Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  That wasn’t as important as Shannon’s safety. He hoped she was calling the police right now. In the meantime, he leaned forward behind the wheel of his car, as though by his posture he could arrive more quickly at her door.

  SHANNON ENDED THE CALL WITH MARK, FEELING ONLY MARGINALLY better. She should call the police now and tell them about the anonymous call, and the threat that accompanied it. But how should she do it? She could call 911, but that would mean spending a half hour trying to explain to a couple of police officers the events leading up to tonight’s call. On the other hand, she could phone one of the detectives. At least the two men knew the story. She wasn’t looking forward to making that call, especially considering the suspicion in the eyes and voices of the men when they’d told her about finding her fingerprints on Tony’s murder weapon. Then she thought about that distorted voice, and a frisson of fear ran up her spine. No, she needed protection from this man, and the police could give it. She’d depend on Elena Waites to protect her from the police.

  She rummaged in the stack of papers on her desk until her fingers pulled out the cards the two detectives had given her. Picking one to call was an easy decision for Shannon by now. She checked her watch—ten o’clock. She wasn’t sure what shift the men worked, but she recalled her dad saying that Alston was a widower, and Steve himself had hinted that he spent a lot of his hours at his desk or in the field. She dialed his cell phone, and sure enough, he answered on the first ring.

  “Alston.”

  “Detective, this is Shannon Frasier.”

  The pleasure in his voice was obvious. “I’m assuming that a call coming this late isn’t necessarily a professional one.”

  “And your assumption is wrong,” she said, with a bit more acid than necessary. Was this man really flirting with her? Weren’t there rules about that sort of thing? “I got another call tonight from the man who wanted to know what Radick said before he died. He threatened me.”

  Alston’s voice was all business when he replied. “Are you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are all the doors and windows locked?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “Do you have a weapon in the house?”

  “Other than the bat I used in intramural softball? No.”

  “Well, stay put. I’m on my way to your house. Check the peephole before you open the door.”

  Megan padded into the living room, a robe covering her pajamas, as Shannon ended the call. “What’s going on? I keep hearing voices. Either you’re getting lots of phone calls, or you’ve begun talking to yourself.”

  Shannon decided it was probably a good idea for Megan to sit in on this conversation with Alston. “I’ve had a phone call—the second one like it—from a man disguising his voice and wanting to know what Radick said before he died. He threatened me. I called Detective Alston and he’s on his way over. Mark, too.”

  Megan frowned. “Why am I just hearing about all this?”

  “Because I’ve been playing big sister and trying to shield you, I guess. I’m sorry. I’ll change that, starting now. I’d like you to be with me when I talk with Alston. Just remember that if he asks anything about the gun that killed Tony, we don’t answer any of those questions until tomorrow when our attorney is present. This is only about the threatening phone calls. Got that?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Megan said.

  “Megan, this isn’t the time for that. You need to—” Shannon’s retort died on her lips when the doorbell rang. She turned on the porch light, looked through the peephole, and saw Mark and Detective Alston standing side by side on the porch, trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking at each other.

  STEVE ALSTON WASN’T TERRIBLY HAPPY TO HAVE SUCH A LARGE gathering for the session. He’d envisioned a one-on-one with Shannon. Instead, he had Shannon’s sister and her boyfriend, Dr. Gilbert, added to the group. Alston took a deep breath and slipped into professional mode. After everyone was seated in the living room, he pulled a leather-covered notebook and ballpoint pen from the inside pocket of his sports coat. “Dr. Frasier, tell me about the call.”

  He listened, took a few notes, and when he was certain Shannon was finished, said, “I’m sorry we didn’t have a recorder on your line. I put in that request after the first phone call, but I can assure you that I’ll check on it as soon as I get to my office in the morning.”

  “Could you have traced the call if you had the right equipment installed?” Dr. Gilbert asked.

  “Probably not. At first it was only the drug dealers who used anonymous cell phones, but now they’re common. We might be able to triangulate the location from the cell towers used, but if I had to guess, I’d imagine he was in his car, driving around.”

  “I may have heard some traffic noise in the background,” Shannon said. “If tracing the call is unlikely, do you still need to put equipment here?”

  “We’ll put in everything, but mainly I want a recording of this guy’s voice—what he sounds like, exactly what he’s saying. That might help us.”

  “What do you make of the string of numbers Radick gave before he died?” Gilbert asked.

  Steve frowned. He couldn’t very well silence Dr. Gilbert, since he was also involved in the Friday shooting, but neither did he want him monopolizing the conversation. This was supposed to be an interview with Shannon. Steve chose to give a short, truthful answer. “I have no idea, but I’m going to get some help tomorrow from a guy who’s a pretty good cryptographer.”

  “So—” Gilbert began.

  The detective rose and put away his notebook and pen. “I think that’s enough for tonight. Shannon, someone will be contacting you tomorrow about putting in equipment to record further conversations. Will anyone be home?”

  “I will,” Megan said. “They can call here, and I’ll let them in.”

  Steve started to say something to Shannon’s sister about her involvement in the second shooting, but he decided he’d probably get the standard answer—“I’ll answer that tomorrow with my attorney present.” Instead, he shrugged and said, “Okay, you should get a call before noon.”

  “What about Shannon’s safety?” Gilbert asked.

  Steve took a deep breath, fighting the urge to ask the man to butt out. “I’ll ask the precinct to have a patrol car come by periodically tonight.” He turned toward Shannon. “When you go out, be very careful—”

  “I know how to take care of myself,” Shannon said. “Just do your best to find out who this guy is and get him off the streets.”

  “We’re looking at all of Barry Radick’s associates. Jesse . . . that is, Detective Callaway thinks Radick might have been involved in something that had a payoff, and now his partner is trying to find out where the money is hidden.” Steve turned to go. “For now, just let us do our job.”

  At the door, he nodded to Megan and Shannon. “I’ll see you ladies tomorrow. I presume your attorney will be checking with Detective Callaway or me to set up a time.”

  “Yes,” Shannon said. “I’ve engaged Elena Waites to represent us. She’ll be in touch.”

  As Alston walked to his car, he thought about Shannon’s last statement. Elena Waites is one of the big guns. That could mean Shannon or Megan—maybe both—have something to hide. We may have to dig deeper than I thought. Despite that, he was surprised to find that his feelings about the two women hadn’t changed. He’d have to watch his step.

  “I APPRECIATE YOUR OFFERING TO BE HERE WHEN THE POLICE install the equipment on our phone,” Shannon said over breakfast the next morning.

  Megan looked across the kitchen table. She was having black coffee, orange juice, and a piece of unbuttered toast. “No problem. I’ll call Mr. Robiteaux and explain the situation. He said I’d only need a day for orientation, and I should be able to do it tomorrow.”

  “When Elena calls me, I’ll tell her what’s going on. Maybe we can postpone the interview until after the equipment is installed.” She was anxious for the police to catch the man making these
mysterious phone calls, but Shannon wasn’t looking forward to answering questions about Megan’s gun, especially now that she knew it was the weapon used to kill Tony Lester.

  Her fingerprints and those of her sister on the gun would undoubtedly shine the spotlight of suspicion on both of them. When you thought about it, in addition to their connection to the murder weapon, although the evidence was circumstantial, Megan certainly had a motive to get rid of Tony. And a case could be made that after Shannon discovered how Tony had treated her sister, she might try to exact revenge on the ex-boyfriend as well. As for opportunity . . . well, that would depend on what the autopsy indicated was the time frame for Tony’s death. She hoped Elena could guide them safely through the shoals of police suspicion.

  “Do you need anything?” Shannon asked.

  “I do have some clothes that need to go to the cleaners,” Megan said. “Would you mind dropping them off?”

  Shannon glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “No problem, but I need to get going. Show me where they are and tell me which cleaners you use.”

  Ten minutes later, Shannon backed her car out of the garage, a stack of Megan’s clothes on the front seat beside her. She’d drop them off, then head for the medical center. Fortunately, she didn’t have surgery this morning, just patients to see in the clinic. She might even have a chance for a leisurely—well, that was a relative term—an unhurried lunch.

  At the first stoplight, she glanced left, right, and in the rearview mirror. She’d made it a habit since her first driver’s education class. Other than the dark compact car sitting on her rear bumper, traffic seemed pretty much normal. She didn’t like it when cars crowded her, so when the light turned green she got across the intersection and changed lanes, moving to the inside one. The dark car—now she saw it was a black Hyundai—moved with her, staying pretty much on her tail.

  Shannon pulled her cell phone from her purse and dropped it into her lap. This might only be someone with bad driving manners, but she wanted to be ready in case it was more than that. Had everything that happened made her paranoid? Or was she just being careful? In either case, she determined to be cautious.

  She was two blocks from Megan’s dry cleaners when Shannon looked in her rearview mirror and saw that the Hyundai had dropped back. Not only that, but at the next intersection it turned off. Get a grip, Shannon. Stop seeing bad guys behind every tree.

  She wheeled into the strip mall and found a parking place almost directly in front of the sign advertising Young’s Cleaning and Laundry. She exited her car, then leaned over and scooped up Megan’s clothes. Inside, a very nice lady smiled broadly when Shannon said the cleaning was for Megan Frasier.

  “I hope nothing’s wrong with Megan,” the woman said. “She’s a nice lady. Sometimes when she comes in to pick up cleaning she brings me a donut from the shop next door.”

  “She’s okay,” Shannon said. “I’m her sister, and she’s living with me until she can find a new apartment. And I’m sorry, I didn’t know to bring you a donut.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary. I just wanted to tell you how nice I think she is.” The woman busied herself at the computer, and in a moment it spit out a dry-cleaning ticket. “I know it’s none of my business, but I’m glad she’s moved away from that boyfriend of hers.” The lady made a sour face, and for a second Shannon was afraid she’d spit on the floor.

  “Why do you say that?” Shannon asked.

  “He came in with her once. He was . . . what’s the word I want? Shifty. I wouldn’t have trusted him alone for a minute, afraid he’d grab an armload of clothes and run.”

  So Megan wasn’t the only one who thought Tony wasn’t trustworthy. That made Shannon wonder who else didn’t care for Tony. Maybe one of them had disliked him enough to use a gun to end his life. But why use Megan’s gun? And how did the murderer get his or her hands on it?

  Shannon was still thinking about this when she returned to her car. A dark sedan now sat in the parking space next to Shannon’s. She hit the Unlock button, but no sooner had the beep sounded than she realized she hadn’t locked the car when she left it. Shannon climbed behind the wheel and was reaching for the button on her armrest to lock all the doors when the front passenger door opened and a man slid in beside her.

  His face was partially hidden by mirrored sunglasses. His wild black hair was two weeks past needing a trim. But what caught Shannon’s eye was the gun he pointed toward her.

  In contrast with the small, shiny revolver she’d taken from Megan, this was a large, black, boxy gun. The man held the gun low enough to keep it from being visible from outside the car. The barrel was pointed where her blouse and skirt joined. She’d seen enough gunshot wounds to realize that a bullet there would do major damage—she might not die right away, but without medical help the wound would soon be fatal.

  The man’s lips barely moved when he said, “What did Radick say before he died?”

  TWELVE

  SHANNON’S BREATH CAUGHT IN HER THROAT. SHE SAT, PARALYZED by fear, fighting for calm. She’d lived for more than thirty years without seeing the business end of a gun up close, much less having one pointed at her. Now she’d had that experience twice in one week. And as if the sight of the gun weren’t enough, the hand that held it was shaking a bit. If there was a twitch of the trigger finger . . . She recalled what happened when someone aimed a gun at Todd, and again at Barry Radick. A little too much pressure on the trigger and . . .

  “What did Radick say?” the man said. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  Shannon realized that the voice over the phone and the one she heard now were the same. The man hadn’t used anything to disguise his voice. It really was the muffled, raspy one she’d heard in the calls. What had she told the police? The only other time she’d heard such a voice was from a patient with a cancer of the throat. Could this man have the same problem?

  “I . . . I have that information now. It’s in my purse.” She reached toward the space between the seats where her purse lay. “I need to reach in—”

  The man held out his other hand. “Never mind. I’ll just take the purse.” He grunted a laugh. “You’re not going to need it.”

  Shannon noticed that the gun seemed steadier now, and the gunman’s aim was higher. The barrel was pointed at her heart. He wasn’t going to let her go free. After all, she’d seen his face, the part that wasn’t covered by sunglasses. Shannon saw his plan as clearly as if it had been drawn out for her. The man would take the purse, shoot her, and drive off. Her brain whirled, looking for and discarding solutions with the speed of a computer.

  Maybe if she—

  “Excuse me.” The voice outside the driver’s-side window startled Shannon. It was the lady from the dry cleaners. She waved a small piece of paper. “I forgot to give you the ticket for your sister’s cleaning.”

  Shannon saw her chance, and she took it. She turned away from the gunman, who’d dropped his hand to his side so the weapon was hidden by his body. In a flash Shannon had snatched up her purse and was out of the car. She grabbed the woman and hurried with her toward the open front door of the dry cleaners. “Don’t ask questions. Just run.”

  “What was that about?” the woman asked.

  “Lock the door.”

  The woman gave Shannon a quizzical look but complied.

  “Now we need to get away from the front window.” Shannon pulled the cell phone from her purse and quickly dialed 911, shepherding the clerk toward the back of the store as she talked.

  Before Shannon could complete the call, she heard a car burn rubber away from the storefront. She edged around the clothing behind which she’d hidden and saw that her car was still there, but the sedan that had sat next to it was gone. In all the excitement, she hadn’t noted the license plate. But she could identify the gunman’s face. She’d see it in her dreams . . . or, more accurately, her nightmares.

  DETECTIVE STEVE ALSTON PULLED UP IN FRONT OF YOUNG’S Cleaners, taking note of the Dal
las Police Department white-and-black SUV, its strobe lights still flashing, idling at the curb behind an unoccupied blue Toyota Corolla. One patrolman was inside the police vehicle, talking on the radio. The other stood beside the Toyota, notebook in hand, conversing with an obviously frightened Shannon Frasier.

  Steve turned to his partner. “Jesse, I think Dr. Frasier’s just about on her last nerve. Why don’t you let me take the lead on this one?”

  Callaway sniffed. “You know what department regulations say about personal relationships with citizens, especially subjects in an active investigation. Are you sure you want to take that chance?”

  “There’s nothing between Shannon and me. I attend the church her father pastors, so I sort of feel a connection.”

  “Be sure that’s the only connection you feel,” Callaway said as he climbed out and ambled toward the group on the sidewalk.

  Steve held up his badge wallet and asked the policeman who stood with Shannon, “What happened?”

  The patrolman, a tall, slightly built black man whose nameplate read “Robinson,” said, “This woman says a man climbed out of a dark sedan, got into her car, and held her at gunpoint. He apparently was ready to shoot and grab her purse when the woman from the dry cleaners interrupted them. That’s when she jumped out and ran. My partner’s calling in an APB on the car.” He grimaced. “Of course she didn’t get a license number.”

  Steve stowed his badge and nodded at the patrolman. “This is connected to a case we’re working. We’ll write up the report and take it from here. You guys can get back on patrol. Thanks.”

  Robinson touched the bill of his cap and gave a wry smile. “Good enough, Detective.” He climbed into the police vehicle, said something to his partner, and the two laughed.

  “Patrol officers always hate it when detectives take a case away from them,” Steve said to Shannon. “Now, do you have anything to add to what I’ve already heard?”

  “No, that’s pretty much the whole story,” Shannon said as the police pulled away. “The man was the same one who’s been calling. I recognized that muffled, raspy voice. It must be his natural one.”