Grace felt nauseous. Between the slow up-and-down movement of the plane on the air currents and Joey Shoes’s cologne, she felt an urge to throw up which she was desperately fighting. She breathed deeply and concentrated on the new life inside her. So far God had been good to her, rewarded her obedient practice of the Catholic faith she had been brought up in: mass every Sunday and on holy days of obligation, confession once a month and no meat on Fridays during Lent. Except if you’re pregnant, of course. She pulled a pack of saltines from her purse and slipped one into her mouth to calm her stomach.
The 757 touched down with a slight bounce. The reversed engines whirred loudly tugging back on the jet as it raced forward until it finally came to a halt. There was a brief silence and then the cacophony of seatbelts unlocking.
Shoes was the first out of his seat—terra firma. He would have kissed the ground, but he didn’t want to lose his cool. Looking and staying cool was everything in his business, with the exception of staying alive.
He waited for Nick and Grace to exit their seats, shadowing them dutifully as they made their way to ground transportation. In a few minutes they were in the back seat of a black Chrysler. Shoes sat in front, mumbling unintelligibly to the driver. The driver mumbled back with grunts and groans and a few gestures, a language obviously all their own. Shoes reached under the seat to retrieve the Beretta—his old friend, shipped especially for him by air express. He kissed it and tucked inside his jacket where it belonged. He vowed he would never leave it behind again. Fuck airport security. He’d find a way.
The driver sped along the palm lined drive to the freeway. The air was warm and friendly. The sun shone brilliantly. Flowers, trees, and grass whizzed by, all the things that were missing from Philadelphia in February.
The driver was efficient and professional. He said nothing as he drove straight to 487 Jesse Street, the number given to him by his boss, who had received it from DiCicco.
No one said a word.There was tension in the air.They each knew what they had to do. In exactly one and a half hours they had to be on a return flight to Philadelphia. Nick nervously checked his watch. The driver pulled up to the curb and looked over at a white, stucco, U-shaped garden apartment complex. A twelve-foot black iron gate stood at the entrance, obviously locked for security reasons.
“This is it,” he said as he put his flashers on. The rest was up to them.
Nick was the first out. “Wait here,” he said to Shoes. Grace followed behind him, carrying a brown leather briefcase.
They reached the iron gate together and scanned the numbers on the directory.
“Here it is.” Grace pointed to 327D. There were no names listed. “Shit, no names anywhere, not even on the mailboxes.”
“Let’s hope Jerry was right. Otherwise this trip was for nothing.” Nick pushed the buzzer and waited thirty seconds. Pushed it again. Sixty seconds, and nothing.
Grace was nervous. She paced and then tugged at the gate. “Shit.”
“Did you think it was unlocked?” Nick asked cockily.
“Don’t mock me. I just did the natural thing. I tried.” She shook the gate and leaned her face into it in despair. “Why didn’t we think of this?” she said despondently.
“We did.” Nick turned and motioned to the car. The front passenger door opened and Shoes immediately got out. Without a word, he reached into his pants pocket, took out a lock pick, and the gate swung open in a flash.
“Sometimes you have to use a little self-help,” Nick said, boldly leading the way to the elevator which would take them to the third floor.
“This is illegal,” Grace said. “You broke into this complex. You could be arrested—lose your license to practice.”
“I know. But as I said, sometimes you have to do what you have to do—skirt the law, if necessary, fuck the law, if necessary. Sometimes justice demands it.”
They were at the front door of 327D. Nick rang the doorbell, shifting from one foot to the other. Thirty seconds, sixty seconds— nothing. He knocked loudly. Nothing. He nodded to Shoes, who again practiced his craft.
Grace felt sick. She didn’t like this at all. She didn’t want to go to jail—not in her condition. She turned and started toward the elevator.
Nick quickly walked up behind her. “Come on, Grace, we came all this way. I thought you had balls.”
She turned. “I do. But I can’t do this—I’m not a burglar.”
“Look,” he took her by the shoulder, “we’re not stealing anything. We’re just going to wait inside for her and hope she’ll be back. We’ll apologize and then tell her that…that…” He stammered for a moment. “…that the gate was unlocked and…so was her front door.”
“She’ll never buy that.” She shook her head. “You’re being a stupid jerk.”
“Who gives a fuck if she does or doesn’t? Once we lay a subpoena on her and tell her that the law wants her back in Philadelphia, she’s really not likely to call the cops, is she?”
Grace’s eyes were brimming with tears. “Why did I ever get involved with this whole thing—with you?”
Nick put his arms around her and squeezed her tightly. “Because you love me, that’s why.”
Shoes was already inside, nosing around the neatly kept apartment. “This her?” he said as he sat down on the cream-colored leather sofa pointing to a photograph of two older people, a man and a woman flanking a young woman in a nurse’s cap holding a diploma. Nick checked it against the photo he carried in his inside jacket pocket—the one he had taken from the Riley file. It wasn’t Donna Price. It looked like her: blond, slim, petite features, dimples. But it clearly wasn’t her.
His heart sank to his shoes. “This isn’t Price,” he said, shaking his head and flopping into a chair. He put his head in his hands, speaking to the floor, “I’m fucking nuts. You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”
But Grace was already into the hall of the apartment. “There’s two bedrooms here,” she called as she raced into one of the bedrooms, looking wildly for something that would tell them that they had struck gold. She found toss pillows, an unmade bed, panties and a bra on the floor, a few stuffed animals. and a photo of a man in hospital greens with a stethoscope hanging from his neck. He was with the same woman as the older people in the living room photo. Definitely not Donna Price. It was obvious that this girl was a slob, hopefully not an operating room nurse. Grace tore into the next bedroom. It was pristine, neat as a pin. Everything was in its place, dried roses in a flower arrangement on the dresser, the only decoration. And no pictures. Shit, shit, she thought. She opened and ransacked each dresser drawer. Nothing but neatly folded clothing; sweaters, underwear, stockings, every item neatly stacked and color coordinated. Obviously anal. She went to the small desk next to the bed and opened the drawers. Again neatly arranged pens, paper clips, stamps, blank writing paper. Grace looked at the calendar opened on the desk. There was her work schedule— Monday through Thursday: two a.m. to ten a.m. Grace checked her watch. It was 10:20. Whoever she was, she was due home about now.
“Nick,” she called. “Come here—hurry.”
Nick slowly walked into the room, his jacket open, his tie pulled down. His hair was tousled from rubbing his head. “This whole thing sucks. Let’s go—I don’t need her.”
“Nick, she’s going to be here in a few minutes. Look.” She pointed to the calendar on the desk. “Let’s wait, let’s…”
“What? You said you didn’t want any part of this, you’re not a criminal, and now you want to wait?”
“Yes.” She looked at him defiantly. “I do. I have a plan.”
“OK. Let’s hear it.”
“I’ll go down and wait by the gate. When she comes in—she’ll obviously have a nurse’s uniform on—I’ll call you on the cell phone.” She copied the number from the bedside phone onto her hand. “I’ll let you know if it’s her before she gets on the elevator. If it’s not, you can leave before she gets to the door. If it is her, you can wait.” Grace loo
ked wide-eyed at Nick, obviously proud of herself and waiting for his approval.
He shook his head, nixing the plan.
“What’s wrong with it? It’s perfect,” she protested. “Hurry, she’s going to be here in a few minutes. I know it. Nick!” she yelled. “Let’s do it. We came all this way. Took this chance.”
He rose from the bed, sighed, and quickly gave her a high five. “You’re right. We came all this way. I’m just pissed I didn’t think of it myself. Go on—get out of here.”
Grace was gone before he finished the sentence. As soon as she walked through the door, she looked at her watch and started timing. Down the elevator and to the front gate was exactly one minute and twenty seconds.
She waited inside the courtyard, looking through the ornate Spanish ironwork to the street outside. She could see the black Chrysler. The driver sat motionless, staring ahead as if he were a crash dummy. Grace, on the other hand, was in motion, pacing, leaning, tapping her foot, and then pounding the gate. Nothing she did brought Donna Price any sooner. She looked at her watch. It had only been fifteen minutes since she left the apartment. It seemed an eternity. She had to go to the bathroom. She crossed her legs tightly for a minute and her bladder obeyed—thank heavens she had a good bladder, even pregnant.
After another five exasperating minutes, her cell phone rang. It was Nick.
“Anything?” he asked in a tense tone.
“No, Nick, nothing yet. But I’m about to pee myself.”
“OK. We’re coming down. We can’t wait for her forever. We’ve got work to do.”
“Don’t—not yet. I’m coming up to go to the bathroom. Then if she doesn’t show up in a few more minutes, we’ll leave— OK?”
“You women with the bathroom. Does your whole life revolve around pissing and waiting to piss?” he said in an exasperated tone.
“Yes, a great deal of it. I don’t have an extra long urethra like you, you prick,” she retorted. She found Shoes standing on the third floor, hand in his coat pocket. This made Grace extremely nervous. “Can’t you wait inside?” she asked.
“Somebody’s gotta watch, lady, while you take a leak.” He smiled while he chewed his gum intently.
Grace was just about to flush when she heard a shrill whistle— then a knock on the bathroom door.
“Grace, it’s her. Let’s move.”
“Who?”
“Somebody. Shoes gave me a signal. Come on goddamn it, get the hell out of the bathroom.”
She pulled the door open and ran to the elevator. It was waiting there for her on the third floor. It slowly moved down, two, one. Then the door opened and Grace stood face-to-face with her.
“Hi,” the woman smiled. “Is this your floor?”
The face was identical to that in the color Xerox of the hospital ID badge that Grace had seen in the discovery materials in Philadelphia. Just a little older and a little more tired. But who wouldn’t be, working through the night, caring for sick people? The same pure blue eyes, fine small nose, alabaster skin, blond hair pulled back in a barrette. And deep dimples. The dimples gave her away completely. They were like two bullet holes that appeared on command when she smiled. Even the slightest smile brought them on. “Dimples” was her nickname in the Metropolitan Hospital nursing school yearbook, which Grace had also seen in the discovery file, and which had led Maglio’s investigator to her whereabouts.
“Hi,” Grace responded breathlessly as she stepped out of the elevator, still holding the door back. “Yes. this is my floor. Sorry, I’m new in the complex.”
“That’s OK,” the woman responded politely, pushing back a strand of hair which had fallen to her face. She walked into the elevator and pressed number three. The door closed.
Grace was immediately on the cell phone. She punched in the woman’s phone number and the screen suddenly went blank. “Shit! Low battery.” Grace wanted to cry. She hit send again and the phone rang. She looked up. She could see the woman stepping out of the elevator onto the open balcony that led to her apartment. She saw the woman turn toward her apartment.
Inside the apartment, Nick picked up the phone, but said nothing.
“It’s her.” Grace’s heart was pounding. “Donna Price.”
“OK,” was all he said and then hung up.
Grace found herself on the third floor without even remembering the ride up. She saw the woman unlock the door and enter the apartment. The door closed just as Grace started to approach. She thought for a moment, gathered her courage, and knocked, wondering if they’d all wind up in the Pasadena jail.
“Yes,” the woman answered through the partly open door held back by a chain lock.
“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you,” Grace said. “I’m Grace Monahan and I just moved in today. My phone’s not connected yet. And my cell phone’s down. I have to make a quick call to the phone company. They were supposed to be here an hour ago.” She looked at her watch. “I have to leave for work in an hour. I’d hate to be gone when they arrive.”
The woman inspected her from head to toe as Grace assumed her most sugar sweet stance—shoulders slightly stooped, feet awkwardly turned in, and a smile that would melt the polar ice cap. She stared at Grace for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then she slid the chain lock off.
“Sure, come on in. I know what that’s all about. I moved here three years ago and I still have problems with big monopolies coming out to do their job. Wait till you try to get your TV connected…”
Grace stepped in and closed the door behind her. “Thanks.”
“The phone’s over here. The woman pointed to the kitchen wall phone. “By the way, I’m Jane Welles.” The woman held out her hand and Grace shook it firmly.
“Grace Monahan. You’re a nurse, I see.”
“Yes, I am. I guess you can tell from the high-fashion clothes I’m wearing.” She laughed, looking down at her white, crepe-soled shoes.
Grace smiled as she removed her hand slowly, looking about to see if there was any evidence of the others in the apartment. “Very nice place you have here, Donna.”
The woman’s face suddenly froze. “What? What did you call me?”
“Donna. Isn’t that your name? Donna? Donna Price?”
The nurse walked to the door. “Get out.”
“Not before I leave this.” Grace laid a witness subpoena on the entryway table.
“What the hell is that?” The woman snatched up the folded document.
“It’s called a subpoena. You have to come to Philadelphia to testify in the trial of Sean Riley versus Dr. Victor Manin. It starts this Friday. Three days from today. Give this to your boss.” Grace laid a copy of the subpoena down on the table. “Your airfare, wages, and hotel accommodations will be paid for by the plaintiff’s attorney.”
“That’s me.” Nick stepped into Jane’s line of vision.
“Who…who are you—and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?” Jane’s voice was rising as she grabbed her purse from the entryway table.
“I’m Nick Ceratto. I’m the attorney representing the Estate of Sean Riley, and you’re Donna Price, the other operating room nurse, and I need to talk to you.”
“I’m Jane Welles,” she insisted. “And get out of here. You’re breaking the law being in here without my consent. You just can’t break into my apartment. Who the hell do you think you are?” She would have gone on, but Nick interrupted her diatribe.
“Yes.” He removed the color copy of the ID badge from his pocket. “And so are you, breaking the law. That is, by impersonating another person, assuming someone else’s identity, Ms. Price.” He held the picture up for her to see.
“How did you get that?” she snapped.
“From hospital records provided in discovery. The defense has it, too. But…” he paused , noting how pale she had become—there wasn’t a hint of color left in her face—”I presume we were the first to arrive, uninvited. Or were we?”
Jane began to shake uncontrollably. “I need my medic
ation or I’m going to faint.” She started rummaging in her purse, throwing the contents on the small table. She pulled out a container of pepper-mace and aimed squarely at Nick, a few inches from his face. “Get out,” she snarled, her hand trembling. “Get out or you and your friend won’t be able to see or breathe for twenty minutes.”
Shoes soundlessly stepped out of the kitchen and pushed the barrel of the Beretta into the back of Jane’s head. “Neither will you if I pull this trigger. And it’ll be a lot more than twenty minutes.”
Jane dropped the mace. Her shoulders sagged and she began to cry. “What do you want? Why are you here?” she wailed.
“I just want the truth. Just the truth, that’s all,” said Nick quietly. There was a note of sympathy in his voice. “I’m sorry we had to do this. But there are a lot of lives at stake, including yours, I’m sure you had a good reason for hiding out. I want to know why. And I want to know what went on in that operating room the day Mr. Riley died. I want to know everything.”
“OK,” Jane said defeat clearly in her voice . “You’re right. I am Donna Price. But show me some ID.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers trying hard to control the flow of tears. “If you’re who you say you are, I’ll talk to you. Only if I do, you have to promise to leave.”
Grace handed her a tissue and led her to the leather couch.
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