One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest (20 page)

I straightened up and said, “Terry's not feeling well.”

Kneeling next to Terry, Spike said, “He's
dead.”

“I killed him. I killed a man,” I wailed, as Jagger held me. Thank goodness he had appeared only seconds after Terry's demise and whisked me off to the treatment room after I had experienced “the trauma of seeing Terry die directly on top of me.”

I'd seen patients pass away before my eyes, but I had never been the
cause.

“You didn't kill him. He killed himself. And besides, you didn't know that the taser gun could affect him like that because of the medication Terry was taking. There's only been a few cases where cops tasered perps who happened to be on medication for some form of mental illness . . . and they died. It's controversial and it's rare. Very rare, Sherlock.”

“But it happened.” He held me tighter. I wondered how Jagger had known that there had been some very rare cases where cops had tasered suspects and they had died.

I figured he didn't tell me because then I'd hesitate to use the taser around here—even to save my own life.

“True, it did happen, Sherlock, but you said he was going
to kill you. You said he had killed Vito. And he killed himself instead. Ironic, but justice nevertheless.”

“No. I . . . well . . . he—” I sniffled again and Jagger handed me a tissue from the box on the counter. “He actually didn't say he had killed Vito. He kept talking about ‘seeing the light' so when I asked him if Vito had seen it, he attacked me.” I blew my nose and continued, “Kinda odd. Isn't it? I mean I only had to ask about Vito and Terry went off like crazy.”

“He
was
crazy.” Jagger touched his finger to my forehead, this time so gently I had to struggle to
feel
it. I did feel my hair being moved back again. Real nice touch.

As I basked in Jagger's hold, he continued, “Terry was in here for hurting his younger brother. Terry denied it though.”

“That's not uncommon.”

“No, but Terry tried to throw a hairdryer on full blast into a Jacuzzi with his brother in it.”

I shuddered. “Oh, my.”

“But good old Terry had said that he only wanted his brother to experience ‘seeing the light.' Never meant to hurt him. He said he planned to pull the plug right after his brother had the opportunity to see the light.”

“He wanted me to see the light,” I whispered.

“I'm taking you home tonight, Sherlock.”

“I guess that would be a good idea. Then I can come back tomorrow and find out more. I mean, Jagger, Terry killed Vito. Now it's safer for me to be here. We only have to find out about the fraud ring and get Margaret safely out of here.”

“We don't know for sure that he killed Vito,” he said.

“But he must have. I feel better knowing he is the one who did it.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Then he pushed the hair back from my face and kissed me on the forehead.

I held my breath. I could have taken the gesture as one of friend to friend, adult to child, or Jagger to woman.

I was going with the last.

Yeah, whatever
? That was not something one would expect to hear from confident Jagger.

When I got home, I found that Goldie and Miles had gone out for the night. I wondered, only for a few minutes, what story Jagger had concocted to get me another pass, then found out he'd wowed Sister Barbie enough so that she had me temporarily moved to another unit—or so she thought—after Terry died on me. But in reality, Jagger had sneaked me out.

The guy could be crafty.

Besides, who would they report missing, Mary Louise?

I actually thought that maybe Sister Barbie or someone higher up there knew all about Jagger and me. Well, at least Jagger. He knew his way around the Institute too damn easily. Maybe that's how he got away with so much—thank goodness. Before he'd sent me upstairs to bed and said he'd be bunking on the couch, he'd mentioned that now I'd have time to finish my case.

I'd thanked him for getting me out of there for a few days to do that.

But once tucked in bed, I realized that Jagger had no intention of my ever going back to the Cortona Institute of Life.

Three strikes and Pauline was out.

Percolating coffee. Frying bacon. Citrus.

I opened one eye and inhaled. Breakfast. I was starving since I never did make it to dinner last night in all the hubbub of Terry killing himself.

Throughout the night I'd tossed and turned, feeling horrible about his dying, and did come to the conclusion that it wasn't my fault. I did, however, still say some prayers for his confused soul.

When I looked at the clock to see it was after nine, I jumped up. No Spanky on my duvet. Jagger was downstairs and Spanky, the little rascal, knew it. He also must have known that Jagger was making breakfast. Miles and Goldie only did the big breakfast on the weekends. Today was Wednesday. Jagger had turned into a chef again.

He'd done it before for me.

I heard laughing—male laughing with a few giggles interspersed—and knew my roomies were downstairs with Jagger. Feeling as protective as a mother lioness, I jumped out of bed, not sure how Jagger and my roomies would get along. I didn't want them to feel uncomfortable with someone they didn't usually hang out with. I loved them both too much.

Since I couldn't appear in my nightie and robe, I shoved on undies and a jogging suit, headed to the bathroom, brushed what needed to be brushed, combed what needed to be combed and tried to cover up any facial wrinkles with makeup. My cut had scabbed and looked well on its way to healing. I needed Goldie's expertise right about now but had to settle for something more along the lines of what a mortician's makeup artist would come up with.

On the way down the stairs I stopped and listened. More laughter. I could tell Miles's since I'd known him for so long, and Goldie—well, there was that giggle again. But the new laughter, the deep, sexy laughter had to be coming from Jagger.

I nearly ran into the kitchen to be sure.

There, seated on the counter, holding traitor Spanky, was Jagger, smiling, sipping coffee and, yes, laughing.

“You're sitting on the counter,” was all I could manage, knowing Miles must be having a fit.

But Miles laughed again and said, “Ease up on him, Pauline, we like him.”

They like him? They like him? They
like
him!

Something had transformed around the condo during the night, and it wasn't me. I did, however, accept the cup of green tea Goldie handed me. He was wearing a peach cashmere sweater, peach suede slacks and a white ostrich feather pin to the left side of his chest.

“Thanks,” was all I could get out. Goldie must have known how flustered I was as he led me to the table and practically had to sit me down.

I whispered, “He's sitting on the counter. Miles can see him!”

Goldie patted my shoulder. “Suga, you all right?” He sniffled.

I looked up to see Miles wipe his eyes too.

“You shouldn't have told them,” I said to Jagger. “They have a tendency to worry.” I smiled at Goldie and Miles. “Guys, I'm fine. I wasn't hurt.”

“Well, I for one am glad that whacko offed himself,” Goldie said.

“He was sick, Gold.”

Goldie waved a hand at me and held his fingers out. “Don't you go feeling sorry for some nutty nut who could have hurt you, Suga.” He snapped his fingers with a
crack.

Miles gasped.

I jumped.

And Jagger shook his head—twice.

Goldie and Miles both stood and started to clean up.

“I'll get that, guys. You go ahead,” I said.

Goldie leaned over and kissed my cheek. Miles gave me a bear hug that had me nearly out of breath. “You two stop acting as if I was nearly killed. I can handle . . . I handled myself. I'll be fine when I go back.”

Goldie screeched but not as loudly as Miles. They both spun around toward Jagger as if he could help them.

“Guys, don't look at
him.
I
am
going back.” I actually
couldn't
look at Jagger. If I did, I was afraid he would put some kind of Jagger-influenced curse on me, and I'd be following an order not to go back to the Cortona Institute of Life.

“I am,” I reiterated.

Silence.

Spanky jumped down from Jagger's lap as a squirrel had the nerve to tap his paw at the glass of the French door that led out to the patio. Miles opened the door. “Get the varmint, Spanks!”

While the dog barked, the squirrel jumped to the brick wall and turned around as if to laugh at darling Spanky. Miles and Goldie excused themselves to head off to work. “Chickens,” I mumbled as they both went out the door. Goldie said that neither would be home until late tonight, so we were on our own for dinner.

I looked up. “I am going back, Jagger. I
am
.”

Jagger and I never began a “discussion” about my going back or not going back to work on the case. Instead, we headed off to Dr. De Jong's practice, and before I knew it, we were in the backdoor, down the hallway and into the reception area sooner than anyone could see us.

“Isn't this breaking and entering?”

Jagger merely looked at me. I knew it was, but I also knew he had friends in the police department, and we were not going to do any harm or take anything or break anything. Jagger had jimmied the lock without leaving a smudge.

Still, in the distant memory of my mind I thought about going to prison and still being innocent. I would not make a good prisoner. I hated change.

“What if the doctor comes in?” I asked.

“Her first case isn't until noon. We have two hours.”

I marveled that he knew about her first case and said, “How'd you know that?”

“Because it's ten and the first case is noon.”

I curled my lip at him. “I know ten from twelve is two, but how did you know—”

He pointed to her schedule book, which was clearly opened on the desk. Damn.

“How'd you know she wasn't already in here?”

“You see her car in the parking lot?”

Shoot. Fraud Investigation 101 had just progressed to 102. Way before our two hours were up, Jagger had taken all the teens' charts from the file cabinet and had them in a pile. I read through them, noting that several had authenticated diagnoses from other physicians. I had worked with three of the doctors at the Hospital of Saint Greg's so could vouch for their skills, and what they all said made sense.

Some kids even had blood work done, test results and family input all leading to a correct diagnosis. From all that Ruby had told me, her chart corroborated her information.

I looked at Jagger. “De Jong's not committing fraud.”

He shrugged, obviously believing me.

“Still, it is too bad there are so many messed-up, depressed kids.”

“Things are different nowadays, Sherlock. Teens have so much peer pressure, more stress and sometimes way too much rotten luck.” He stared off into space.

And here I thought Jagger knew little to nothing about teens. There had to be something in Jagger's past that led him to that statement.

I could only wonder though, since I knew he wouldn't tell me. We finished up documenting the cases, and I also wondered if damn, cheap Fabio would pay me.

Hey, it wasn't my fault that Dr. De Jong was an honest psychiatrist!

A door shut in the back of the office.

I blinked and then looked at Jagger with my eyelids in the full open position.

He touched his finger to his lips, as if I weren't smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Okay, truthfully I wanted to scream. Jagger touched my shoulder and soon I was standing by the door.

He'd closed up the charts and shoved them back into the file cabinet as if in a film on fast speed. I had to blink again to see that the files looked as if we'd never touched them before he shut the drawer.

Jagger took my arm and soon we were out of the office doorway, facing . . . Dr. De Jong.

“Alice? What are you doing in here?” Dr. De Jong asked, as if I were alone.

She smiled at Jagger.

I shook my head and thought the woman needed a man. Her own man. “I—”

“Alice is horrible at directions, Doc. Sorry. She wandered in here while I was parking the car. You know,” Jagger leaned near her, and I knew pheromones were wielding their powers on her thoughts. “I couldn't remember when our next appointment was. Alice insisted it was today.”

I stuck my tongue out at him while the doctor couldn't see me. No sense in her thinking I was a spoiled, childish woman.

“It's
next
Wednesday,” Dr. De Jong purred.

I wanted to rip her diplomas off the wall. A doctor acting so unprofessional, despite pheromone intoxication, should not be allowed to practice.

Within seconds, Jagger and I were off scot-free and out the door. Safely inside his SUV, I turned to him. “You didn't have to make me sound like such a bimbo airhead, you know. Save that for buxom blondes.”

When I'm holding my great grandbabies, I think I'll still remember that devious yet delicious expression on Jagger's face when he looked me up and down—even if I have a full-blown case of dementia.

“What do you mean you won't pay me for my case?” I screeched at Fabio. Then I slammed my fist down on his desk. Papers went flying.

“Look, doll—”

I leaned forward, “
Don't
call me ‘doll.' Ever. It's ‘Ms. Sokol' or ‘Pauline,' to you.” My feet were numb, my hands were tingling, but I managed to keep my voice from shaking.

Yes!

“Look, doll . . . Ms. Sokol, I lost a bundle at the crap tables the last few days—”

“Which has nothing to do with me, Fabio, and you know it. I investigated Dr. De Jong's practice and found out her claims are legitimate. She's on the level. You have to pay her clients' claims,
my
fees and that's that.”