“Hey, they want what’s best for Tank.” Gina wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to defend the Trentons. Except she had liked Tank. “And I think there was some kind of scandal, something to do with the dad, I don’t know.”
“Haven’t met the father yet.” Amanda didn’t sound too excited by the prospect. “But don’t they understand that they’re obstructing their son’s care? Not to mention the well-being of other patients—”
“You mean the other patient you and Lydia wanted to get that bed. Could have told you Frantz would win.”
“He friends with your folks as well?”
“Who knows? Probably. Doesn’t matter. It’s all about attitude and getting what you want.”
“You’d think they’d be more concerned about getting what their kid needs. Instead of wasting time arguing about the kind of sheets he gets and his food—do you know she actually wanted me to leave my patients and go over to the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern to get him some pierogies? Who does she think I am?”
Gina didn’t answer—the truth was that the Trentons and people like them never saw people like Amanda as anything but objects, instruments of their instant gratification. Once upon a time the realization would have made Gina feel angry, but now she just felt ashamed.
Amanda surprised her by reaching across the table to grab Gina’s hand. “Hey. You got a manicure.” She squinted at Gina’s face. “And a facial. And your hair done.”
“I didn’t have a choice. I took Nora to Antonio’s for a spa day, and she wouldn’t get anything done unless I did as well.” Gina smirked. There was a definite upside to playing nursemaid for a day.
Amanda frowned, looking chagrined. “I almost forgot about Karen. I heard it was bad—”
“Had to be to shake up Nora like that. I’ve never seen her lose it like she did today.”
“I wish there were something we could do to help.”
“What’s to help with? Not like the guy is going to come after her.”
“Do you think Seth could be involved? He was seeing Karen, wasn’t he?”
“Seth? No way.” Gina munched on an onion ring. “Besides, I heard a rumor that Karen was sleeping with Tillman.”
“Mr. Tillman, the hospital CEO?” Amanda leaned forward—gossip was one of her weaknesses. “Do you think he could have killed Karen?”
L
YDIA LEFT THE
ER
AND BEGAN WALKING HOME. As she passed the cemetery, she had to dodge the growing pile of flowers, stuffed animals, and votives left on the sidewalk in Karen’s memory. The cemetery’s gates were chained shut, and a uniformed police officer stood guard outside them.
Lydia shivered as she passed him, her steps quickening, restraining herself from running the two blocks to her house on the other side of the cemetery. She tried to shrug away the sudden fear, thankful for the nine-millimeter she carried in her parka pocket.
After being attacked in her own home a few months ago, she’d gotten a gun permit, learned how to shoot, and now carried the Para Carry-9 with her whenever she was out alone. At first she’d felt conflicted—after all, she’d seen and treated enough gunshot wounds to know the danger a handgun posed. But somehow it all seemed different when it was her own life on the line.
Lydia turned the corner from Penn onto Merton Street, gripping the nine-millimeter. Instantly the noise of the city traffic was muted by the thick growth of evergreens. There were two houses here at the corner, then her house, which sat alone down a long tree-lined drive at the end of the cul-de-sac. As she passed from the last glow of light from the houses and headed toward her drive, a dark form stepped out of the bushes in front of her. A flashlight clicked on, blinding her for a moment.
Lydia’s grip on her gun tightened. She brought her free hand up to shield her vision from the light. Adrenaline raced through her, finding her fear and replacing it with a calm certainty that reminded her of how she felt when a fresh trauma came in. Her senses sharpened as she identified the sound of a man breathing, the fact that he held nothing in his hands except the flashlight, and the stench of his cologne: coconut, rum, and Iron City beer.
“Pete Sandusky, put that light down,” she ordered. She kept her hand on her weapon, but as her fear and adrenaline fled, it was more about having something to hang on to than being prepared to use it. Pete was harmless, physically at least.
“Hey, Lydia! About time.” The light flicked off. “I’m freezing my balls off out here.”
“Glad to see you’re doing your part to protect the future survival of the species.”
“Ha, ha. Very funny. Listen, you need to fill me in on what’s going on. What can you tell me about Karen Chisholm’s death? The police haven’t officially released her name, are just saying that a woman was assaulted and then died at Angels, but my sources tell me it was Karen and she was murdered.”
“What sources?”
He smiled, moonlight reflecting off his brilliant white teeth. Too bad they were a bit crooked, marring the image. “I’m in negotiations with someone who can get me photos of her body. Said it was a real freak show. But I need confirmation before I invest that heavily. Know what I mean?”
“Pictures?” Lydia would have ignored Pete, told him to go to hell, but she remembered the photos Nora had taken as part of the rape kit.
“I saw the cop on duty back there.” He jerked his head toward Angels and the cemetery. “So the assault actually took place on top of a grave?” He seemed excited as he pulled out his digital recorder. “And this graffiti? Was it gang related? Or maybe a satanic cult? Were there multiple attackers?”
“No comment. Put that recorder away. I’m not giving you anything for the record.”
He shrugged and repocketed the recorder. It was still running, Lydia was certain. Pete wasn’t one to worry about little things like off-the-record.
“Who’s selling the photos?” she demanded.
“Lydia, you know me better than that. I never reveal my sources.”
“Fine. I’ll tell the police that you have stolen crime-scene evidence.”
“I don’t have anything. Yet.” They stared at each other for a long moment. Then Pete surrendered. “Guess I’m barking up the wrong tree here. I’ll hunt down Nora Halloran.”
“Nora?” Lydia tried to play it cool, like she didn’t know Nora was intimately involved.
“Nora. My source says that after Karen died, she said words to the effect that she had somehow caused Karen’s death. Did something go wrong in that OR?”
TWELVE
Thursday, 8:13 P.M.
AMANDA FINALLY FOUND TIME TO MAKE IT BACK downstairs to the pediatric floor. She had just begun obtaining Narolie’s history when she saw a familiar shadow lurking at the door. “Tank, what are you doing here? You could be contagious!”
“The nurse said I could take my monitor off when I go use the john—I just decided to find one down here.” Tank sounded defensive but didn’t meet her gaze. He scuffed his slippers. Somehow, despite all the people parading in and out of his room, he seemed lonelier than Narolie.
“Hello there,” Narolie said, sounding like the perfect hostess. “Please come in. I’m Narolie Maxeke.”
“I’m Tank.” He looked around the room. “Wow, you get this place all to yourself? Way cool. What are you in for?”
Narolie frowned. “That is what Dr. Amanda is working to discover. She is the best doctor I have met.”
“I know.” Tank seemed aware that he’d said too much and quickly covered with, “She’s okay for a doctor, I guess.”
“Tank, you need to be back in your room,” Amanda said, although it was hard to be annoyed with him, even if he had broken all the rules. Poor kid seemed so lonely. “You shouldn’t be wandering the halls without a mask on—you don’t want to make anyone else sick, do you?”
“Shit. I forgot. But I feel fine, really.”
“Still, we can’t take a chance.” Tank was standing at the end of Narolie’s bed, far enough that contagion shouldn’t be a worry. But Amanda wasn’t going to risk it. “Sit over there, across the room in that chair, and you two can talk while I go find you a mask.”
To her surprise, Tank obeyed her without question. “Is this okay?”
Now a good eight feet separated the two—and three was all that was required per CDC protocols. “That’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
Amanda left as the two teens from different planets began chatting. No surprise that by the time she returned it was obvious Tank had fallen under Narolie’s spell. She let them talk a few more minutes, gratified by the relaxed expressions on their faces as they compared the merits of
The Scarlet Letter
, which they were both studying. Finally she handed Tank his mask. “Time to go.”
He started to plead for more time, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “It was nice to meet you, Narolie.”
“Please come visit me again, Tank. I enjoy your company,” Narolie said, her eyes downcast as if embarrassed by her admission.
Amanda ushered Tank out into the hall. For the first time since she’d met him, Tank smiled. “I can see her again, can’t I? She’s cool, for a girl, I mean. Smart, too.”
Amanda couldn’t stop her grin of delight as she accompanied Tank back up to his PICU bed. Wouldn’t Mrs. Trenton love
this
budding scenario?
Tank seemed to read her thoughts. “You won’t tell my mom, will you? She has enough on her mind.”
Like driving Amanda crazy. Silk sheets!
“No, of course not.” They reached the threshold to the PICU. Tank hesitated.
“Can I hang with you?” he asked. “Just for a while. I don’t like this place, it’s creepy.”
“Are your parents coming back tonight?”
He looked away, his shoulders trembling as if he were holding something back. “Everyone keeps lying, saying my dad’s at work. He’s not.”
His voice was so low that Amanda could barely hear him. She moved them away from the doors, down the hall where they’d have more privacy. “What happened, Tank?”
“I’m not supposed to tell.” He fought to bring his gaze up to her face. “You know that rich guy in New York, the one that took like fifty billion dollars from people? My dad worked with him. Guess he was going to be in trouble or something, because he left. No one knows where he went.”
Amanda took Tank’s hand. “Tank. I’m so sorry.”
He focused on a crack on the wall, tracing it with his finger. “Mom’s kind of lost it—she can’t tell anyone, but there’s like no money left. We even had to move in with my grandfather.”
His lips narrowed into a pale, single line. “I hate him. But now he and my mom are fighting. Over me. He says she’s not a fit mother. Says she’s why my dad left. Wants a judge to take me away from her. So she has to watch every move she makes. And that turns her into this wicked witch I don’t even know anymore.”
“It’s okay, Tank. What’s important is getting you better.” Amanda didn’t know what else she could offer him.
He tugged his hand free from Amanda’s to swipe it across his eyes. “Don’t even know why I told you all that. Nothing anyone can do.”
His sigh echoed from the wall and died as they turned back to the PICU.
“NOTHING HAPPENED, PETE.” LYDIA STARED THE reporter down. “Nora didn’t do anything wrong. No one did.”
He merely grinned and shrugged his surrender. “Guess we’ll see about that. See you around, Lydia.”
She watched him walk down to the corner and disappear into the darkness, then finished the short walk to her house. The winter night held the small Craftsman cottage in a tight embrace. In the distance, a few twinkles of light from the upper floors of the medical center could be seen, and the only other light came from the flickering glow of the TV in the front room.
Fighting a tinge of irritation—Trey couldn’t have turned the porch light on?—Lydia drew close enough to see him lying on the couch watching TV. Not ready to go inside yet, she circled around through the dark carport where her vintage Triumph motorcycle was parked. She’d inherited the bike from one of the first people she’d met in Pittsburgh—Mickey Cohen’s legal assistant. Now the Triumph represented freedom, escape.
She could see well enough in the dark to make out the sleek silhouette of the classic motorcycle. Unable to resist, she swung her leg over the seat and sat there. How easy it would be to speed off into the night, anonymous, unfettered, leaving everything behind.
Was this how Maria had felt when she fled her old life? This gut-pitching feeling of terror and excitement? Anticipation of new places, new choices, new challenges—like when Lydia left L.A. to come here to Pittsburgh. Or had it been more like a chance to erase the past, start over, nothing weighing her down?
Except for a child. A child Maria had never abandoned. That had to count for something. But sitting in the dark, straddling the Triumph, Lydia couldn’t deny the anger she felt toward her mother. If she’d meant so much to Maria, why had Maria lied to her?
The door into the house opened and Trey stood there, framed in the warm light spilling out from the kitchen. “Why are you sitting in the dark like that?” he asked, his mellow baritone shaded with annoyance. He was wearing sharply creased slacks, a pale blue dress shirt, and his good wool overcoat. “We’re late. Are you ready to go or do you need to change?”
Shit.
“It’s Thursday.” Lydia dismounted the motorcycle, the flash drive jammed into her jeans pocket digging into her hip.
“Of course it’s Thursday. The kids were hungry so Mom had to serve dinner, but she said she’d hold dessert for us.” He stepped to her, bundling her in his arms and giving her a quick kiss. Then he snagged her hands in his. “You’re freezing. Why didn’t you wear your gloves?”
All the better to hold her gun in case the man who killed Karen came after her. Or was waiting to ambush her when she got home. Or broke into her house and tried to kill her like that maniac a few months ago.
But she couldn’t say any of that—Trey didn’t know she’d bought the gun, much less had begun carrying it with her when she left the house. He thought that his moving in with her was protection enough. Like a peace-loving, huggable teddy bear of a man could stop a killer.