As though sensing our approach, a groggy Richard opened his eyes.
“My two favorite people,” he rasped. We both reached for his hand. He captured one or two fingers from each of us.
“How do you feel?” Brenda whispered.
“Horrible.”
“You’ll be okay,” I said, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “The shoe’s on the other foot. When you get home, I can bully you around.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
My throat tightened. Sorrow and remorse threatened to choke me. “Why’d you do it, Rich? Why’d you shove me aside and make yourself a target?”
He squeezed my fingers ever so slightly. “You’re my kid brother . . . I couldn’t let her hurt you.” His eyes closed and he was asleep.
Brenda and I hung around the hospital for another three hours until Richard was taken to his room—the best in the hospital—and sleeping peacefully.
We took the elevator downstairs, exited, and walked straight into a mob of reporters with video and still cameras.
“Give us a quote!”
“What’s your relationship with Sharon Walker?”
“No comment,” I said, pushing Brenda through the crowd.
I thought we’d successfully left them behind when a voice called out, “Jeff Resnick!”
I turned: Sam Nielsen, his eyes bright with anticipation, waited.
Though I might regret it, I made my decision. “Give me an hour to shower and eat, Sam. I’ll call you at your office.”
“Exclusive,” he demanded.
“Yeah.” I turned, took Brenda’s arm, and guided her away.
The clouds were gone, the crescent moon a slash of pure white light in the cold, dark sky. We pulled up our collars against the cold and, hand-in-hand, headed for Richard’s car.
CHAPTER 25
It’s true what they say about doctors being the worst patients. Once Richard started feeling better, he became cranky and bossy—totally unlike his usual self. But Brenda and I suffered through his moods, keeping him company from the time visiting hours started until the nurses threatened us with the hospital security forces to get us out at night.
Maggie visited several times, bringing him flowers and us care packages. Her presence forced Richard to be almost as nice as usual. Brenda and I bought a chess game at the toy store before visiting one day, and that kept Richard—and me—occupied for hours on end, while Brenda patiently worked on her needlepoint or read magazines.
Sharon Walker wasn’t as lucky. No one came to visit her in jail. Three days after her arrest, the cops found her hanged in her cell. Hayden called me even before the press was notified to ask if I’d seen it coming. I hadn’t. Once the cops had taken her away from the church, I didn’t give the woman more than a passing thought. I wondered if the guilt trip I’d laid on her about her father had influenced her that much. Had I inadvertently caused her death?
I didn’t like to think about that.
They buried her in her family’s plot at Mount Olivet Cemetery. Some macabre part of me wondered if Ted Schmidt had dug and then danced on her grave.
The police found enough evidence at her house to convict her, and although he was only four years old, her son turned out to be a credible witness to Sumner’s murder—for all the good it did. In my mind, justice had more or less been served.
Sharon had no other family and true to form, Rob Sumner did not claim his child from Social Services. I felt bad for the kid. I hoped little Jackie—or Jimmy, as his mother had called him—would be placed in a foster home where he’d find some semblance of a normal life. Maybe one day be adopted. Toward that end, after I told him what happened, Richard called his lawyer and set up a trust for the kid, assuring psychiatric help and anything else the boy needed. It was the first step in what Richard called “unloading some of that damned money.”
The kid would probably have a better life without Sharon.
Yeah. Sure he would.
As a result of Sam Nielsen’s newspaper articles, I received several job offers; two were from crackpots, one seemed genuine. That is, until I inquired about their health care benefits and outlined my particular problems, then they no longer wanted to interview me. The answering machine took the bulk of the crank calls.
I stopped by the bakery—twice—for more placek and conversation, but Sophie wasn’t around. I wasn’t about to give up on her. I’d just have to keep trying.
Spring sunshine warmed the air six days after Richard was shot—the day he was released from the hospital. The crew from the sporting goods store had only been gone five minutes when the Lincoln pulled up the driveway. Richard and Brenda were late getting home from the hospital.
Richard got out of the passenger side of the car, looking pale, but smiling. Other than his arm in a sling, there was no outward sign of his near-death experience.
I greeted him with a basketball tucked under my still-healing arm.
“Looks great,” he said, indicating the new backboard over the garage door.
“Yeah, and in another couple of weeks we can use it.” I dribbled the ball on the driveway, tried a one-handed lay-up shot and missed. The ball bounced once and rolled away from me.
“Yeah,” I repeated, embarrassed, “another couple of weeks.”
Brenda got out of the car and joined us; her body language said she was wired. I looked at the two of them, sensing something was definitely going on.
“What’s up?”
Richard glanced at her. “You want to tell him, or should I?”
In answer, she peeled off the leather glove on her left hand, flashing a large diamond ring. “We stopped at the jewelry store on the way home. Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Delighted, I took her offered hand, noticing how the sunlight reflected off the many-faceted stone. “Nice. Congratulations.” I stopped myself. “No, you get best wishes,” and I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You get congratulations.” I shook Richard’s hand. “When’s the date?”
“Oh, who knows,” Brenda said and laughed, “but sometime soon. And we want you and Maggie to stand up for us. Then we’re going to Paris for a honeymoon. Won’t that be great?”
“Yeah, it will.”
A swell of well being coursed through me. On impulse, I drew them into an awkward group hug.”
“It really will.”
# # #
Read on for more about the author and her books, plus a SNEAK PREVIEW of
DEAD IN RED
, the second Jeff Resnick Mystery.
Sometimes it seems like murder and mayhem follow Jeff Resnick, challenging his psychic “sixth sense” to solve crimes. Since the vicious mugging that changed his life, he’s tried to keep his unwanted gift in check. But when a bartender at his favorite watering hole is murdered, visions of a sparkling red woman’s high-heeled shoe and a pair of bloody hands linger in his mind--and hit too close to home. When Jeff’s older brother, Richard, last helped him with an investigation, it nearly cost him his life. Still, Richard is determined to tag along as Jeff is drawn into the seamy world of fetishes and drag queens to find a murderer before another life is taken
.
Chapter 1 of Jeff Resnick’s second adventure
DEAD IN RED
by L.L. Bartlett
My footsteps echoed on the pavement that cold night in early March. Huddled in my old bomber jacket, I dodged the mini skating rinks that had once been puddles on the cracked pavement. Preoccupied. By the creepy thing I’d experienced only minutes earlier. By thoughts of a new job. Of the fifty bucks I’d just won playing pool at the little watering hole near my apartment. Five months of unemployment had cleaned me out. I was on a roll and determined not to let anything spoil it.
Then two imposing figures stepped out of the darkness, demanded money. I gave them what I had. It wasn’t enough. One of them grabbed me, decided to teach me a lesson.
Not if I could help it. I yanked my arm back, kicked one of them in the balls—and paid for it.
Backlit by a streetlamp, I saw the baseball bat come at me, slam into my forearm, delivering a compound fracture that sent skyrockets of pain to obliterate my senses.
Couldn’t think, too stunned to move as the bat slammed into my shoulder, knocking me to my knees.
The bat came at me from the left, crashed into my temple, sent me sprawling. My vision doubled as I raised my head and the bat walloped me again.
“My cousin’s dead.”
The voice brought me out of my reverie, or rather the nightmare memory that claimed me at inopportune moments.
Tom Link’s bottom lip quivered and he looked away. Heavyset, with a barroom bouncer’s countenance, I hadn’t expected him to reveal any trace of what I was sure he would call weakness.
My fingers tightened around the cold pilsner glass as something flashed through my mind’s eyes: The image of a sparkling red, woman’s high-heeled shoe.
I tilted the glass to my lips to take a gulp of beer. Bursts of insight—if that’s what they are—bring with them a certain creep factor, something I doubted I’d ever get used to.
I concentrated on breathing evenly as I sipped my beer and waited for Tom to continue. It isn’t often a bartender confides to a customer. I know. Years before I’d spent time on that side of the counter, listening to the stories of lonely men—and women—who had no other confidants.
Tom wasn’t just a bartender at the little neighborhood sports bar that teetered on the verge of going under—he was also the owner of The Whole Nine Yards. I’d been patronizing the unassuming place for the past couple of months, getting the feel of it, a part of me hoping I could one day be a part of it.
I’d heard about but hadn’t known the murdered man—Walt Kaplan. He’d opened the bar early in the day, whereas I’d never been there before eight p.m.
“How can I help?” I asked.
Tom’s gaze shifted to take in a group of regulars crowded around the large-screen TV bolted to the wall, before turning back to me. “You said you used to be an investigator—”
“Before I got my head caved in,” I said, referring to the mugging I’d suffered some three months before. I’d read about Walt’s murder in the paper, but Tom probably knew more about it than the news had reported. “What happened?”
Lips pursed, Tom ran a damp linen cloth over the old scarred oak bar. “Walt worked here part-time. He left here on Saturday afternoon and never came back.” His worried brown eyes met mine. “Your name’s Resnick. We’re
landsman
, Jeff. Would you be willing to look into it? I’ll pay you.”
We weren’t “
landsman
.” I was a lapsed Catholic, not Jewish, but now wasn’t the time to dispute that. Besides, the idea intrigued me. I’d been hanging out at the little neighborhood tavern with the idea of eventually asking Tom for a part-time job, and now he was offering an employment opportunity far different than what I’d anticipated.
“What about the cops? Don’t you trust them?”
“I’ve been robbed four times in the last twelve years. Did they ever catch the guys? No.”
Part of me—the smart part—knew if I accepted his offer I’d be sorry. Another part of me wanted to jump at the chance to feel useful again. I tried to keep my eagerness in check. “Tell me more about Walt.”
Tom’s jowls sagged. “You woulda liked him. He was a lot like you.”
My stomach twisted. “How so?”
A small smile twitched Tom’s mouth. “Quiet. A loner. He wasn’t one to talk about himself. You’ve been coming here for a couple months now and I know your name and what you used to do before your accident, but that’s all.”
He had me pegged there. Spilling my guts to strangers wasn’t in my program. At one time I’d been a top insurance investigator, but office politics weren’t my forte. I screwed myself one time too many and ended up on the unemployment line. On the eve of starting a new job, I’d been mugged by a couple of street thugs. The resulting brain injury had changed my life forever.
“The newspaper said Walt was found by the Old Red Mill. That he was stabbed and had apparently been robbed.”
Tom nodded. “His wallet was missing. So was a big diamond ring he always wore. His father gave it to him when he graduated from high school. I went to the mill. Nothin’ much to see but some crime tape.” His gaze met mine, hardened. “But you’ll get more than I did.”
Get more?
The words made my insides freeze. How did he know? I could count on one hand the people who knew I was—that I could .
.
.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. The word “psychic” didn’t really apply to me. Since the mugging, I’d been able to sense strong emotions. Not from everyone I met—but sometimes from those who were no longer alive. Sometimes I just knew things—but not always. It was pretty much haphazard and damned disconcerting when it happened. And often these feelings and knowledge brought on migraines that so far drugs hadn’t been able to quell.
Tom’s gaze bore into mine.
“Get more?” I prompted, afraid to hear his answer.
“Being a trained investigator, I mean.”
I heaved a mental sigh of relief. “Yeah.”
“When can you start?”