Death Watch Page 12

  “You can call Sarah Whiteside. She’s a friend, the only one who knew that Jack—that I left. You can ask him, too, if he’ll tell you. I know he’s not there. Jack drives a truck. I left because I knew he’d be gone five, seven days.” But she gave them her home phone number as well as Sarah’s, and added, “I want to see my father, anyway.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Moreno flipped over his notebook, closing it. “He’s under protective custody at the moment. Until we can make a decision as to who assaulted whom, I can’t let you see him. He’s a very sick man.”

  “He’s my father!”

  “I know.” Moreno stood. “I’ll leave my card at the nurses’ station. If you decide later you have anything to add, please call.”

  “You’ve got to find Jack. He’ll come back, he’ll finish what he started.”

  “Miss Smith,” and Office Moreno’s voice sounded genuinely regretful. His eyes sagged at the corners. “If you can prove there was a third party involved, I’ll be glad to widen the investigation. Right now, we don’t have a lot to go on, except for your fingerprints on the bat.”

  “What’s the bat got to do with it?”

  He paused in the doorway, filling it, a solid figure in policeman blues. “That’s the main weapon which was used on your father, miss. Someone tried to beat the pulp out of him while he lay helpless after suffering a stroke.”

  Chapter 10

  Carter slept until early morning and woke surprisingly easily. The haunt of his messages had not disturbed his rest. Yes, Nelson had called—from the plane, not the hotel. Like a voice rising from the dead, he’d made arrangements for a lunch he’d never make.

  “Hey, Windy. Got a life yet? If not, after dinner, there’s a little something I want to leave for you. Nothing really, just a tidbit. Something on Bauer I filed away and forgot about. When Bauer killed his psychiatrist and escaped, he left behind a grad student, a young woman who worked in the practice and labs for the good doctor. Not like Bauer to leave easy prey behind, was it? Anyway, I think I’ve tracked her down to L.A., thought you might be interested. I’ll bring the file with me.”

  The voice was as chilling as watching a videotape of someone he knew was dead. There was a certain disorientation between life and the appearance of life. And if John Nelson had died any other way than he had, Carter might think Bauer was still around, acting in his own interests. But though Bauer had been many things as a killer, a neat and painless assassin he was not.

  Still, lying there trying to decide whether or not he wanted to get out of bed, he wondered what might happen to the file Nelson had brought with him. Seeing as it was probably part of a Bureau investigation, and that the Feds were now working on Nelson’s death, Carter held little hope he’d ever see it.

  Carter ran the back of his hand over his chin as he swung out of bed. The sandpaper sound reminded him that he’d forgotten to buy razors. He’d have to fish the old one out of the trash and scrape it along one more time. As he crossed the bedroom/living room of the apartment, he paused at his computer. He flipped it on, and brought the modem on-line to the office.

  He only had a follow-up assignment posted. The boy’s heart had gone to Loma Linda, and was being used immediately. They wanted him to wring out a few more hankies.

  Heart transplants being as complicated as they were, Carter knew he had more than enough time for the follow-up. Loma Linda surgeons wouldn’t even be available for conference until after one. There was also a small compliment from the editor’s desk about the work he’d done on the boy’s death and the various donations. Heart, kidneys, liver, corneas, even skin to the USC pediatric burn ward. Only the heart had granted a follow-up request, the rest of the recipients had anonymity.

  Carter allowed himself a little shrug of happiness. It wouldn’t win a Pulitzer, but it had been a credible job. He tapped a quick acknowledgment and sent it, no need to hold it back until later in the day.

  His hours were his. He debated about John Nelson, but decided he would learn more if the Feds came to him. He shut the computer down. The follow-up shouldn’t be too hard to get out of the way.

  And it gave him an excuse to go back to Mount Mercy, to see the young woman again.

  He didn’t know why he wanted to go back and see her, but he did. And if he did, he told himself, he didn’t need an excuse. He could do that without a long line of bullshit rationalization.

  Had it been that she’d been pretty in an unusual way, not the California Barbie Doll girl the state had been turning out for decades, but pretty in an unrealized way? Though, with the bumps and bruises she’d collected from her assailant, she could hardly be called pretty now.

  Or had it been because after he’d left her room, he’d run into the resident in the corridor, ice pack to his cheekbone, and the young doctor had cheerfully told him his story of the victim who’d still been fighting in triage.

  He didn’t think it was only because there was a story in her. The police had the case listed as a domestic, but there was the matter of the hair, of the souvenir scalping. She’d told him her estranged husband had done it. There was no Mr. Blue, no Bauer here. Just the same old, senseless battering that people do to one another. She was no different than any other case he’d pick up and do a story about this week.

  He stared at his computer terminal, thought of something he ought to do, and pulled up the address file. His hard disk rattled a little as if rusty and then displayed the file. He couldn’t access the number he wanted, though, so Carter shut down the whole machine. He’d been dragged kicking and screaming into the computer age. He didn’t trust hard drives anymore than he would a three-time paroled felon. With a tug, he pulled a stuffed drawer open, sorted through floppies, found a real address book and thumbed through it until he got what he wanted.

  The phone rang dully and when it was answered, there was a background of children, laughing and screaming.

  “Joyce Tompkins, please.”

  A pause, then, “This is she.”

  “Joyce, this is Carter Wyndall.” He pictured her as he’d last seen her several months ago, one of his background resources on a story. A woman of color, she was as striking as she was forthright. She’d made women’s rights her career and her passion. They’d gone out once after the story was done, but she’d laughingly called it a “mercy date” and said that she didn’t need it. Told him to call when he was truly interested. Joyce attracted him immensely, but he’d not been interested in a relationship in years. No time.

  The background noise was shushed before the woman’s wary tones warmed up. “Why, Carter. I didn’t think you would call.”

  Something a little like guilt, or maybe it was hunger pains, moved in his stomach. “Well, actually, this is business.”

  “Oh. I see.” The warmth chilled a little.

  “Are you still an advocate?”

  “You bet I am. You got someone in trouble?”

  “I think so.” He picked up his watch and checked it. “Are you free this morning? Can I pick you up in forty-five minutes or so?”

  “That depends, Carter. This person in trouble, is this business for you or personal?”

  He thought before answering. “Actually, it’s personal.”

  “All right, then. I’ll be ready. Be sure to knock loudly, the doorbell’s out and the kids ... well, they’re noisy.” Joyce hung up without saying good-bye.

  He sat for another moment at his computer desk. It shouldn’t be personal to him.

  But the girl was. He couldn’t explain it. As much as Joyce had attracted him, she hadn’t moved him to action. This girl had.

  And he wondered how he would have explained the girl to Nelson, too. Got a life yet?

  Maybe it was because he couldn’t explain it that he wanted to go back, to talk to her, to see what color her eyes were.

  Maybe, Carter thought to himself, it was just a healthy, hormonal response.

  He wasn’t sure.

  He hadn’t had one for
a long time.

  He sighed and slogged his way across the apartment toward the shower.

  It took the young woman a few moments to become aware of him standing at the edge of the room. “I remember you from last night. The one with the kind eyes.” Irony chipped her words. “But you’re not a cop?”

  “Ah, no, I’m not.” He’d promised her security, but there’d been none on the floor, and he’d come into her room easily. He felt a little guilty. She looked worse than she had last night, but that was the way of bruises and healing. One eye was discolored all around, the cheekbone brilliantly purple, swelling into her lids, what he could see of the eye itself was bloodshot around its green-gray iris. But it was not injured, or it would be covered, bandaged, hiding from him.

  But it was his eyes she’d commented on. So he moved through the faded yellow curtains toward the bed and tried what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I can’t take credit for the eyes,” he answered. “Genetic nearsightedness.”

  He thought he saw her relax a little, shoulders dropping back. The whiteness of the sheets surrounding her emphasized her paleness and bruising. She put a hand to the lopsided ice pack to remove it.

  He answered, “I was here when you came in last night.

  Carter Wyndall. I thought perhaps you could use a friend. You look like you’ve had a rough time.” He stumbled over his name, so connected with his usual introduction as a reporter that it didn’t come out right when he abbreviated it. But something in her eyes warned him away from telling her what he did for a living.

  “Oh.” She twitched her jaw lightly as if there might be more words coming out, but none did. He took her to be no older than mid-twenties, possibly not even that old, but it would be hard to tell for sure until the bruises faded. “That’s all I need.” She looked at him, wariness renewed.

  “No, actually, what you need is an apology. I, ah, intruded on your privacy last night. This morning, actually, early, and I don’t quite feel right.”

  “You’re apologizing to me?”

  He nodded. He felt as though he’d encountered an iceberg, and he had better be careful of what he couldn’t see in the depths. He cleared his throat. “I was here last night because of a little boy who got shot, caught between gangs, in the line of fire. The family was trying to decide how to deal with it, if they should turn off the machines, donate the organs.”

  She looked away, toward the window, which had the shades drawn so that she could not see the view from the fifth floor, but she had not turned away so quickly thathe couldn’t see the renewed pain in her face. “Must have been some night.”

  “It seems to have been.” His hands felt chill. She turned back to watch him levelly, a spark deep in her eyes. She didn’t encourage him, but neither did she turn him away, and it unnerved him a little. He made his living from news, from the events of the day, be they uplifting or disastrous, and his skin had thickened over the years. She was like a paper cut into that hide, trivial, yet significantly irritating.

  She put her right hand in back of her ear, where the raw scalp had been slathered with what might be Mercurochrome or betadine. The rest of her hair was long and soft enough to cover the spot and she tried to tweak it into place before dropping her hand back to her covers.

  A scuffle of impatience sounded in the hallway. He cleared his throat. “You told me your husband did that.”

  “Did I? And do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  She let out a tremulous sigh, and he realized that he had had no idea just how tense she’d been. The girl plucked at a sheet hem. “The police don’t. They seem to think that my father and I—that we just sort of snapped and tried to kill each other. They won’t tell me how he is, and they won’t let me see him.” Her voice stumbled to a halt, and she closed her swollen lips tightly.

  She’d given him the opening. “In that case,” Carter said smoothly, “I won’t have to apologize for this. I, um, brought along someone you should talk to.” He stood back.

  Joyce came in, dressed in tribal prints colored brightly in ivory, russet, and black. The geometrics moved with her lush, firm body, doing a war dance. Her eyes were gleaming. She pulled up a chair and sat down in one movement, saying, “Girl, those police are going to be sorry they didn’t call me.”

  She looked from Joyce to Carter. “Who?”

  “I’m Joyce Tompkins. I’m an advocate for battered women, and I’m here for you.” Joyce eyed Carter. “Why don’t you leave us alone so we can talk?”

  Carter hesitated. “Is that all right?”

  Mac blinked. “No. I mean, that is, I don’t know—”

  Joyce looked pointedly around the hospital room, at her bed and the empty one next to the window. “I don’t see anyone else here for you. Your mother?”

  “Dead. My cousins live here, but it’s been ten years....” her voice trailed off. “I don’t know.”

  “Of course you don’t. I’ll talk, you listen, then you talk and I’ll listen. Whatever you need.”

  The girl sucked in a breath. “Whatever I need,” she repeated. Her voice was shaky. “I need to know what’s happening.”

  Carter said, “I’ll be back in a little while to check on things.” He backed out and before he’d crossed the door and gripped the handle to close it behind him, Joyce was leaning over the hospital bed, talking softly but firmly.

  He took his time finishing up the heart donor story, got a cup of coffee, and sauntered back up to the fifth floor. Joyce, file folder in hand, was just coming out of the hospital room. She took the coffee from him and drank it in two gulps.

  “You needed that,” he observed flatly.

  Her mouth twitched. She hugged her note-filled folder to her chest. “You’re interested in this one.”

  He paused. Then, “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, she’s lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  Joyce nodded. “She’s a little repressed, hurt, battered, but I didn’t see the syndrome I usually have to handle. She comes from an alcoholic family, but she didn’t decide to be a victim. Her husband sounds fairly domineering, but this is the first, second time he’s gotten physical with her. She got out immediately. She’s disoriented, bewildered, she hasn’t discovered her own strengths yet—but she’s done a lot right so far. She decided she wouldn’t take it. From her father or her husband.”

  “The father beat her, too?”

  “No. From what she told me, he yelled a lot, broke a few things, punched in cabinet doors. The x-rays show some old breaks, but she told me that she was quite an athlete when she was younger. Broke one arm riding a dirt bike, and the other playing hardball. He didn’t touch her, she says. She left because she simply couldn’t take the drinking anymore. She had a scholarship, went away to school, and,” Joyce smiled thinly, “like so many of us do, she fell in love and got married.”

  “To the wrong man.”

  “For her. Maybe for anyone. Anyway, she worked hard to make it a success, but she bailed out when he attacked her.”

  Carter said dryly, “She can’t be that lucky.”

  “Maybe not. But some support work, self-esteem building, and a little independence will go a long way with her. I don’t have to spend years convincing Mac this wasn’t something she deserved.”

  He shuddered in spite of himself.

  Joyce added softly, “It’s a good thing you brought me here.”

  He looked at her.

  She nodded, emphasizing her words. “Right now, her life is upside down. The concussion is giving her headaches, making her see things—I can help her see clearly, think clearly. She needs that support.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll be back to see her tomorrow. I took Officer Moreno’s phone and case number from her, I’ll talk to him later today. You don’t have to drive me home. I’ll catch the bus. I need to pick up my car to do rounds anyway. But, Carter—”

  He had his hand
on the door grip, ready to pull it open.

  “She doesn’t need involvement right now. She can’t handle it.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Joyce smiled broadly. “Oh, Carter. There’s a heart beating under that newsprint hide, after all.”

  “Don’t tell anybody.”

  “I won’t. Just don’t scare her away by letting her know it, too. Give it a few months. Once we get her chin up, she’ll start looking around for herself.”

  “Promise?”