“Sounds great.” Why not? I was only on my way to jail and the unemployment line. What did I care if the last thing I did as a free woman was answer insurance questions? It would make my final minutes pass slower.
The emergency room was deserted as the paramedic and the driver wheeled me past the admitting desk and into a curtained examination area. They transferred me to a bed and told me to wait for the doctor. After they left I sat up, gently swung my legs over the side of the bed, and eased my feet to the floor. I held tightly to the edge of the bed, steadying myself. When the blackness didn’t return, I stepped across to a plastic chair and sat down just as the curtain was whisked back and a kid dressed in surgical scrubs and tennis shoes sauntered in. I assessed him carefully. I diagnosed acute bedhead, terminal freckles, and a chronic need for identification if he hoped to pass as an adult. He glanced at a chart in his hand.
“Miss Townley, I’m Dr. Keller.” James Brown’s baritone in the body of Howdy Doody came as a complete surprise. “I understand you hit your head.” Howdy was a consummate professional. Even without the blow to the head, it would have been like watching a Japanese movie dubbed into English. He checked my blood pressure and heart rate, jotting notes on the chart. He reached out and repeated the flashlight-in-the-eyes trick before placing a hand on either side of my face and turning it first one way and then the other.
“Does that cause any discomfort?”
“No.”
“Could you look at the curtain behind me and read the top line of the label for me?”
“ ‘Made in the USA.’ ”
“Good. Any headache, blurriness, double vision, nausea?”
“All of the above.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Four.”
“Any other pain?”
“No.”
“Well, it looks like you suffered a mild concussion. Without additional symptoms we don’t really need a CAT scan, but I want to keep you under observation for the next twenty-four hours to make sure nothing else is going on. If you have someone available to look after you at home, I’ll release you. If you don’t, I can admit you overnight. Preference?”
“Home.” Oh, no. Connor. He was going to expect some sort of explanation. I heard husbands were like that. Even erstwhile ones. My mind began to race at the idea of a heart-to-heart with Connor on the first day we actually spent together as a married couple. I could start with, “I’ve got a great story we can tell the grandkids one day. Fifty years from now, when it starts to seem remotely funny.”
“Okay. A nurse will be in shortly with some paperwork and then she’ll call someone to come get you. In the meantime, the police want to talk to you. Are you up for that?”
Please, please, can I?
“Sure. No problem.”
Chapter Five
I was waiting for the cops. That couldn’t be good. I had a killer headache, no pun intended, an adolescent doctor, and a dead body I couldn’t explain. Behind door number two, there was the soon-to-be-guilt-ridden best friend—totally not his fault—and the bound-to-have questions husband I didn’t know what to do with. Orange jumpsuits and three squares a day won hands down.
A man walked into my cubicle, and I could tell with a glance that he was a cop. He was in his midfifties with steel gray hair, thick glasses, and a rumpled blue suit several years out of style. All he needed was a trench coat and an unlit cigar to pass for Colombo.
“I’m Sergeant Thomas Wesley, Ms. Townley.” He flipped his identification open and waited while I peered at it through blurry eyes. I recognized his raspy baritone from the alley.
He looked around before leaning against the bed while holding a crumpled notebook and pencil stub he had pulled from one tattered pocket. His air of readiness jump-started my flagging energy. It didn’t help my headache.
“How are you feeling? That was a bad blow you took.”
“I’m blessed with an amazingly hard head.”
He smiled at me but it never reached the cold gray of his eyes. I sat up a little straighter.
“If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to ask a few questions about what happened tonight.”
“I didn’t kill him.” Clearly I had to hope I was never taken prisoner of war.
“I thought we might start with some background.” He flipped pages in his notebook nonchalantly. “What’s your full name?” He seemed unfazed by my protestation of innocence. He probably heard the same thing all the time.
“Sara Townley.”
“Address?”
“One-oh-eight Virginia. Seattle. I didn’t even know him.” The verbal diarrhea continued. This might be my first corpse, but I’d seen enough movies to know that blabbermouths always ended up in the big house. Unfortunately, the events of the evening hadn’t left me at the top of my game.
“Phone number?”
“I recited it.”
“Why were you in the alley?”
“I was meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“It was a man you were meeting?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t know?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, maybe you could explain the purpose of the meeting?”
“Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”
“I’m just trying to get a better idea of what happened tonight. But I’ll read you your rights, if that’ll make you feel better.”
“It would.” He did. It didn’t.
“Would you care to make a statement at this time?”
“Do I need a lawyer?” A picture of Morris posting my bail flashed through my mind. I’d rather do life.
“Why would you need a lawyer?”
“I was in an alley with a dead guy.”
“True.”
“I’m no coroner, but bleeding through a particular spot in his chest didn’t really strike me as a natural cause of death.”
“When did you realize he was dead?”
“When I rolled him over.”
It finally registered. This cop didn’t think I killed the guy in the alley. He was way too cool. Then again, maybe that was his shtick. Maybe he was lulling me into a false sense of security and he was just waiting to slap the cuffs on. That didn’t make any sense. He’d asked when I knew the dead guy was dead, not when I killed him. And he hadn’t said anything about the guy I’d hit. Or maybe he’d hit me. I took a deep breath, relieved. Calling Morris no longer seemed inevitable. As long as I didn’t breach any attorney-client—or attorney-cat—confidences, cooperation was probably a good thing. I might not even get fired.
“How do you know I didn’t kill him?” Now that I didn’t think I was going to be doing twenty-to-life, I was a little miffed I wasn’t perp material.
“I don’t.”
“If I’d killed him, I wouldn’t have run screaming from the alley. And I’d know how he died. How did he die, anyway?”>
“I’m just trying to find out what you saw and heard, Ms. Townley.” He was very professional. How annoying.
“No. You have some reason for thinking I didn’t kill him.”
“When you rolled him over, did you see any type of weapon?”
“I don’t think so.” I closed my eyes, trying to remember exactly. I swallowed hard as my mind replayed the scene in vivid detail. “No. He was facing away from me. I pulled his shoulder and he sort of flopped onto his back. I saw the blood and then I got out of there.”
“Did you scream?”
“Like a teenager in a slasher flick. Why?”
He ignored me. “Did you touch the body anywhere else?”
“We didn’t know each other that well.” What kind of people was this guy used to dealing with?
“Did you recognize him?”
Once again, I struggled to replay the scene in my mind. I saw blood and pinstripes but no face.
“I don’t think so.” I wasn’t really sure. If I’d known
him, I’d have noticed. At least, I think I would’ve. I just couldn’t see his face.
“You don’t think so. Does that mean you might know him?”
“I didn’t really look at his face. I was too busy getting out of there in case the killer was hanging around, waiting for seconds.”
“Did you see someone else?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Short, maybe five-six, shaped like a fireplug, huge arms.” I couldn’t believe I’d been that close to the guy. I held my head, trying to concentrate on the memory and not the headache. “He was wearing a blue suit. Navy. No, not a suit. A uniform. Yes, a uniform. Oh.” Comprehension dawned and I slumped. “He was probably one of yours, right?”
“Officer Bridges. Did you see anyone else in the alley?”
“What did he hit me with?” I had to know. The way I was feeling, it had to be police brutality. Maybe if Morris was happily busy suing someone, he’d forget all about me.
“Chin.”
“Oh.” I was embarrassed. “Well, he packs a punch for a guy who never used his hands.”
“I imagine he does. Let’s get back to why you were in the alley.”
“Why was he there?”
“I’m asking the questions, Ms. Townley.”
“Sara. Yeah. I get that. But why was Officer What’s-his-name already there?”
“Why were you there?”
“You first.” I crossed my arms over my chest. It was juvenile, I knew, but I tripped over a dead guy and felt entitled to something for my trouble, not to mention my terror.
“Officer Bridges was responding to a phone tip.”
“Gunfire?” I guessed. Had that been a bullet hole? That was a really big bullet.
“Why were you there, Ms. Townley?”
Drip. Drip. Drip. This guy was the Chinese water torture of interrogation techniques. My head pounded.
“I was meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“A phone tip.” Take that.
The cop didn’t so much as bat an eyelash.
“How did you set up the meeting?” he continued.
“He was just a voice on the phone. He said he had some information about a case I’m working on.”
“What case?”
“I’m an investigator with Abercroft, Hamilton, and Sterns.”
“The law firm?”
“Yeah.”
“What is the case about?”
At the last instant caution reared its head. Caution and common sense. Sorry, Mr. Policeman, but I was pursuing a hot lead on a missing furball and thought a war zone after dark would look good in the report. This cop would buy it, no problem. Yeah, sure. I’d do what any sleazy lawyer—or in my case, innocent person who worked with too many lawyers—would do. I’d obfuscate. I’d fudge. I’d skulk behind attorney-client privilege. If there was one rule that Morris instilled in everyone from senior executive vice president to junior janitor, it was that client information was sacrosanct. Never discuss clients. Never discuss cases. Not even in generalities with the names changed to protect the innocent. Never, ever. God bless the evil minds of Abercroft, Hamilton, and Sterns.
“I can’t say.”
“This is an official police investigation of a homicide, Ms. Townley. I’d think you’d want to help us clear up this matter as soon as possible.”
“You know I didn’t kill him.”
“This is the early stage of the investigation. I don’t know anything for certain. Except that you were found running from a man who turned out to be stone-cold dead.”
“He was cold. Really cold. Too cold for a night like tonight. It didn’t penetrate then, but . . .” My hands flexed, as if they could still feel the soft cotton fabric of his suit, stripped of his body temperature. “How long had the guy been there?”
“Why were you in the alley?” he shot back, not about to be distracted.
“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. Really. Have you ID’d him yet?” My curiosity was getting the better of me, allowing me to ignore the fact that a mere hour ago I’d promised the Almighty immediate reformation of my character as I fled hatchet-wielding demons. This man handled real investigations. Not traffic accidents or custody disputes or, with apologies to Flash, cat disappearances. And I was in the middle of it. A real case.
“We are withholding identification pending notification of the family. Perhaps there is someone at your firm who could speak to me about this matter?” Sergeant Wesley clearly couldn’t care less about what I wanted.
“No one will talk to you. Attorney-client privilege.”
“Are you a lawyer?” he asked, his eyes icing.
“No.”
“Then you’re not bound by the privilege.”
“Actually, I am.” Abercroft, Hamilton, and Sterns practically demanded blood oaths during employee orientation. I’d have to be hit a lot harder to forget that lesson. “I don’t have to be a lawyer. I just have to work for one.”
“And this lawyer’s name would be?”
“Morris Allensworth Hamilton the Fourth.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean it. Good luck. Really.”
Chapter Six
Too bad I couldn’t sell tickets. Shabby civil servant versus pompous-ass senior partner. Morris would bristle with outrage at any suggestion that he might breach a valued client’s private business to a lowly cop. His righteous indignation would reach epic proportions as he delivered an eloquent and incredibly loud discourse on attorney-client privilege as the bedrock of the greatest legal system on earth. That a policeman, a soldier in the battle for justice, could conceive of thwarting the very principles on which the nation was founded by intruding, without any just cause, into the sacred relationship between a legal adviser and a represented party evidenced a disheartening breakdown in the moral tenets that had built this country. Morris would be brilliant. All without the faintest recollection that his client was a cat.
“I understand you have someone at home who can watch for complications from your blow to the head?” A petite Asian nurse in a starched white uniform and comfortable matching shoes broke into my reverie, killing my amusement and replacing it with dread. While I had been chuckling over Sergeant Wesley’s impending disaster, I had somehow managed to forget all about my own.
“I’m married.”
“The paramedic checked the wrong box. He marked ‘single’ under marital status.” Irritation crossed her bland face. “That’s why they’re supposed to give us a face-to-face briefing instead of just abandoning people in the exam rooms.” She glanced at a clipboard of papers in her hand, all professional inquiry without any hint of personal interest.
“Honest mistake.” I couldn’t remember him asking me the question, but the answer sure sounded like one of mine. If I’d been thinking more clearly, I would’ve just told the nurse ‘single’ to stay consistent. Avoiding telling Connor about the evening’s adventure for a few more hours would have been icing. I wondered if there was a soon-to-be-single box.
“And your next of kin is listed as Russ Smith.”
“Yes. Absolutely.” Maybe that blow to the head was a good thing.
“Then he’s available to watch for symptoms?”
“No. I mean, yes, he is available, but he’s at work right now.” It would probably come back to bite me, but I couldn’t think of an obvious drawback to using Russ to buy me a little time to get my act together before I faced Connor. Besides, Russ owed me for abandoning me to psycho killers and iron-jawed constables.
“He’ll have to come pick you up. Hospital policy mandates anyone requiring observation to be signed out by a responsible adult.” Her voice told me she wasn’t going to bend her rules for me.
“It would be easier if I swung by to see him before heading home. He works the late shift.” I had to at least try.
“Give me his number and I’l
l call him. Once I explain that you must be released to someone who can watch for danger signs, I’m sure he’ll make himself available.” I doubted there were many people with the nerve to be unavailable when this woman explained things to them.
“Really, it would be much easier if I just met him there.”
“Hospital policy. Sorry. The number?” Five bucks said this nurse hadn’t aced bedside manner.
I thought about Connor waiting at home. I needed time to come up with a story. Something good. Something that would explain everything. Bailing on him. My client the cat. The dead guy. The knife. The ambulance. The cops. Hell, Charles Dickens couldn’t come up with a story that good. I needed Russ.
“He works at KSEA. I don’t remember the number offhand.”
“The late-night radio guy? He’s your husband? I listen to him all the time.” The nurse went from relentless professional to gushing fan in the time it took to blink. “I’ll be happy to call him for you.” She beamed at me before swishing out of the room.
If there was a way to come up with a convincing story, Russ was the guy to ask. Even if he was mad about my staying in Pioneer Square after he left, the guy would lie on a blood test. He was dependable that way. But he could be unpredictable. He might play along without missing a beat. Or he might spin some wild tale about an escaped mental-patient stalker who went around convincing professional health care workers that she was the wife of a local celebrity. I could be in the rubber room a week before I managed to convince anyone it was a lie.
I didn’t want to think about why I had to avoid telling Connor. I didn’t need Dudley Do-right to untie me from the tracks. I did fine on my own. Except for needing Russ to help me tell whoppers.
“Your husband’s on his way,” a red-headed nurse told me, coming into the cubicle just far enough to deliver her message before departing once again.
“Thank you, Russ.” I whispered.
I spent several long minutes staring at the curtained walls of my cubicle. Where was the nurse? Wasn’t she ever coming back? I had to get out of here. I glanced at my watch. Three twenty-six. Maybe Connor had gone to sleep. He might not even know how long I had been gone. Even if he knew, would he worry? Be angry? Where the heck was Russ? I needed aspirin. I needed sleep. I needed an accomplice with a felonious bent.
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