“I get to the boutique maybe ten minutes to five, park outside right at the curb, my eyes on the front door,” Hutch said. “When I dropped her off this morning, she asked if I could wait outside for her when I came to pick her up.”
“Why’s that?” Jack interrupted.
Hutch cocked his head. “I don’t exactly look like your typical upscale boutique customer. I figured my presence would make her feel self-conscious.” He laughed sharply. “Now I figure it differently. ”
“Go on,” Nat prodded, wanting to focus on the details right now and not her CO’s analysis.
“So, anyway, she says she’ll be out at five sharp. Five sharp comes, no Suzanne. I wait about five more minutes and—I don’t know, I get this uneasy feeling—so I go into the shop.
“It’s empty. Door’s unlocked, and I mean the place is empty. No customers. No Suzanne. The owner, what’s her name, Joan Hayward, she’s nowhere to be found, either. I call out. Nothing. I gotta tell you, it spooked me.”
Nat opened her mouth, but before she could get so much as a word out, Hutch jumped in. “Yeah, I know. I shoulda called the cops there and then. But I didn’t so let’s move on.”
They eyeballed each other for a couple of moments and then he continued: “I go into the back room. Nobody. Then I see the door to what I figure is the bathroom. I think at first it’s locked. But when I give it the old heave-ho it starts to budge. And then I realize why it’s so hard to open. Suzanne’s sprawled on the floor right behind it.”
Hutch shook his head. “When I finally managed to get inside, I thought, at first, she was a goner. Man, was I relieved when I picked up a pulse. Then I spotted the works on the floor. Shit, I really thought that kid had gotten it together. But I guess ‘Once a junkie always a junkie.’ ” “It was my damn car,” Joan Hayward, the attractive thirty-eight-year-old owner of Viva, said, looking badly shaken. “The lot I park in closes at five on Saturdays and since I stay open until six, I always dash out at around four-thirty to move the car to an on-the-street space. It’s usually no problem because a lot of people are leaving by then and I almost always find a spot close by.”
“But this time you couldn’t find a spot?”
“No, that wasn’t the problem. When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start. It’s a ’ninety-eight Volvo, totally reliable until today. I had to call the auto club to come and see if they could start it. Or otherwise tow it. Then I called the shop to let Suzanne know I’d be late getting back and could she please stay overtime, but no one picked up. I assumed she was busy with a customer. But I called back several more times and still couldn’t get her on the phone. I got worried. So I gave the attendant at the parking garage my cell-phone number and a hefty tip to stick around and wait for the auto-club guy to show up and to call me when he got there. It must have been about five-fifteen when I arrived back at the shop, just in time to see an ambulance pulling away from the curb.”
Tears spiked Joan Hayward’s eyes. “I still can’t believe Suzanne would ...” She paused to rummage in her large leather tote bag until she came up with an unopened cellophane-wrapped package of tissues. She ran a finely manicured nail along the score marks to open it, then pulled out a tissue. But she merely clutched it in her hand. “Why now? At the shop of all places? I mean, Suzanne couldn’t know I’d be detained. I’m usually back within ten minutes, fifteen at the most. It doesn’t make sense. It just doesn’t make any sense at all.”
She gave Nat a searching look as if she could explain it. But she couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense to Nat, either.
“She’s a very lucky young woman,” the intern said soberly, close to an hour after Suzanne had been rushed into the emergency room. “When they brought her in, I didn’t think she had a prayer.”
Leo, who was standing beside Nat, didn’t say a word, but she could feel the tension and relief emanating from him. She’d called him as soon as they’d gotten to the hospital. It took him close to twenty minutes to make it over there because of the rush-hour traffic. Nat was glad for the delay. It meant less time for the two of them to have to make stilted conversation.
As it turned out, she needn’t have worried. After Hutch repeated what had happened yet again for Leo’s benefit, Leo had opted to play the torturous waiting game out in the corridor, only returning once the doctor had arrived. Jack and Hutch had hung out with Nat for a brief time, but then she sent them back to the center to keep things in check over there.
“I saw a lot of old tracks,” the young doctor continued. “But this was the only fresh one. You’d think she’d be experienced enough with H to know better than to do such a big hit after so much time off the stuff. It’s downright suicidal.”
Out of the corner of Nat’s eye, she saw Leo’s lips tighten. Did he think Suzanne was trying to kill herself? Was he browbeating himself—feeling responsible in some way for what she’d done? Or, at least, tried to do?
“Can I see her?” he asked, his words clipped.
The intern stepped away from the closed door. “She’s not feeling too great, but then, that should come as no surprise.”
Leo headed into Suzanne’s room. Nat was right behind him. He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder and, although he didn’t say anything, his expression said quite plainly that he wasn’t pleased to have her joining him.
Right now, the last thing on Nat’s mind was worrying about pleasing Leo Coscarelli.
As soon as Suzanne saw Leo approach her bed, her eyes filled with tears. She started to speak, but her lips were trembling so badly, she
v
pressed them shut without saying a word.
Leo took hold of her hand. “It’s okay,” he said softly.
Now Nat was feeling on the verge of tears.
“Leo, I didn’t...” she managed to eke out in a hoarse whisper.
“Not now, Suzanne. We’ll talk later.”
She weakly turned her head from side to side. “But, I didn’t...”
“Shhh.”
Nat came up behind Leo. When Suzanne saw her, her tear-filled eyes widened in terror. “No. No, please ...” she whimpered. “Don’t. . . Don’t send me . . . back.”
Even in her drugged state, Suzanne knew full well what the repercussions of her having used again meant. A one-way ticket back to Grafton. It was pretty much a guarantee.
Nat felt angry at Suzanne for screwing up so royally. For putting herself at risk as well as for putting Horizon House at risk. Every time a prerelease inmate flagrantly broke the rules, it invariably raised eyebrows of concern with the powers-that-be. And it was compounded exponentially because they were already high-profile news thanks to the attack on Lynn Ingram.
Nat looked down at Suzanne and she wanted to shake her. But Suzanne looked so frail, so lost. Had she plunged that needleful of dope into her arm hoping to die? If so, why? Why now? Was this some kind of selfless act to keep Leo from getting mixed up with her again? Did she realize she’d never be able to stay clean permanently and that she’d end up causing not only Leo but Jakey terrible heartbreak? Was this why she told Leo she didn’t want her little boy or his grandmother to visit? A first step toward a permanent separation?
Now, looking at Suzanne, Nat saw a suffering woman in need of help,„ even if Suzanne hadn’t meant to attempt suicide but simply get high. Nat had long had conflicted feelings about drug addiction being treated as a criminal act instead of as an illness requiring medical and psychological treatment. But the reality was, whether she agreed with it or not, using drugs in this country was a felony. Punishable by incarceration.
“Someone . . . was there,” Suzanne rasped.
Nat stepped closer. “Someone was where?” she repeated even as she was thinking,
Sure, someone was there. Your dope dealer.
Leo cast her an acrimonious look. Papa Bear incarnate protecting his injured cub.
Nat corrected herself. He was Papa Bear protecting Mama Bear.
“In the . . . back. That’s why I. . . went. . .”
“Who was there?” Now it was Leo asking the questions.
She shook her head more vigorously than before, flinching from the pain the movement caused. “I didn’t see ... A mask. He . . . wore a mask. And . . . gloves. He was . . . wearing . . . gloves. I saw . . . No, no, I felt something . . . over my mouth . . . Awful smell . . . Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t... So dizzy . . . Oh, my head ...”
She flung a hand over her eyes. “So good to . . . just... let go. But. . . But I didn’t. . . want to ... I tried ... to fight it. . . I tried . . . but I. . . couldn’t.” She was breathing hard and fast. Her body was jerking in agitation.
“Suzanne, listen to me,” Leo said, his voice raised. “It’s over. It’s okay. We’ll get it all sorted out. Just take it easy.”
She didn’t, however, appear to hear him. She was close to hyperventilating.
A nurse walked in. She took one glance at her patient, and now she was looking plenty agitated herself. “Out,” she ordered, as if they were nothing more than disruptive children.
“You’re sure nothing looks . . . out of place in any way?”
“I already told the other officer, Detective Coscarelli, the storeroom looks the same way it always does.” Joan Hayward was beginning to lose her patience. It was almost eight
p.m.,
and she was still suffering the aftereffects of this afternoon’s drama. Nat could well imagine the shop owner wanted nothing more than to go home, take a nice hot bath, and pour herself a good, stiff drink.
Or maybe Nat was projecting onto Joan her own desires.
Leo was once again pulling open and studying the locking mechanism on the back door that led out to an alley behind Newbury Street. “And you’re sure this door was locked?”
Joan shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands folded across her chest. “Again. Yes, Detective. If someone came in here, Suzanne let him in.”
She paused, looking over at Nat now. “I can’t have her back. I hope you understand—”
“You don’t have to worry,” Nat said quietly.
“Pm not saying I don’t feel sorry for her. I had very high hopes for Suzanne. She had a wonderful sense of style. And she was good with customers. Helpful without being intrusive. It’s not a skill everyone has, believe me. Suzanne was a natural.” Hayward kept referring to Suzanne Holden in the past tense. As if she’d actually died of the overdose.
Maybe, in a sense, she had.
“By the way, did the auto club get your car started?” Nat asked as Joan was opening the boutique’s front door, clearly eager to show them out so she could lock up and go home.
She scowled. “Yes. As a matter of fact, all it turned out to be was a couple of loose spark plugs. If I’d known anything about cars, I’d have been able to take care of it in a matter of seconds. But I’m hopeless when it comes to anything mechanical.” She shrugged. “I don’t even know how spark plugs get loose in the first place. ”
“Look, Leo. I know what you’re thinking. But you know, better than I do, that without any proof—”
“Yeah, I know.” He had pulled up at the curb in front of Nat’s apartment building. “I also know Lynn’s psychiatrist was roughed up and warned off. You got that creepy drawing warning you off. And now Suzanne—”
“I need proof, Leo. Without it, no question she’ll be shipped back to Grafton. She broke—”
Leo cut her off. “If Suzanne’s sent back now, it would destroy her.”
It hit Nat then. It didn’t really matter to Leo if Suzanne was telling the truth. Whether she shot up of her own volition or not, he wanted to protect her. You have to care deeply for someone to feel that way. An overwhelming sense of loss washed over Nat like a tidal wave.
Without a word, she opened the car door.
“Natalie.”
Her back stiffened. “Twenty-four hours, Leo. That’s as long as I can keep her in the hospital. Either you produce something to back up her story by then or—”
She didn’t bother to finish the sentence. They both knew the rest of it. ,
seventeen
There are probably few people as adept as transsexuals at keeping secrets. Many have lived their entire lives honing this skill.
Dennis Portman,
Ph.D.,
Lives of Transsexuals
IT WAS A little past eight on Sunday morning when Nat arrived at Boston General. Over seventy-two hours since the attack. Although Dr. Madison had said that Lynn was past the most critical phase, she was still a long way from easy sailing.
All Nat needed was one look at the patient to know that.
“How are you feeling, Lynn?”
She gave Nat a blank look, her eyes still glazed over. “My mouth . . . is dry.”
Nat eyed the private nurse who was sitting near the door. She nodded. Nat reached over to the nightstand and picked up a glass of water with a straw in it. She held the straw to Lynn’s badly chapped lips. Lynn took a small sip. It seemed to take a great deal of energy just to manage that.
“You look better,” Nat lied.
Lynn either wasn’t able to absorb the compliment or simply didn’t care. She was still on heavy-duty pain medication.
“Harrison Bell wanted me to be sure to send you his best.”
Lynn blinked.
Is this pure reflex or does it mean something§ And if it does, what£
“I almost forgot. I was talking with your mom yesterday about Bethany.” Nat was watching Lynn closely, knowing that the nurse sitting a few yards behind her was on alert. Nat had been cautioned not to press the patient for information. All she could do was throw out feelers and see if any of them produced a spark.
Lynn closed her eyes. For a minute Nat thought she was drifting off to a drugged sleep, but then she saw tears slip past Lynn’s closed lids and begin rolling down her bandaged face.
Nat laid a hand lightly on hers, her heart aching for the inmate. “Is there anything I can do, Lynn?”
She didn’t answer right away. And when she did, Nat’s heart nearly broke. “I want my mommy.”
“Ruth?”
“Who is—” She stopped abruptly, recognizing Nat’s voice. “I have nothing more to say to you, Superintendent. And my husband says if you continue to bother us, he’s going to bring you up on charges of harassment. ”
So she’d told him about her previous phone call. And very likely got an earful from him in return. Maybe more than an earful.