Imperfect Contract (10 page)

As I drove home, I dialed Ray's number at the station.  His answering machine cut in, and I left a long message. 

15

Ray returned my call late Saturday afternoon.  He thanked me for the message regarding my visit to the realty agencies.  Then he said, "I'm involved with another case.  We'll keep tabs on the Hutchinson shooting, but it's growing cold.  Besides, it's not a homicide yet.  If he dies, we'll jump on it."

"Sounds to me like you're growing cold."

He hung up. 

I'd decided to spend a quiet evening at home, not having any place to go.  I chose a Randy Rawls thriller, made a cup of cappuccino, and settled on the sofa with my Kindle and the dog.  The weather had warmed, and the air-conditioner hummed.  I relaxed in my own cool, safe cocoon.

Sunshine wandered in and out of the house as if intent on distracting me.  He's not a good watchdog, more of a tail-wagging burglar-assistant.  He seemed nervous, so I paid attention. 

I peered through the double French doors onto the patio.  It was too dark to see into the shadows.  I flipped on the light.  Just a table and chairs, my seldom-used treadmill, and a set of weights that once belonged to Ray.  I didn't see anything in the yard. 

Sunshine's unrest wasn't caused by one of the pesky, neighborhood cats.  If it were, he would be outside barking, pretending to be brave. 

I went into the living room and peeked through the stained glass door panel into the driveway, wavering between wanting to see who was there and wanting to scare them away.  I turned on the porch light.  The front yard was empty. 

The dog sniffed at the door and growled.  Odd behavior.  Cavaliers don't often growl. 

Uneasy, I hurried into the master bedroom and looked outside at the deserted landscape.  A rippling crash against the windowpane forced me back several feet.  Sunshine yelped and ran from the room, his tail between his legs.  I realized someone had thrown a handful of pebbles against the glass.  Afraid and shaking, I approached the window from the side, slipped my hand to the latch, and found it secure.  

Sunshine, having recovered his bravery, ran from window to door, barking and growling.  The hair stood erect along his spine.

Without turning on a light, I checked the windows in the spare room and den.  Then not knowing what else to do, I armed myself with a paring knife from the kitchen counter, opened the door into the garage, and turned on the light. 

The side door jiggled.  Someone was trying to break in.  Sunshine rushed at the door—sixteen pounds of jumping, barking fury.  The door stopped moving.

Now what?  My insides did a flip-flop.  I could use a gun but don't own one anymore, and I'd managed to earn a brown belt in karate before taking the slug.  All that expertise, coupled with Sunshine the Wonder Dog, left me feeling exposed.  I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and hurried to the kitchen in search of a more suitable weapon—the six-inch carving knife. 

Then I dialed 9-1-1.  "This is Sophia Burgess.  Someone is trying to break into my house."  I recited my address, forcing myself not to hurry.

A rattling came from the back of the house.  The prowler or prowlers were on my patio, close to the French doors.  A man yelled, "Hey, Ho.  How you like it, Ho?"

"Please tell them to hurry.  I can hear voices on the patio."  My voice shook.  I hung up the phone before the dispatcher could reply. 

A second man said, "Bet she likes it.  Yeah man, I'd like to give the bitch a little."

Someone banged on the front door.

Sunshine ran yelping into the spare bedroom, leapt onto the bed in one fluid motion, and stuck his head under the blind, informing them he wasn't a ferocious watchdog in the process.

I lived a couple of miles from the police station, and a few moments later sirens pierced the quiet night. 

A male voice yelled, "Po-Po's comin'." 

There were a couple other voices, but the words blended into the noise created by my pounding heart.  I ran to the front door, stared out the window, and glimpsed three retreating youths—tall, baggy clothes, dark skinned.  Jamel and his friends? I wondered while waiting for the police cruiser to arrive.

The officer coming to my rescue was a classmate from the academy.  He, along with other officers, visited me several times while I recuperated from my wounds.  He also knew Ray.  It wasn't a surprise when Ray appeared at my door an hour later.

"Sophi," Ray said when I opened the door.  Concern etched his face.  "I heard you had a problem.  You okay?"

"I think."

Sunshine's greeting distracted him for a moment. 

It's a rule in my house—Sunshine's rule—you have to say hello to the dog before you're allowed to conduct business, even if you're a stranger.  Ray isn't a stranger so the whole process takes longer. 

He knelt and rubbed the dog's ears, then picked him up and rubbed him some more. 

I took Sunshine out of Ray's arms and hugged him—the dog, not the man.

Ray walked uninvited into the kitchen and pulled out one of the low stools next to the counter.  "Tell me what happened."

I told him about the noises and the young men running away.  The whole episode was unnerving, and it was good to have Ray around.  I took my time with the story.

"Any idea who they were?"

"I didn't see faces, just running backsides in baggy clothes."  I put Sunshine back on the floor and pulled out the other stool.  "But I'm wondering if it was Jamel."

"Who?"

"Jamel Hutchinson."

"Why would he come here?"  He knitted his brow, looking puzzled.

Remembering I hadn't reported on the exchange in the office between Jamel and his mother, I described the scene.

"Sophia, you left me a message with
all
the minute details from your little real estate adventure, and you forget to tell me you heard the victim's son talking about finishing him off?"  He sounded pissed.

"I thought Jamel was being mouthy, but now I think he has something to hide."

"I agree," Ray answered.  "He's a viable suspect." 

"He's not working, he dropped out of school again, and he hangs out with some pretty tough looking thugs.  His mother is protective and can't seem to defend herself against him.  Was it the same way with the father?"

"Don't know.  I'll track him down tomorrow and have a chat."

"What if it wasn't him or his friends?"

"Then he'll deny it and tell me where he was at the time.  But I'll have warned him.  I don't like him."  He stood.  "Meanwhile, Sophi, I'm going to hang around for a bit."

"Gee, Ray, do you think they'll know you're here with your S2000 out front?" I sassed. 

"I parked it in front of Joe's house in the next cul-de-sac."

"Can't wait to hear his innuendos over the fence in the morning."  I stomped into the Florida room—the Florida version of a family room—and flopped onto the recliner loveseat.  Within seconds, Sunshine pounced into my lap. 

Ray sat next to me.  "I'm glad you're seeing this my way."

There we were, like old times, separated by Sunshine and years of pain.

"I won't stay long, just until I know you're safe."

I glared at him.  Why can't I get rid of the anger?  Here he was, doing the honorable thing, and I was mad.  "I'm sure I'll be fine.  I have my trusty dog to protect me."

"Let's not fight.  I told you on Thursday mornin' that I'm sorry for hurtin' you, but I can't change it."  He was relaxed, off-duty.  His soft drawl was more evident, his deep voice soothing to my frazzled nerves.

"Okay, Ray, okay."  For the first time in years, we talked about everyday things—the department, the hospital, my family in North Dakota, his family in Virginia. 

After a while, he picked up the remote and found a baseball game.  I awoke alone on the loveseat a couple of hours later.  I checked the doors and windows.  He'd done a good job before he left, sealing me in as safe as possible under the circumstances.

16

The telephone blew me out of a deep sleep at six-thirty in the morning.  My supervisor asked me to be charge nurse for the day shift.  The overtime money would come in handy, and I didn't have anything else planned, so I agreed.  Without benefit of makeup but otherwise clean and groomed, I strolled onto the unit thirty minutes later.

Due to my tardy arrival, the morning routine lagged.  By the time I received report from the off-going shift, made assignments, and got organized, we were behind schedule, not unusual for a Sunday morning.  I didn't get out on the unit to make rounds until ten.  Connie Kuhn had the section with the sickest patients, Hutchinson's section.  I saved her rooms for last.  She'd have things under control.

When I entered Hutchinson's room, Amelia was entrenched in her chair with an open book on her lap.  She stared into space.  "Hi," I said.  "How you doing?" 

Connie had changed Hutchinson's dressings, bathed him, and even given him a shave.  I didn't detect the odor of infection.  Some of his problems were resolving.  While I waited for Amelia to respond, I glanced at ventilator settings and intravenous lines.  He lay on his side supported by pillows.  I checked the skin on his back and buttocks.  Intact.  Good job.

It took a long time until Amelia looked my way.  "Sorry, I was lost in thought."  She placed her book on the bedside table, taking pains to position the bookmark just so.  Then she smoothed her hunter green silk skirt over her legs and arranged the folds of her loose tunic over it.  "Jamel said you were in the agency on Thursday.  Why?"

"I was in the neighborhood, saw your car, and decided to stop in and say hello."

"Oh."  She stared through me.  Maybe she didn't believe my story.  Maybe she didn't even care.

"What's wrong today?  You seem more down than usual."

Tears rolled over her round cheeks and dropped on the wide collar of her silk blouse.  The wet droplets disappeared into the pattern.  She accepted the tissue I handed her.  "Not only does he have a girlfriend, he was going to leave me without anything.  We lost our nice big house, and now I live in a crowded, tiny townhouse.  He was going to walk out.  Detective Stone accused me of taking the last money out of the agency account to hire the people who shot my husband.  I went to the bank and requested a copy of the withdrawal slip.  It's not my signature, close, but not mine.  Barry signed it.  I recognized how he wrote my name right away."

"Have you told the detective?"  I pulled a chair next to her and touched her hand, hoping to encourage her to open up.

"No.  I thought about calling him, but what good would it do?  He doesn't believe anything I say."

"He can get an expert opinion."

"Oh."  Her expression was blank.  She stared straight ahead.

"What else?"  I might have stepped over the line, but I hoped she'd reveal something significant.  She had plenty to be depressed about, but I hadn't known her to be distractible.

"Jamel wishes his father was already dead."

"That's not uncommon when a loved one's condition is grave.  Family members often wish the pain and suffering were over."  I wondered if she would tell me more about the conversation.

"Yes, he's being normal."  She stared at me for a moment, then reached for her book.

I took the hint, checked his tubes and wires again just to be official and useful, and slipped into the hall.  In the process, I collided with Vanessa Vanderbilt, who knocked me hard against the doorjamb.  I grabbed the walking-rail and managed to stay on my feet.  "I didn't know you were working today." 

"Overtime."

"Me too.  I figured, why not?"

"I volunteered."  She seemed preoccupied.

"Still taking this assignment, I see."

"It is my normal unit, my job.  Besides, Amelia and I are getting along fine."

"Good," I said, not believing her.

"I figured as long as I'm locked into the contract, I'd go with the flow, close on the place, and move in.  I do like the house, and the price is fair.  I can always refinance later, after I have a chance to improve my credit rating.  I met with one of those credit specialists, and he's helping me plan my payments."

"Sounds good.  Want to meet for lunch in a couple of hours?" 

"Okay.  I'll meet you downstairs, at what, twelve-fifteen?  You'll tell Connie?"

"She can't come with us today."  As the two nurses with the most seniority, Connie and I couldn't leave the floor at the same time.  She assumed charge duties when I went to lunch, and I watched her patients while she ate.

"Fine."  Vanessa hurried into the room. 

I stood outside the door for a few moments.  There wasn't much conversation between her and Amelia. 

Connie waited for me at the nurses' station.  "Do you have time for a little coffee?"  Her hands shook.  She looked more wired than usual.

I was going from one distracted, edgy individual to another.  I glanced around the unit, nodded to the secretary, and followed Connie into the back to the staff lounge.  "What's up?"  I sat on a battered chair across the corner of the table from her.

"I don't know.  I'm frustrated.  I spent at least an hour in Hutchinson's room.  For what?  Why is he still alive?  It's not fair to him."  She fiddled with a scattering of crumbs on the table.  First, she swept them into a neat pile, then spread the pile out, tracing geometric designs in the mess.  I knew she'd continue playing with the mess while we talked.

"It isn't his time yet."

"I don't believe that
his time
stuff.  If it wasn't, why was he shot?"  She swept up the pile again.

I didn't say anything.  What was there to say?

"I've taken care of him for the last few days—while you were off.  His wife never looks at him.  No one else visits.  A tall, blond lady came in, but she left right away."

"She was probably concerned Amelia would come while she was there.  She say anything to you?"

"She asked if he was going to wake up.  She touched him.  Like she knew him well."  Connie smoothed out the tiny hill of crumbs, then swept them off the table with a flourish.  "I wish people would clean up after themselves," she said in a loud, harsh tone.

"I do, too."  I glanced at the mess on the floor.  "What did you tell her?"

"I said I didn't believe he would.  Then I told her she needed to talk to Amelia."

"Connie, I suspect that was the girlfriend."

"I didn't know."  She stood, her motion abrupt and jerky as if fueled by anger.

"You wouldn't have any way of knowing."

"Who told you?"

"Ray."

She gave me an
oh-no-not-again
look but didn't comment.  She pulled open the door.  "Thanks for the break.  Back to work."

I slid past the closing door.  Connie seemed more nervous than usual.  I followed her out into the station where my duties consumed me—calling physicians, answering visitors' questions, and processing new orders. 

The order entry system times-out when not in use.  There were so many interruptions I had to reenter my password every couple of minutes.  I caught a glimpse of Jamel and two of his friends entering Hutchinson's room.  Good, he's visiting, I thought, though I suspected he wanted to badger his mother for more cash.  Before I knew it, the unit secretary reminded me to go to lunch.  I stuck my head into Hutchinson's room and told Connie she was in charge.

When I stepped onto the elevator, Michael Wiley exited.  He wore knit slacks and a coral golf shirt.  The color drew out the pink of his facial scar.  The bright lighting illuminated the side of his face, confirming for me that he had recently undergone surgery.  Given the placement of the incision, I suspected his problem was a tumor.  He wasn't especially thin, had a little paunch even.  I reasoned his doctors had removed all the cancer.  Time would narrow and whiten the incision line. 

"Hi, Mike," I said. 

He stared, blinked, then stuck out his hand.  "Hello, Sophia.  I didn't expect to see you here."

"I work here."

"I see," he said as his eyes traveled from my head to my shoes.  He was taking in the uniform, name badge, the works.  "I'd forgotten."

"Maybe I didn't say."

"Maybe."

"You here to visit Barry Hutchinson?"

"I thought I'd look in on him.  Do you happen to know if Amelia is here?"  He stepped away from the elevator door. 

"She was there a while ago with her son and his friends."

Wiley rolled his eyes.  "Okay, catch you later."  He strode down the corridor while I headed for the stairwell.