Picture Me Dead (21 page)

“It's a job many people would covet,” Brennan added quietly.

“But I…I've had just the basics in forensics,” she told them. “What…what does the work entail?”

“Sketching from eyewitness descriptions, mostly. Photography. Eventually, reconstruction of skeletal remains.”

“I've done some photography, but—”

“It's far easier to teach someone to take photos than it is to find someone with such an incredible talent for human faces.”

She stared at him blankly, trying to take in what he was saying.

Murray smiled. “Forgive me. I reached into the garbage the other day when you tossed a few of your drawings.” He produced a smoothed paper, a sketch she had done of Jake Dilessio. She felt her cheeks burning. “This is an incredible likeness of Jake. There's more of the man in this than I've seen in many photographs.”

“He's an interesting subject,” she heard herself say.

“Yes. I believe that you're dedicated to being a cop, Ashley. And as I said, you can always finish up, go back and pick up where you left off. You won't graduate with your class, but I assure you, nothing you've done will be wasted. The job is incredibly interesting—and tough. But no more difficult than it can be out on the streets. And it's well paid.” He named a yearly salary above what she could make starting out on the streets, and even above what she would be making in several years.

They were both watching her.

“I…I'm a bit overwhelmed at the moment,” she said.

“We don't expect you to make a decision right now. But you are needed. If you like, you can meet with Commander Allen in the morning and then decide.”

She nodded slowly. “I would like to do that,” she said.

“Great.” He told her where to be, eight o'clock sharp. “Commander Allen or one of his staff can give you a great deal more information about the particulars of the job than I can. I showed him your work, and he was impressed, told me he'd love to have you work with him. It's very important work. You should know that. And I wouldn't be speaking with you if I didn't think you'd be perfect for it.”

“Thank you.”

“Or that you have an enormous talent,” Brennan said. “And it's not that easy for me to suggest you leave the academy. I enjoy having you in my class.”

She thanked Brennan as well. Though they were both still watching her, reading her reaction to their proposition, she knew she had been dismissed.

“Eight o'clock,” she said.

Brennan grinned. “No matter what you decide, you get to sleep an extra hour tomorrow morning.”

“There you go, a plus already,” she said. She thanked them again and said goodbye. Both men watched her leave the room.

Arne and Gwyn were waiting for her in the parking lot. “My God, what happened? They couldn't have kicked you out—they couldn't have!” Gwyn said vehemently.

She shook her head. “They—they do want me to leave the academy.”

“What?” Arne said indignantly.

She explained. Both stared at her dumbfounded.

“Wow,” Gwyn said after a moment. Then she laughed. “Heck, if they'd caught me drawing in class, they'd have fired my ass.”

“Yeah, me too,” Arne agreed. “Cool. That's a major coup.”

“But I wouldn't be a cop.”

“They said you could always go back and finish up, right? Don't be silly, girl. Ashley, it's your dream job—art plus law enforcement. Take it. We lowly peons will all be looking at you with envy,” Gwyn teased.

“I guess….”

“Hell! Gwyn's right—jump on it.”

“I have tonight to think about it.”

“What's to think about?” Gwyn said. She gave Ashley a quick hug. “Congratulations. That's all I can think of to say.”

“I've got to get out of here. It's my mom's birthday,” Arne said. “Don't forget us while you're busy dealing with the brass, okay?”

“Don't be silly, she won't forget us,” Gwyn said. “Once she realizes what she's been offered and officially takes the position, we'll celebrate.”

“Of course—
if I
decide to take the position,” Ashley said. But it was beginning to dawn on her just how much had been offered to her. She would be a fool if she didn't accept. “I've got to get out of here, too. I've got to get home and change, and go back to the hospital.”

“Your friend's still hanging in?”

She nodded. They waved goodbye and headed for their respective cars.

When Ashley reached Nick's, she was glad to see that the place was quiet. There were a few diners, both inside and out, but there were plenty of staff to take care of them. Nick, Sharon and Sandy were seated at a table together. Ashley didn't change right away but went straight over to them, anxious to tell her uncle what had happened.

She got the same reaction from all three.

“Wow,” Nick said.

“Incredible,” Sharon told her.

“Great news,” Sandy said with a grin.

“So should I take it?” she asked anxiously, looking at Nick.

“Honey, I don't see what you've got to lose,” he told her. “The captain of personnel said you could pick up where you left off at any time.”

“But I could also finish with my class.”

“And the position might not still be open by then,” Nick countered. “Ashley, a chance to really use a God-given talent to help other people? Think about it!”

“I guess you're right. Absolutely,” she said, returning Sandy's grin. She hopped up. “Nick, what's on special? I want to take a couple of plates to Stuart's folks at the hospital.”

“Mahimahi Francese.”

“Great. Can I get a couple of orders packed up? I want to change.”

“Sure,” Nick said.

“You change, and we'll get three orders packed up,” Sharon said. “You've got to have some dinner yourself, especially since you get your lunch from that thing you call the ‘roach coach.'”

“I can't eat with the Fresias,” she said. “I want to sit with Stuart and let them eat together.”

“Then there will be a plate right here before you leave,” Sharon said firmly.

“Okay, okay,” she said with a laugh. She kissed her uncle on the cheek, then Sharon and, because he was there, Sandy.

“Hell, I know lots of cops,” Sandy said. “Now I know a forensic artist.”

She grinned and started from the table, then paused. “Have you seen Detective Dilessio this evening?” she asked.

“Nope,” Nick said. “Saw him early this morning, though. He had some business upstate.”

“Oh,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment from her voice.

“Why?” Sharon asked. “I can take a quick walk over to his boat and see if he's gotten back.”

“He was going to try and get some information for me,” Ashley explained. “But please don't go down there. I don't want him to think I'm pressuring him. Yet. I'll see if he's there when I get back from the hospital.”

“I'll tell him you're looking for him if he comes in,” Sharon assured her.

“Great, thanks.”

This time, when she reached the hospital, Lucy Fresia was in the waiting room. She seemed surprised but pleased to see Ashley, welcoming her with a hug. “Honey, you really didn't have to come. Nathan and I…we just sit here.”

“You're not going to ‘just sit here' right now,” Ashley said. “I'm going to sit with Stuart, and you and Nathan are going to go and eat Nick's nightly specialty of the house.”

“Ashley, how sweet.” It looked as if tears were going to well in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don't worry about it. While you eat, I'll have a talk with Stu.”

Ashley felt guilty. She wondered if things might have been different if she'd kept up with Stuart's life.

And known herself just what was going on during his days.

She and Lucy went down the hall to Stuart's room, and Ashley slipped in while Nathan slipped out. Sitting next to Stuart, she took his hand. She talked. She told him about the job offer, expressed her fear that she would be inadequate and then her excitement. Stuart didn't answer, and she didn't feel a response that night. It didn't matter. She kept talking. It was good to be able to say anything that came to mind. Good to know, too, that if he were awake and aware, she would be able to spill her heart out equally easily.

She didn't know how long she had been there when the door opened and Lucy came in to take her place. Outside, Nathan thanked her for the food, for coming and for getting Dilessio involved.

“Has he called you?” she asked Nathan.

“Not yet. Hey, I don't expect miracles.”

She nodded. “Things do take time.”

“Get home, young lady. I know your days are busy.”

She opened her mouth, ready to tell him that the day she'd just spent had been more remarkable than busy, but she was anxious to get home just in case Dilessio had found out anything and was back at his boat. She decided to tell the Fresias about the possible change in her career plans the next day.

She bade them both good-night. As she passed the waiting room, she noted again that the same people seemed to be there—including the man Nathan had pointed out to her as being a reporter out for a hot scoop.

She hurried on by.

It wasn't late when she left the hospital, but the night seemed exceptionally dark. She wasn't thinking about it, since her thoughts were focused on the fact that she hadn't called either Karen or Jan to bring them up to speed on what was happening with Stuart. She made a mental note to give them both a call.

She would wait, though, until she'd had a chance to talk to Dilessio. Hopefully tonight.

Oddly, there was no one in sight when she entered the garage. As she walked across the cement, she became aware of the sound of footsteps that seemed almost an echo of her own. She paused, a strange, uneasy feeling creeping along her spine.

When she stopped, the sound stopped. She looked around. The garage was lit, but pillars and cars cast dark shadows in many places. Her car was at the far end. She hadn't thought anything about it when she had parked. There had been a number of people getting in and out of cars then.

She slowly spun around, searching the shadows. Nothing.

She started walking again. At first she heard nothing. Then that eerie echo of her own footsteps, so close…

She stopped and spun around again. Nothing. But goose pimples had risen on her arms. Instinct seemed to be sounding a warning in her blood, as strident as the wail of a siren.

She had her keys out and her fingers on the remote, ready to hit the panic button. She stared around again at the cars, at the shadows.

She nearly jumped at the sound of an electronic ping. Spinning, she saw a couple come out of the elevator. The sense of panic eased from her as the two spoke, intent on reaching their own vehicle. Ashley began to walk again, telling herself she had been silly.

The couple had managed to procure a spot right by the elevator. Their car roared to life and was gone. She was still a good distance from her own. She walked fast, the remote in a death grip in her hand.

She hadn't imagined it. She heard the echo of footsteps again.

She turned, and shouted out, lying, “I'm a cop, I've got a gun, and I know how to use it!”

Nothing…

She was shouting to an empty garage. Maybe she had simply imagined the sounds of someone following her.

She turned and started for her car.

This time there was no possibility that she had imagined the sound. The footsteps were at a distance, but she could hear them running. She saw the figure coming toward her, wearing scrubs and a surgical mask.

She turned and ran, hitting the panic button on her clicker. Nothing! There were too many cars in the way, blocking the signal. She kept running, aware that her pursuer was close, that the garage was empty, that the footsteps were amplified, as if her pursuer were running across a cement tomb.

The stalker ran after her, his footsteps louder.

Closer.

A
shley neared her car and hit the panic button on the remote again. This time the lights flashed and the alarm went off loudly.

She could no longer hear the footsteps and didn't know how close the stalker might be. She raced for the car, wrenched the door open and jumped into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut and starting the engine. She backed instantly from her space and spun her car around, aware that her pursuer might be carrying a gun, or a crowbar ready to smash in her window. She hit the gas.

As she did so, her eyes searched the garage. She saw nothing. The person in the scrubs and mask was gone. Gone…

Or hidden in shadow.

Shaking, she drove far too fast to the exit then she stopped at the gate to tell the attendant what had happened.

“You sure you were chased, lady?”

“Yes!” she said indignantly.

“Want me to call the cops?”

“Yes, I want you to call the cops. The person might be lying in wait up there, ready to attack someone else!”

Angry, she pulled her car to the side, got out and waited.

Two uniformed officers arrived. The first, Officer Mica, starting writing a report. When she described the person, he stoppedwriting.

“The person was in hospital scrubs?” he said.

“Yes. And a surgical mask.”

He had quit writing.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Garages can be scary at night, Miss Montague. Footsteps echo, the lighting isn't great. Are you certain the person was chasing you?”

“Yes.”

He still wasn't writing.

He sighed. “It might have been just a worn-out surgeon trying to get to his car. Or a nurse. It's easy to imagine things.”

“I told you, Officer, I'm in the academy myself. I'm not easily spooked or prone to imagining boogeymen in the shadows. I was being chased. Somebody might get held up or raped because they expected to see someone in scrubs in a hospital parking lot.”

She was losing her temper, which wasn't going to get her anywhere.

“All right,” Officer Mica said. “We'll take a look for someone in scrubs. We'll be stopping an entire shift change, but don't worry, we'll look into it.”

He scribbled more on the page and gave her the report to sign. He had put it down as she had said it, but she knew he still thought she had imagined a worn-out doctor walking after her because his own car was parked near hers.

“Thank you,” she told him, her words to him as sincere as his promise to her. She felt completely frustrated, but she had done all she could do.

Officer Mica repeated wearily that they would do a search. He gave her his card, telling her she was welcome to call and he would inform her if they'd managed to find her stalker.

“If this person really was up to no good, most likely he's gone by now,” Mica's partner told her gently. “And if he was in scrubs…all he'd had to do was slip back into the hospital. But we'll call you if we find out anything at all and warn hospital security to keep a lookout.”

Ashley looked at his badge. Officer Creighton. She liked him much better than Officer Mica.

“Thanks very much,” she told him. “May I have your card, as well?”

He obliged. Mica held his tongue.

Not at all reassured, Ashley drove home. Now that the danger was over, she was more angry than scared. She'd gotten away. Someone else might not be so lucky. And she was really irritated by Mica's attitude. She tried to rationalize that her story might have sounded strange. And she realized even if they had believed her, looking for a stalker in hospital scrubs in a hospital was a pretty absurd task.

When she reached Nick's, she saw that someone had parked in her spot, despite the “Reserved” sign that usually kept it vacant. She swore and parked farther down, aware that her car was past the reach of the security lights.

She might leave the academy and have to turn in her gun, but she had the damned thing now and knew how to use it—why the hell hadn't she brought it with her?

Because she'd lived here all her life and had never been in a situation when she needed a gun, she reminded herself.

Still…

When she got out of the car, she automatically looked around, mistrustful of the shadows.

She hurried along the gravel path to Nick's. She thought about using her key and slipping through the private entrance, but she headed instead to the dockside entrance in the rear.

She saw that a few diners remained on the outside porch overlooking the dock and the boats. She slowed her footsteps, still angry, then paused, looking down the length of the dock.

She saw Dilessio's boat. And there were lights on inside.

She started down the dock at a brisk pace. Then, as she neared his boat, her footsteps slowed and she stopped for a moment. She didn't want to be an annoyance, hounding him if he really was taking all possible steps.

Screw that. Stuart was in the hospital, in a coma. His parents were aging by the hour.

She started moving again, then nearly jumped when she saw that he was actually outside on the deck. He was seated in a rattan chair, his legs stretched out, bare feet on the rail in front of him. A bottle of beer in his hands, he seemed to be staring at the nothingness where the darkness of the sky met the darkness of the water. She didn't know if he saw her coming; he didn't move. She thought maybe he had dozed off—one beer too many?—he was so still. She wondered about retreating, but as she slowed down again, he called out to her.

“Good evening, Miss Montague. Do come aboard.”

“I hesitate, Detective, since I see you are
so
busy, pursuing your cases around the clock.”

“Actually, I
am
pursuing a case right now.”

“I always thought that if I grew up to be a homicide detective, drinking beer and staring out at the water would definitely be the best method of approach.”

“Come aboard,” he told her.

She stepped from the dock to the deck.

“Help yourself to a beer, Coke, whatever,” he told her.

“With an invitation that gracious, I might.”

“Duck down a bit when you go in—the cabin door is low,” he told her.

She didn't really want anything to drink, but the invitation to enter the inner sanctum of his home was too tempting. She went into the main cabin. Galley, dining room and living area blended in a surprising display of spaciousness. The place was organized, neat and clean, not cluttered, but not sterile. She entered the galley area and dug into the small refrigerator. Soda, juice, beer, water.

“Break down, Montague—have a beer,” he called to her.

She reached for a bottle of Miller Lite, then went back outside to join him on the deck.

He had hardly moved. He was all but lying down between the chair and the railing.

“Nice night, isn't it?” he said.

“The weather is good.”

“And the last thing you want to do is talk about it, right?”

“Were you able to talk to the investigator on Stuart's case?”

“Yes.”

She leaned against the railing, staring at him, then lifted a hand.

“And?”

“He's a good guy, Paddy Carnegie. Old-timer. He knows what he's doing.”

She let out a sigh of exasperation. “And what did he say?”

“He said he's doing everything he can. He likes the Fresias, and he wants them to be right. But he has no witnesses. No one has come forward and admitted so much as having seen your friend walk onto the highway. The driver who hit him saw him the minute he stepped in front of him, not before.”

She must have shown her dismay, because he was suddenly impatient.

“What were you expecting? Instant gratification? That's not the way it works. Trust me, you can put years into a case, and it may still never be solved. There's a chance here, at least, that there will be answers down the line. Your friend may survive.”

“Not may survive,
will
survive,” she said, and was dismayed at the rather pathetic quality of her words when she had meant for them to be so strong.

To her surprise, he let out an impatient sound, something of a derisive snort. “Because what? You slept with this guy once, he's going to survive and the truth will be known. He'll be totally vindicated and all will be well. Wish it worked that way.”

She stared at him coldly and stepped away from the rail. She wasn't going to dignify his assumption with a denial. “Are you drunk?”

“No, Montague, I'm telling you the way it is. And sometimes, there's nothing you can do about it.”

“You really are an asshole, you know?” she spat out, and started off the boat.

“Montague!” he called.

She paused; she wasn't sure why. She didn't owe him anything.

“You've got one smart-ass tongue on you. How about, ‘Thanks, Detective, for taking the time to get involved'?”

“Wow, thanks, Detective. You've been just great.”

“Look, it's just that I understand Carnegie's frustration. He needs a break in the case or he's up against a stone wall. No one knows what Stuart was doing over the last several months. His parents didn't know what he was doing. They referred Carnegie to a rag called
In Depth.
He was working on a story he didn't want to share with anyone. The managing editor didn't have the least idea what he was doing.”

Ashley stared at him. “Well, there it is—an answer.”

“An answer? Do you know what he was doing?”

“No. But it's obvious. He tried to investigate something, the people found out—and they tried to kill him. We've got to find out what he was investigating.”

Dilessio stood then in an abrupt, fluid motion, belying any thought that he might have been anywhere near inebriated.

“We've got to find out? You're not even a cop yet. And I'm homicide. Carnegie has this information, and, like I said, he's a good cop. And if you
do
find out anything, you take it straight to Carnegie.” He exhaled a breath of irritated impatience. “Or tell me. Hell, just make sure you tell someone, and don't go looking into anything yourself, understand? And don't kid yourself. He might just have joined a bunch of rich club kids and gotten into dope. Whether you like it or not, believe it or not, it's not out of the realm of possibility.”

She was startled to find herself almost pinned against the rail by him. He wasn't threatening in any way, just determined. He didn't yell or speak loudly. His voice was low, but the vehemence behind it was startling.

She lifted her chin, ignoring the lack of space between them.

“I can tell you right now, Stuart was on to something. Someone came after me in the garage tonight, after I went to see him.”

“What?” Puzzled, he backed away slightly.

“I didn't realize there could be a connection, not until this very minute. But I was parked in the hospital garage. When I walked out to my car, someone came after me. I made it to my car and he disappeared. I had thought it was a random incident, that I just happened to be a woman walking alone in the garage when he was there. But maybe it was personal—maybe I was about to be attacked because I do know Stuart, because I spent time with him alone. And maybe whoever did this to him realizes that they didn't succeed, that Stuart is hanging in and may wake up any day.”

“A person was after you…who? What did they look like? Vagrant? White? Black? Hispanic? Old? Young?”

She shook her head, sorry she had spoken. “It was someone in hospital scrubs. And a surgical mask…. I can't even say if they were male or female, though I have a feeling it was a man.”

“You were chased by someone in hospital scrubs—at the hospital?”

She exhaled on a note of impatience. “Yes.”

He was silent a long time. Moments in which she became aware of the very little bit of distance between them. He smelled of a recent shower and the sea breeze, along with a whiff of beer. His skin was bronzed, his chest swirled with dark hair, and his muscle structure was clearly evident. His face, that great face for a drawing, was enigmatic. She didn't know what lines she might have made with a pencil then. She wasn't breathing, she realized. She forced herself to do so. Being close was difficult, made more so by his size and something kinetic he seemed to create in the air around him. But then he shook his head, still so close.

“Look, you shouldn't go creating scenarios just because your friend is hurt and you're on edge.”

“I didn't create the scenario. It happened. I filed a report.”

“Then you shouldn't go to the hospital alone anymore.”