sandy stepped out of the elevator and began following the painted arrows on the wall to Emergency. The bare, pale green corridor opened into a large waiting room with an admissions desk at one end. Beside it was a double door, wedged wide open, through which Sandy could see men and women in white uniforms trotting briskly back and forth with stainless steel clipboards in their hands. That was where Allen Storm would be.

  Striding with a confidence she didn’t feel, Sandy passed the admissions desk and entered the nonpublic part of Emergency. Her eyes darted back and forth in search of a medium-tall, brown-haired orderly. A moment later, she found him, parking a gurney in a side corridor.

  “Mr. Storm,” she called gently.

  “Yes, ma’am!” He wheeled around with a half-smile on his face, and Sandy froze, struggling for her next breath.

  It wasn’t the same man. He had the same shade of brown hair, slicked up in a pompadour, and the same cheekbones, and the same lips and jawline, but the eyes were different. Not the color of them, or the shape, but the expression: the personality living behind them and shining through them was radically, terrifyingly different.

  “I’m sorry to bother you…” she stammered.

  He cocked his head curiously, trying to place her. Then he remembered her and his eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, yeah, gunshot wound, early Sunday morning, right?”

  She nodded weakly.

  “You were in bad shape that night. It’s good to see you up and around, Miss…?”

  With an effort, she found her tongue and replied, “DiGianni. Alessandra DiGianni. I…just wanted to thank you…for your kindness.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “You looked kind of alone and scared. Next time you can hold my hand,” he said with a grin.

  “Well, thank you again.” On legs that wobbled dangerously beneath her, Sandy made her way back to the elevator and pressed the number of her floor.

  Allen Storm had never brought her flowers. He’d never even set foot in her room. The man who’d done those things, who’d begged her not to throw out his gift, had been an impostor. And she could think of only one impostor who would be interested in both her and Dooley—Mr. Vanish.

  As her mind formed the words, Sandy began to tremble with urgency. The elevator was moving at a snail’s pace. She willed it to go faster. She had to get back to her room right away and telephone Ted Gaine. And she had to warn the officer guarding Dooley.

  Forcing down a wave of panic that threatened to engulf her, Sandy hurried into her room.

  Instantly her gaze leapt to the flowers. He’d begged her to keep them. That meant she had to get rid of them right away. There could be listening devices, or timed-release poison gas, or who knew what concealed in that vase.

  Sandy ran out of her room again and over to the nurses’ station. Miss Foote was behind the desk, putting on a cardigan sweater and about to leave the floor.

  Desperately Sandy looked around for Mrs. Conway, but the warm, motherly charge nurse was nowhere to be seen.

  “Can I help you?” came Miss Foote’s stiletto voice.

  Sandy groaned inwardly. She had a better chance of convincing Mrs. Conway…but this was an emergency, and Gaine had told her to contact Security in an emergency.

  “Please,” she begged, “you must call Security up here. The blue vase in my room is police evidence. They’ll have to take it out.”

  Miss Foote drew herself up, one eyebrow raised imperiously. “What kind of nonsense is this?” she demanded. “You want me to call Security to remove a vase from your room? I assure you, Ms. DiGianni, they have better things to do. If you no longer want the flowers, an orderly can move them somewhere else.”

  The image of Allen Storm carrying the vase flashed through Sandy’s mind, and her stomach began immediately twisting itself into a knot. “No!” she protested, vehemently shaking her head. “You can’t just shuttle them around. They have to be held for the police.”

  But Miss Foote stared her down, not deigning to answer, unmoved except for that one superior eyebrow. Sandy wanted to kick herself for even mentioning the vase to this woman. She should have known better. She should have known.

  “All right, never mind,” said Sandy, backing away from the counter.

  “No, since the flowers are obviously making you uncomfortable, we’ll take care of them now,” decided Miss Foote. She signaled to one of the nurse’s aides. “The blue vase comes out of 921.”

  “They’re really beautiful,” remarked the aide as she emerged from Sandy’s room cradling the vase of roses and carnations in her arms.

  “I’m sure they’ll be just as beautiful in some other part of the hospital,” replied Miss Foote, her eyes coldly daring Sandy to object to her plans for these flowers.

  Sandy forced down a swelling tide of fear, reminding herself that if Ted Gaine hadn’t been able to convince a police inspector that Mr. Vanish was stalking her, then she was wasting her breath trying to get Miss Ice Cold Foote to react to the threat.

  “Thank you,” she said, as coolly as she could, then she marched back into her room, found Gaine’s business card and called Homicide. Sergeants Gaine and Wegner were both out of the office, but Sergeant Singh was there. He took her message and promised to pass it along at once.

  Sandy’s hands shook as she replaced the receiver on its cradle. All right, that part was done. Now she had to warn Sergeant Michaels, down the hall. But calmly, she reminded herself. Not like a crazy woman, or else he wouldn’t believe her, either.

  Suddenly the door to her room opened and Miss Foote came in, followed by an orderly carrying a small tray.

  “Lie down on the bed, please,” said Miss Foote.

  Instantly Sandy was wary. “Why?”

  “Your doctor has ordered additional medication.” The charge nurse half turned and picked up a syringe from the tray. “I spoke to Dr. Marley just now about the scene you made in the corridor, and he agreed that in your highly agitated state you ought to receive sedation.”

  And the orderly, no doubt, was there to ensure that the patient cooperated, thought Sandy bitterly. With a sigh of resignation, she leaned back and took the injection, the faster to get Miss Foote out of her room, off the floor, and out of the damned hospital, so Sandy could go warn Sergeant Michaels.

  Ted Gaine sat in a corner booth in the police records library, staring alternately at the one-page printout of Mr.
Vanish’s M.O. that Joe had given him the other day and at the display on the computer screen in front of him.

  Joe claimed to have run a comparison of all the unsolved murders in the files in which Mr. Vanish was suspected of being the perpetrator. He’d found a dozen cases, and from them had concluded that Mr. Vanish never used a weapon more than once. And from that conclusion it must follow logically that Mr. Vanish couldn’t have murdered Parmentier or Blass.

  Now, attempting a similar comparison with slightly different parameters, Ted was discovering that there were no cases in the files in which Mr. Vanish was actually named as a possible suspect.

  Not even the Parmentier file, which Ted had assumed would include Alessandra’s statement naming Mr. Vanish as the murderer. Joe had never entered it in the records.

  Ted frowned and punched up a different set of search parameters, but with the same results: no cases found in which the name Mr. Vanish was mentioned.

  Then how could Joe have located the twelve he’d used in his comparison?

  Ted stared at the message flashing on the screen as his mind considered possibilities. Joe could have randomly chosen a bunch of cases that had gone unsolved a certain length of time, assuming Vanish had been considered a suspect. Or he could have asked other detectives to name those cases in which they’d even briefly suspected Mr. Vanish. Or he could simply have known that Vanish had committed those murders, using a different weapon each time.

  But how could he have known? Unless— No, that didn’t make sense. Or did it? Alessandra had pointed out, rightly, that not every police officer was immune to temptation.

  And Ragusz had said something, too, that had stuck at the back of Ted’s mind…something about being glad that the two of them at least had gotten together. It didn’t feel right. It begged a question, but Ted wasn’t sure what question to ask. Maybe Ragusz could tell him.

  Ted strode to the main desk and telephoned Dragnet. When Ragusz finally picked up the receiver, he sounded as though the phone call had woken him up. “Yeah,” he yawned, “this’s Dragnet.”

  “This is Gaine. What did you mean by that crack about the two of us, Alessandra DiGianni and me, getting together last Wednesday?”

  “Last Wednesday?” he echoed sleepily. “Oh, yeah. It was the second time in a week that I’d given that demo. I couldn’t figure out why you didn’t come in the first time, with your partner, but I was glad at least that—”

  “My partner?” Ted cut in, feeling a sudden twist in his gut.

  “Yeah. Wegner came in wanting to know about worm programs. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “I…must have forgotten. Thanks, Raggie.”

  Slowly, Ted hung up. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, but he didn’t like the picture they were making.

  Uneasily, he realized that he hadn’t touched base with Headquarters or with Alessandra all day. He picked up the receiver again and punched up the number for Homicide. Andover picked up the phone at the other end.

  “Messages?” said Andover. “Sure, here they are—two messages, both from your Miss DiGianni. Your partner took them and said he’d pass them on to you.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Joe all day,” said Ted softly. “What do the messages say?”

  “This morning, she called about a problem she was having with an orderly at the hospital. Your partner was already at the hospital, so I passed the message to him. About twenty minutes ago, a second call came in, this one marked urgent. The orderly is an impostor, it says.”

  Ted swore under his breath. “When did Joe pick it up?”

  “Singh forwarded it immediately.”

  “I’d better get over to the hospital right away.”

  “Good idea,” said Andover. “Your partner could be in big trouble. I’ll call Hospital Security and let them know.”

  Yes, thought Ted as he raced across the parking lot to his car, one of his partners was definitely in trouble. But which one?

  Sandy gave Miss Foote ten minutes to leave the hospital. Then she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, half expecting the room to spin, but grateful that it didn’t. She slid down to stand on unsteady legs, her good arm outstretched for balance and support.

  The sedative was making her tipsy. Not quite anchored to the floor, she couldn’t trust her sense of balance. Fortunately there were walls she could lean against on her way to warn Sergeant Michaels. She had to warn him immediately.

  Sandy made her way to the door of her room and peeked out, squinting in an effort to force things back into focus. It was visiting hour. Patients and their friends and relatives were strolling up and down both hallways. Perfect.

  She swung herself around the doorjamb, resting against the corridor wall for a moment as she planned her path past the elevators. Then she pushed off and joined the parade, praying that her own family would delay their visit until evening, as they’d done yesterday and the day before.

  Grimly concentrating on keeping her balance, Sandy passed the elevators and headed down the hall in the direction of room 943. Once again, she passed the half-tiled entrance to the showers. Then she came opposite the kitchen, and the sight of Sergeant Michaels lounging against the narrow counter with a mug of coffee stopped her in her unsteady tracks.

  “Who’s watching Dooley?” she blurted, with a terrible premonition of what the answer would be.

  “A friend of mine. It’s all right, Miss,” he assured her in a gruff voice meant to discourage any further probing.

  “Another policeman, you mean?” she persisted.

  He uttered a resigned sigh. “One of the orderlies is spelling me for ten minutes. Is that all right with you?”

  Sandy’s heart almost stopped. “Dio, not Allen Storm!”

  “Yes, Allen Storm.” The officer cocked his head curiously at her. “Are you all right, Miss? You don’t look too steady on your feet. Would you like some help back to your room?”

  Fighting a wave of dizziness, she cried, “No, listen to me, please! I’m Alessandra DiGianni. Didn’t Sergeant Wegner tell you that there’s a hit man after Dooley and me?”

  Michaels frowned uneasily. “He said there might be. Why?”

  “Please, listen,” she begged, aware that precious seconds were ticking away. Vanish was already inside Dooley’s room, and he wouldn’t even have to use a gun.

  “He’s here. The hit man is in the hospital. I’ve learned who he is. I was coming to warn you. He’s been visiting you, posing as Allen Storm. I met the real Allen Storm today, and they’re two different men. Sergeant Michaels, please believe me—you’ve left Dooley alone with a murderer!” she concluded breathlessly.

  Her ears were humming. Sandy shook her head to clear it, willing adrenaline into her bloodstream to counteract the effects of the sedative. She mustn’t fold up now, she mustn’t!

  After what seemed an endless moment, Michaels put his coffee mug down on the counter and unfastened the safety catch on his belt holster. “I think I’d better go and check this out,” he said grimly.

  Trembling, Sandy followed him to the bend in the corridor and peered around the corner. The door to room 943 was closed and there was no one in sight.

  Gesturing to her to be quiet, Michaels crouched defensively beside the door and listened. Nothing. Then he gave it a gentle push inward. Still nothing. Finally, he straightened up and walked inside, letting the door close behind him.

  All at once there was a hand clamped tightly on Sandy’s right shoulder and a voice whispering coldly into her ear, “Invalids belong in their rooms, dearie.”

  Frozen with terror, she felt something hard jab into the small of her back. “Don’t scream,” warned the low raspy voice. “There’s a gun in my hand. It can blow a hole in you the size of a pumpkin, and that’s exactly what it will do if you let on to anyone we pass that I’m anything but an orderly helping a sick patient bac
k to her room. Nod if you understand.”

  Somehow, Sandy managed to make her head move up and down. She didn’t have to pretend to be unwell. As Mr. Vanish came up beside her, placed his right arm around her waist, and jabbed the muzzle of his gun into her left side, behind the concealing bulk of her cast, her knees almost gave way beneath her.

  “Easy now, easy,” he said in a louder voice, for the benefit of any bystanders who might be listening. And slowly, as everything inside her twisted sickly with fear, they strolled back along the hallway toward her room, collecting sympathetic glances from everyone they passed.

  Just as they rounded the corner beside the elevators, the telephone at the nurses’ station rang. Mrs. Conway answered it. “Ninth floor, Mrs. Conway speaking. Who? No, nobody from this unit called Security, unless…”

  At the word “Security”, Sandy paused, a remnant of hope stirring in her heart. But Mr. Vanish jabbed his gun even more painfully into her ribs and muttered coldly, “Keep walking.”

  Sobbing in a breath, she obeyed. He’d already killed Dooley. Now he was going to kill her. The closer they drew to her room, the more certain she became of that, and the more distractedly her thoughts began to mill around in her mind, faster and faster, until the past was a blur and the present was an icy blanket of pain and fear—and Ted’s face.

  Sandy felt tears stinging her eyes. The thought of dying without ever seeing him again was like a cold blade twisting slowly in her chest.

  Once they were through the door of room 921, Mr. Vanish pressed her to sit on the bed, her back to him. Her left shoulder strained against the edge of the cast as he held her there, his fingers locked painfully around the back of her neck.