Butterfly

by Sharon Sala

  His daddy would have been proud.

  Just as he checked the time, the door to his office flew back, hitting the wall with a reverberating thud. He didn’t have to look up to know who’d just entered, although he turned to face her.

  The tall, elegant blonde in white silk sauntered into the room in a cloud of expensive perfume. His eyes narrowed, and he stifled a curse. Daddy had never known what to do with the woman, and God help him, neither did he.

  “Mother, did it ever occur to you to knock?”

  Mona Wakefield blew him a kiss and sidled up to where he was standing, pulled her long blond hair over her shoulder and offered him her back.

  “Bobby Lee, honey, I do not knock on doors in my own house. Now zip this up for me like a good boy. I want to be ready when Ainsley comes.”

  Bobby Lee gawked. There wasn’t enough back to the dress she was wearing to warrant a zipper, much less anything else.

  “Hell’s fire, Mother, you are not wearing this to my press conference. You look like a hooker.”

  Mona shrugged, glancing over her shoulder and batting her eyes.

  “Maybe a call girl—an expensive call girl—but not a hooker. Besides, how many sixty-eight-year-old women do you know who look as good as me? I’ll tell you how many. None. Now zip me up and stop telling me what to do.”

  Bobby Lee grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around.

  “You get that goddamned thing off now and put something else on, or so help me, I’ll have Waymon lock you in your room. You want to stand by my side and bask in the so-called ‘glory’ of being Senator Wakefield’s mother, then you’d better be wearing something more suited to the occasion.”

  A dark angry flush stained her cheeks as she stared him in the face. To an observer, they would have appeared quite similar. Their tall, slender bodies were firm, their facial silhouettes surprisingly alike. High foreheads, straight noses, stubborn chins.

  Their staring match was a draw until suddenly Mona shrugged.

  “You don’t like it? Fine. I’ll find something else.”

  She tilted first one shoulder down and then the other, defiantly letting her dress fall down around her ankles in a puddle of white silk. Only after she saw shock replace Bobby Lee’s anger did she turn and saunter out of his office as calmly as she’d come in. The fact that she was wearing nothing but high-heeled sling-back shoes, see-through underwear and the white lace garter belt holding up her hose didn’t seem to faze her.

  Just as she disappeared from sight, the doorbell rang, echoing throughout the downstairs portion of the mansion.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bobby Lee muttered and grabbed her dress off the floor. Ainsley was here.

  He dashed into the hall, grabbed the maid on her way to the door and stuffed the dress in her arms.

  “Delia, you make damn sure my mother gets something decent on, you hear? Don’t let her downstairs until she does!”

  Delia nodded and took the dress on the run. Working in this household was crazy, but the pay was good, and she never got bored.

  Bobby Lee hesitated, waiting until he was sure that his mother’s bare backside was no longer visible, then he pasted on a smile and strode toward the door.

  “Ainsley, you look ready for war, boy,” he drawled, affecting his best Texas good-old-boy routine. “Cook has a fine bunch of snacks in the library. Why don’t you go on in and make yourself at home? I’ll just tell Mother you’re here.”

  Ainsley Been smiled and smoothed a hand down the front of his vest as he aimed for the library. Being hired as Wakefield’s campaign manager had been a coup. It would be his first presidential campaign, but if he did this right, hopefully not his last.

  “Thank you, Bobby Lee, I believe I will have myself a little snack. I missed my lunch today.” He moved on as he’d been directed, unaware of the undercurrents in the senator’s household.

  Within the hour, the trio was in a white stretch limousine and headed toward the hotel, where the press was awaiting their arrival. Mona was sitting opposite the men, her long legs crossed, her anger still high. She stared out the window, refusing to meet her son’s gaze. She’d come downstairs in a two-piece suit, as her son had requested, sauntering across the floor in her black stiletto heels to meet the men. The fact that the skirt was three inches above her knees and the jacket’s top button was just below the beginning of her cleavage was bad enough. But it was the fabric about which Bobby Lee was most pissed. Black leather. He was announcing his candidacy for president, and his mother was going to be standing at his side in black leather. All she needed was a whip and a Harley to complete the image.

  “Well, now,” Ainsley said as the driver pulled up to the front of the hotel. “We’re here. Ya’ll put on a smilin’ face and let’s knock ’em dead.”

  Bobby Lee took a deep breath and gave his mother a warning glance. She arched an eyebrow, then smiled.

  “Now, Ainsley, I’m here merely to lend support. After all, this is my son’s night.”

  Ainsley smiled broadly. “Yes, it is, and you must be very proud.”

  Mona looked at her son then, at the glitter in his eyes and the muscle jerking at the side of his jaw. She gave him a wink. To her delight, she could see him struggling to stay angry.

  “Of course I’m proud of him. What mother wouldn’t be?” she said.

  Bobby Lee shook his head, then grinned wryly. When all was said and done, whatever Mona did, it was going to be done her way or else.

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “You’re quite welcome, Bobby Lee. Now let’s go give those reporters something to talk about. Put a smile on that handsome face and strut your stuff.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The door to the limousine opened.

  Ainsley looked at Bobby Lee and then gave him a thumbs-up.

  “After you,” he said.

  Bobby Lee took a deep breath. By the time he was out of the car, his smile was as wide as his steps were long. He entered the hotel with flashbulbs going off in his face and never looked back to see if they were following. He was on a mission that would not be deterred.

  ***

  It was ten minutes past seven in the morning when Ben once again approached the ICU. The nurse who’d been on duty last night was gone and another was in her place. Ben flashed his badge and was asking about China’s condition as a doctor came in on his morning rounds. Ben took one look at the name tag on the slim, sandy-haired man’s lab coat and gave him his full attention. It was Ross Pope, the man who’d operated on China.

  “Dr. Pope?”

  “Yes?”

  Ben extended his hand. “Detective Bennett English, Homicide Division. I’m handling the case involving China Brown, the woman you operated on last night.”

  Dr. Pope frowned. “I hope you’re here to tell me you have the bastard who shot her in custody.”

  “No, not yet, but we will.”

  Ross Pope sighed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Grant me permission to see her.”

  The doctor’s frown deepened. “Absolutely not. She’s in a drug-induced coma. There’s no way she can assist you in your investigation and no guarantee that she will remember what happened when she does wake up.”

  Ben shook his head. “You misunderstand me,” he said. “I don’t want to talk to her.”

  “Are you family?” Pope asked.

  “As far as we can ascertain, she doesn’t have any,” Ben said.

  Pope frowned. “Then if she can’t talk, why the need to visit?”

  Ben hesitated, then glanced toward the ward. He could barely see the outline of her body beneath the sheets.

  “Will she live?” he asked.

  “Barring any unforeseen complications, I would say yes.”

  “When will she wake up?”

  “When her body has had more time to heal, we will decrease the medications. After that, it will be up to her. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

  Ben thrust his hand thro
ugh his hair, disheveling the style into spiky disarray. A look of confusion came and went on his face, but he didn’t know it. All he knew was that seeing her—touching her—was necessary.

  “Look, I can’t explain it,” he said. “But I keep feeling like I need to be there—maybe it’s more for me than for her, but she doesn’t have anyone else. From what we’ve gathered, the father of her baby abandoned her. Her landlord evicted her yesterday morning, and by nightfall she was near death. Her baby is dead, and she doesn’t even know it yet. When she wakes up, well… it just doesn’t seem right that she suffer that alone.”

  Pope’s gaze narrowed as he gave Ben a studied stare. He hesitated briefly, then turned to the nurse on duty.

  “Make a note on China Brown’s chart that Detective English be allowed to see Miss Brown at his discretion.” He tapped a finger against Ben’s chest. “I’m trusting that you will have sense enough not to abuse the privilege you’ve been given.”

  Ben resisted an overwhelming urge to grin. “Yes, sir, that you can.”

  “Fine, then. Follow me. I’ll check on her condition, and then you may have exactly five minutes at her bedside. I’d advise you to be careful of what you say, if anything. We know now that comatose patients often hear what is going on around them without being able to communicate. Keep that in mind. I don’t want anything making matters worse for her.”

  “You can trust me,” Ben said.

  Pope almost smiled. “Yes… well… it seems I’ve already done that. Don’t disappoint me.”

  Ben nodded, then followed Dr. Pope to China’s bedside. She was a far cry from the bloody, snow-covered woman he’d seen being taken away in the ambulance last night, and yet not so different after all. She was still so very small. So very silent. So very hurt.

  He watched the doctor’s every move with interest, noting his thorough study of her chart and then the tender manner in which he checked her wounds.

  Ben caught a glimpse of pewter-colored staples and winced. He didn’t give a damn what modern medicine had to say about the benefits of using metal as opposed to the old-fashioned sutures. They looked grotesque, and he imagined they would hurt like hell. For the first time since this whole thing began, he was glad China Brown didn’t know what was happening. At least for now, she couldn’t feel the pain of the trauma her body had endured.

  With one last warning look, Dr. Pope moved away to check his other patients, leaving Ben alone by China’s bed.

  Ben took a deep breath and then let himself look, marking every feature of her face for future reference, noting the delicate shape and the dark, winged eyebrows slightly knitted over the bridge of her nose.

  He brushed his thumb along the length of one of her fingers. When it twitched, his pulse jumped. Although it was nothing more than an unconscious reaction to stimulus, it startled him just the same. He leaned over and very carefully lifted a strand of her hair from the comer of her mouth, smoothing it back against her head, then whispered very quietly near her ear.

  “I’m here, China Brown. You’re safe… and you aren’t alone.”

  Rationally, he had not expected anything, but when she gave no reaction to the sound of his voice, his spirits fell. He straightened up, but he didn’t move back. Instead, he laid his hand upon hers and took solace in the warmth of her flesh.

  The drug-induced coma she was in was allowing her badly battered body to heal. But it was her sanity that Bennett English was most concerned with. When she woke, and Dr. Pope had assured him that this would take place, would she remember what had happened to her? Would she be able to identify the man who’d shot her and killed Charles, aka Chaz, Finelli, or would the trauma and shock of losing her baby and very nearly her life block everything else from her mind? Only time would tell. Unfortunately, time was not on Ben’s side. With every passing hour, the chance of finding the person who’d committed the crime grew slimmer.

  It wasn’t until someone touched his sleeve that he realized his time was up.

  “Sorry,” he said softly. “I was lost in thought.”

  “It happens a lot in here,” the nurse said. “You can come back later, but for now, you need to leave.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said softly, and gave China’s hand a soft squeeze.

  It didn’t make sense, but his heart was lighter as he pulled out of the parking lot on his way to headquarters. Nothing had changed. The woman was still their only witness and, for now, she wasn’t talking. But there at her bedside this morning, he’d made a connection with her that he didn’t want to lose.

  A half hour later he turned down Commerce Street, then pulled into the parking lot of the Dallas P.D., avoiding a melting snowdrift as he parked. He was halfway to the door when his partner, Red Fisher, came striding out and waved him down.

  “Saw you pulling in from the window,” Red said. “Thought I’d save us both some time and come to meet you.”

  Ben grinned. “Glad to see you back, but what’s the rush?”

  Red waved a piece of paper in Ben’s face. “I was halfway through reading the report on the Oakcliff shooting when this call came in. You can fill me in on the rest as we drive.”

  “Where are we going?” Ben asked.

  “To see Finelli’s girlfriend. She called this morning to report him missing. When they broke the news to her, she got hysterical.”

  Ben slid behind the wheel and closed the door as Red got in on the passenger side, still talking.

  “Anyway, from some of the stuff she was screaming about, the captain thought we might get a lead on the shooter from her.”

  “Didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” Ben said.

  Red nodded. “According to her, they’ve been living together for about a year or so. Maybe she’ll know why Finelli was down in that part of town last night.”

  “Maybe,” Ben said, and then turned all his attention to maneuvering through the slushy streets.

  A short while later, he pulled to the curb in front of an apartment complex and parked. Gang graffiti was everywhere. On walls, on the sidewalks, even on a couple of parked cars near the back of the lot.

  “Jeez,” Red muttered. “Rita and I lived in this complex the first two years of our marriage, but it didn’t look like this.”

  “How many years ago was that?” Ben asked.

  “Nearly fifteen,” Red said. “Garland has changed a lot in the last fifteen years.”

  Ben thought of China Brown, who became a victim her first night on the streets.

  “Fifteen years, hell,” he muttered. “A lot can happen between one breath and the next.”

  Red gave his partner an odd, studied glance. It was unlike Bennett English to be so emotional.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  Ben shook off his anger and gave Red a grin. “You’re the one who’s been sick,” he said. “Better be worrying about yourself. Now let’s go see the lady. What’s her name again?”

  Red consulted his notes. “Jackie Porter—apartment 610.”

  Ben rolled his eyes. “Five bucks says the place doesn’t have a working elevator.”

  Red grinned. “I’ll give you ten to ride it if it does.”

  Ben laughed. It was good to have his partner back on the job.

  ***

  Jackie Porter was still bawling and about ten minutes from a nervous breakdown when her doorbell rang. She jumped reflexively at the sound, then started howling even louder. By the time she got to the door, she was as close to hysterics as a woman could get and not be locked up.

  “Who is it?” she yelled, then blew her nose so loud she didn’t hear the answer. “Who?” she repeated, then stood on her tiptoes to look through the peephole in the door.

  “Dallas P.D., Miss Porter. May we come in?”

  She could see their shields and their faces, although it was like looking at them through a fishbowl. Hiccuping on a sob, she undid the locks and the security chain, opened the door, then stepped back to let them in.

  “Is it true?
Is Chaz really dead?”

  Ben steeled himself and nodded.

  She let out a wail and covered her face with her hands as Red closed the door behind them. Ben took her by the elbow and led her toward the sofa.

  “Please, let’s sit down,” Ben said.

  Jackie Porter fell backward with a plop and reached for a fresh handful of tissues. The men waited while she blew and wiped and managed to compose herself.

  “Miss Porter, can I get you some water?” Red asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine, but thank you,” she muttered, then gave her nose a last dainty blow.

  “Your name is Jackie, right?” he asked.

  She sat up a little straighter and wadded the tissues in her hand into a ball.

  “It’s Jackwilyn Kate Porter, spelled J-A-C-K-W-I-L-Y-N, but everyone calls me Jackie. My mama was a huge fan of Charlie’s Angels back in the old days. She named me for that Jaclyn Smith woman, and for Kate Jackson, only she spelled it different. Those were her two favorite angels. Mama didn’t go for blondes.”

  Ben wouldn’t look at Red. He knew if he did, he might grin, and this visit was no laughing matter.

  “Anyway, Chaz and I were supposed to go get some barbecue and then go see a movie last night. At the last minute, he called to tell me he had a hot lead.”

  Ben looked up. “Hot lead?”

  Jackie nodded. “Yeah, you know… if someone famous was out and about in the city, Chaz wanted to be on hand to take photos. He got paid good money for them. I know, because sometimes he had me deposit the cash.” She sniffed a bit, then continued. “He was going to be famous like those photographers who work for the tabloids.” Her chin quivered as a fresh set of tears began to roll. “I knew something was wrong when he didn’t come home last night. He always called if he was going to be late.”