Obsession (Southern Comfort) (39 page)

“Hell no.”  James shuddered.  He wasn’t a wuss about blood, generally speaking, but when it was fountaining out of a woman’s neck, soaking your hands and your clothes as you tried to stem it… let’s just say he wasn’t about to sign up for that experience again anytime soon.

“Okay,” Corelli said.  “I’m here.  So what was it you wanted to show me?”

James studied the other man.  “Where were you earlier this evening?”

Corelli smiled, then laughed.  “You think
I
shot that young woman?”

“No.”  James frowned.  “But I’m still not sure I trust you.”

“Hey kid,
you
called me.”

So he had. 
Because he also wasn’t sure he trusted the local police on the island.  They hadn’t managed to come up with any answers up to this point, and from James’ observations, he didn’t think that they took the threat to Justin all that seriously.  After all, he was a big, capable guy, and the likely culprit – in their minds – was a jilted ex-girlfriend.  A jilted ex-girlfriend who was now dead.  His brother hadn’t been physically attacked, no property was stolen.  Just some trespassing and the destruction of a shower curtain – which the “victim” hadn’t wanted anyway.

They had bigger fish to fry.  Like the at
tempted murder of Natasha Griffin.   

“I’m not a kid.”  Frown still in place, he pulled out the two plastic bags he’
d stored in the center console.  “Here.”  He tossed them onto Corelli’s lap.

Anthony held them up to the light shining through the window.  “What am I looking at?  Besides a raunchy pair of underwear.”

James explained that Justin had found the underwear in his pocket.  Then he described how the gift tag had come in an otherwise empty envelope in the mail.

“Odd,” Corelli agreed.  “Your brother thinks these women – his ex-girlfriend’s cohorts – are setting him up as a way to get revenge for their dead friend?”

“He appears to be leaning that way.”

“And I take it that you’re not.”

James scratched the back of his neck as he ordered his thoughts.  “I think my brother has a stalker.”

“Has?” Corelli’s eyebrows lifted. 

“He found the underwear and got that gift thing in the mail
after
Mandy killed herself.”

“
The underwear could have been there for a while. How often do you check the inside pocket of your coat?”

“Yeah, but the stamp on the envelope shows that it was mailed just three days ago.  So it couldn’t have been Mandy, seeing as how she was dead. And there’s something about that tag:
a gift for you
.” He sipped his coffee.  “It makes me uneasy.  He’s gotten a number of gifts already, but they were… tangible.  An ornament, a book.  A fresh cup of coffee, made just the way he likes it.  Who knows what the hell this means?  There was the sugar in his gas tank, but other than that, there’s been nothing negative directed at him.  You see what I mean?  And that shower curtain – he hated it.  So maybe whoever did this thought she was doing him a favor.” 

“Question,” Anthony said.  “If he hated it so much, why didn’t he take the damn thing down?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I think he kept it there as a reminder not to get involved with someone he works with ever again.”

Anthony
snorted. “Okay. But what about the prints? They were made by a man’s shoe, remember.”

“Yeah, I’ve hardly forgotten.  Did you find out anything about Joe Palmer’s shoe size, by the way?”

“Twelve.”

“That’s only half a size difference.” Which didn’t exactly clear him as a suspect.  “Shit.  But it doesn’t make sense.  It’s an anomaly.”

“It’s the anomalies which make investigating frustrating – and interesting.  A puzzle where all the pieces are not only in the same room, but numbered, is going to be pretty damn boring to work.”

“Yeah, but since this is my brother we’re talking about, I’d take boring over interesting. 
The woman who was shot tonight.  Natasha.  She told Justin that she had proof he was in danger.”

“What?  What sort of proof?”

“I don’t know.  I just found out about it when Justin was talking to one of the detectives at the hospital.  She told him she had something in her car, but before she could get it – bang.”  He thought of the physical results of that
bang,
and controlled another shudder. 

Shit.  He really hoped she lived.

And not just because she might have information that could help Justin.

Corelli tapped his fingers on his thigh
, then shot a sharp look in his direction.  “Have you talked about this with Kathleen?”

“Some,” James acknowledged, shifting.  “But I didn’t give her the evidence,” he nodded toward the bags “because I was afraid she’d insist upon turning it over to the island police due to professional courtesy or whatever.  And no offense, but I don’t think those guys are quite as concerned about this as I am.”

“Yet you showed them to me.  Despite the fact that you don’t trust me.”

James sighed.  “I guess I do trust you,” he admitted, though it was grudging.  “For the most part.  But if you screw me over, I
will
find you and I
will
kick your ass, pressure points be damned.”

One corner of Corelli’s mouth kicked up in a grin.  Then he pulled out his phone, started typing something into it.
  “I’m going to check out this PO box, see if I can find out to whom it’s registered.”  Then he tossed the baggies back to James. “You need to turn these over.  As I keep reminding you, I’m a professional and I’m also an ex-cop.  That gives me a little more wiggle room.  I’d hate to see you facing a charge of obstruction.”

When James rolled his eyes, Corelli pointed his finger.  “Do it.”

“Fine.”

Anthony climbed out of the truck, then placed one hand on the doorframe as he leaned down.  “I’ll get in touch with you if I find out anything.”

“Thanks.”

Corelli slapped a palm on the roof, then closed the door and
walked off.

James watched him go, and then frowned at the carrier that held Justin’s coffee.  No doubt it had gone cold.

“Shit,” he muttered, then slid back out of the truck.  Might as well get a fresh one for himself while he was at it.          

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

NEEDING
to stretch his legs, Justin walked down the hall.  The layout might be a little different than the facility in which he worked, but the smells, the sounds were pretty much universal.  Deciding that he needed a little break from eau de hospital, he headed toward the door.  The night was clear, the moon bright and full, shepherding her flock of stars.  The air felt brisk, though not quite as cold as it had been, and he closed his eyes and breathed it in.

Footsteps pounded down the pavement, moving toward him, the hurried click of high heels on concrete.

Opening his eyes, Justin saw a dark-haired woman hustling toward the door.

“Anne?”

She stopped, whipped around.  Her face was as pale as the moonlight, her eyes dull with shock and grief.

“Oh,” she said, then blinked a few times.  “Doctor Wellington.  Justin.  I didn’t see you there.”

She stood rooted there another few moments, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. 

Recognizing
the sort of helplessness that often accompanies extreme emotional duress, Justin moved toward her, took her gently by the arm.

“Why don’t I help you inside?  I can show you where the waiting room is.” 

“Oh.  Yes.”  She went along like a puppy on a leash.  “Thank you.  They… they didn’t say where I should go, when they called.”

Justin wasn’t sure if by “they,” she meant the hospital or the police, and he knew that both parties could sometimes be less than forthcoming with information given over the phone.

“How much did they tell you?”

“Only that my sister was sh-shot.”  She swallowed.  “Again.  And that she’s in surgery
, and I should come.”

Justin steered her toward a secluded corner of the waiting room.  When he gestured her toward a seat, she
settled herself, smoothing her skirt over her long legs.  Then she looked around as if not quite certain how she got there.

He sat down beside her.

“I’m not her doctor,” Justin told her “so I can’t give you a status report or a prognosis, but I can tell you what happened.  The bullet hit Natasha in the neck, nicking the carotid artery as it passed through.”

“The carotid artery?” she said.  “That’s
one of the ones that bleeds so much, isn’t it?  Oh God.”  She brought trembling fingers to her lips. 

“The artery was nicked,” Justin said “not severed, which is a point in your sister’s favor.  Also, I was able to clamp it before exsanguination could occur, so –”

“Wait. 
You
clamped it?” She shook her head, then looked around again.  “I’m sorry, I guess I’ve just gotten so used to talking to you every time Natasha almost gets herself killed that it didn’t even occur to me that this isn’t your hospital.”  She looked at him, her eyes clearer.  “What are you doing here?”

“Natasha came to see me tonight, at my home.  I live on the Isle of Palms.”

“Oh.  How… was she shot then?  I thought maybe this was another drive-by.”

“We were sitting on my porch, talking.  She stood up to get something from her car, and that’s when the shooting occurred.”

Anne sat back, nonplussed.  “I’m sorry.  But that just doesn’t make sense.  Did someone deliberately shoot her?  Or was it a… a random shot?  Like an accident?”

“The police are going to be able to answer those questions for you.” He hoped.  “I can only tell you the circumstances.”

“Were you injured?” She leaned to the side to look him over.  “You’re bleeding!”  She laid her hand on his arm, dismay lending her voice volume.

Justin twisted his arm, locating the smear of blood above his elbow.  “That’s not my blood,” he assured her, and then she drew her own conclusion.

“Natasha’s,” she said.  “You said that you clamped her artery, but I’m afraid my comprehension is a little slow just now. So you’ve saved her life yet again.”

Justin figured it was best just to be blunt.  “I did what I could for her.  She’s far from out of the woods, though.”

Her shoulders sagged.  “Did she say anything?  When you were helping her, I mean?”

“Well,” Justin said “it’s a little tough to talk when you’ve just been shot in the throat.”

“Of course.  I’m sorry.”  She gave a rueful shake of her head.  “It’s just… we had a bit of a spat earlier.  She’d fought with her roommate, and then spent the night in my guestroom.  I suggested that she needed to sever that relationship altogether, because it didn’t appear to be healthy, and Natasha – being Natasha – told me I couldn’t tell her what to do.  I… I then told her that she was ungrateful for all I’d done, sacrificed for her.  I hate to think that that was our last conversation.”

“I understand.”  Justin heard similar sentiments all too often.  People tended to forget how very fragile life could be
, assuming they’d have all the time in the world to iron out misunderstandings.  “But remember that your sister is a fighter. I’ve treated her in the field, so to speak, for two gunshot wounds, so I can attest to that.  Not to mention the trauma she had as a child.”

“Yes, the car accident,” Anne murmured.  “It was awful.”

“It seems she had a lot of other ailments as well.”

Anne shot him a look.  “She told you about that?”

“Yes.” Justin raised a brow.  “Is that a problem?”

“No, no.  Of course not.  I’m just surprised, I guess.  That was… a challenging period.  For both of us. 
I was pulling my hair out, constantly trying to figure out what to do with this little girl who was always sick, and… well.  There was some question as to whether some of it was psychological.  Her illness, I mean.  After the accident, she craved security and attention – more attention than I could give her, or maybe just a different kind.  She began to make up wild stories, grew paranoid, insisted that she was in terrible danger. A lingering effect of the trauma, the psychologists said. She, um, she fixated on one of her doctors.  A replacement father figure, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Justin said
slowly.  “She told me about that, too.”

“Really?”  This time Anne’s brow winged up.  “She must really trust you, then, to bring that up.  She doesn’t talk about him often.
She was devastated when he died.”

“Di
ed?” Justin said, but just then a nurse entered the waiting room.

“Excuse me,” she said as she came closer.  “Are you Natasha Griffin’s next of kin?”

  Anne darted a look at Justin, her face draining of color.  “I am.  Is she –”

“The doctor would like to speak with you,” the nurse interrupted, not unkindly.  “Your sister made it through the surgery, but… well.  You need to speak with the doctor.”