Читать книгу Sin And Bone - Debra Webb - Страница 12
ОглавлениеThe Edge, Tuesday, June 5, 9:00 a.m.
Ms. Lytle had been waiting at his office door when he arrived at seven that morning.
Devon had warned her that he had work to do before they proceeded with the investigation. He refused to allow this diversion to distract him. The medical world was watching, scrutinizing every aspect of this facility’s performance. The slightest slip could create a major setback. The Edge and all it represented for the future of emergency medicine were far too important to allow anything to get in the way of forward progress.
He had provided Ms. Lytle with the assistant administrator’s office. The position was as yet unfilled, so the office was vacant. He was here sixteen or more hours most days and never far away the rest of the time. Perhaps at a later time, he would view the need for an assistant differently. For now, Patricia represented the only assistant he required. In fact, he’d already discussed with her the possibility of upgrading her position from secretary to personal assistant. She had been with him for ten years, first as his secretary at Rush and then during the development stage of the Edge. Patricia had never once let him down.
She had been most unhappy with Ms. Lytle’s request for an interview with her this morning. Now, forty-five minutes later, the private investigator had returned to her desk and so far hadn’t said a single word to Devon. He stared at the woman seated across from him now. “Patricia Ezell is above reproach. If you insulted her in some way, I would require that you apologize immediately.”
A smile lifted Isabella Lytle’s inordinately lush lips. At their initial meeting last night, he’d at first thought she wore lipstick but he recognized now that she didn’t. Her lips were naturally a deep crimson, full and wide.
“I asked the hard questions, yes, but if Ms. Ezell took offense at any of those questions, that’s unfortunate. They were all crucial. The people closest to you represent the greatest danger. Whether by design or accident, they make you vulnerable merely because they have your confidence.”
His first instinct was to argue the point but he chose to let it go. She’d already interviewed Patricia. Not another living soul knew him so well. The entire staff at the Edge had been made aware that Ms. Lytle was to be treated with respect and given complete access. “Since there is no one else to interview, what is your agenda for the day?”
He had not expected that she would stay so close. He didn’t know what he had expected. Having her study his every move was disconcerting.
Today she wore all black. Black slacks, black jacket, black sweater that hugged her throat. All that was visible of her pale skin was her face and hands. Her dark hair, as dark as the clothes she wore, had been arranged in a French twist. She might have appeared stern or harsh if not for her expressive brown eyes and that voluptuous mouth. There was a kindness, a gentleness about her eyes. Yet she emanated a firm, steady strength that warned she was far from soft.
“Actually, I’d like to interview the woman the police identified as your wife.”
A new thread of unease filtered through him. He’d stopped by the woman’s—a Jane Doe, for all intents and purposes—room this morning. She’d still been asleep. Security remained at her door 24/7. Until someone claimed her and took her away, he intended to keep her close and protected.
“Very well.”
As they exited his office, he noticed that Patricia did not so much as spare a glance toward Ms. Lytle. He would speak to her as soon as this interview was over.
Ms. Lytle walked slightly in front of him. Her stride was confident, determined. His research showed that she was not married, had never been married. No children. Isabella Lytle lived alone on Armitage Avenue in the Lincoln Park area. No previous engagements. No long-term boyfriends or girlfriends.
Before he could quash the thought, he wondered about the woman. Were her most intimate needs kept hidden? A dirty secret she wanted no one to know? His gaze moved down her shapely backside. Or perhaps she was like him—work was her only true companion. Anything else was an afterthought.
They moved around the circular corridor until they reached the quarantine unit. The Edge did not keep patients more than twenty-four hours unless it was necessary to quarantine them until proper care could be arranged. There were overnight beds in the behavioral and senior units, but all other patients were either treated and released or transported to nearby hospitals. The Edge was not intended as anything other than an emergency care facility. Since the woman’s true identity had not been determined, there was no next of kin to take her home and no medical necessity to prompt a transfer.
He would, however, need to turn the situation over to the police soon. No matter that she was an impostor and clearly connected to some criminal activity, he could not keep holding her as if she were a prisoner. As some point, the entire matter would need to be turned over to the police.
But not until he was satisfied.
A quick nod to the security guard outside the room and the man took a break. Devon rapped twice on the door before opening it for Ms. Lytle to enter ahead of him. The woman listed as Cara Pierce was awake. She turned in surprise or perhaps in fear as they entered the room.
“Good morning.” Ms. Lytle approached her bedside and introduced herself. “I’m Investigator Isabella Lytle and I have a few questions for you.”
The woman frowned and then winced. “I don’t remember anything.” She glanced at Devon. “I’ve already told you that.”
Devon had reviewed her chart this morning. She’d slept well. Had consumed a good portion of her breakfast. Vitals were good. The general symptoms associated with splenic rupture were all but gone. Vision was within normal range. No light-headedness or shock. Beyond the confusion about her identity, all appeared to be well.
Then again, mere confusion rarely included a driver’s license and vehicle registration in the wrong name. Obviously the woman was working with someone. Frankly, her brain injury was hardly significant enough to have caused any serious confusion or amnesia. Now that she was stable, there was no reason she shouldn’t be able to tell the truth. No other drugs had been found in the follow-up toxicology. Of course, there were a number of drugs that dissipated too quickly to be caught in a tox screen.
“Let’s talk about who you are,” Ms. Lytle suggested to the woman in the bed. “What is your name?”
The pretend Cara blinked, then looked away. “I don’t know.”
Ms. Lytle set her bag on the floor and reached inside. She removed a plastic bag somewhat larger than a typical sandwich bag. With her hand inside the bag, she used it like a glove to pick up the plastic cup on the patient’s overbed table. Then she pulled the plastic over the cup, successfully bagging it.
With a quick smile at the other woman, Ms. Lytle said, “The police might be able to track down your identity through your fingerprints.”
Big blue eyes stared first at Ms. Lytle and then at Devon. “Is that legal?” she asked him. “For her to come into my room and take my fingerprints like that?” She knotted her fingers together. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Don’t you want to know who you are?” Devon braced his hands on the footboard of the bed. “You may have a husband or family worried about you.”
She stared directly at him, her blue eyes pooled with tears. Fear, whether real or simulated, glistened there. “You’re certain I’m not your wife?”
“No. You are not my wife.”
Ms. Lytle placed the commandeered cup into her bag and retrieved a pad and pen. “Why don’t we start with whatever you remember before arriving at the ER?”
The woman blinked, stared for a long moment at Ms. Lytle. “I don’t remember anything.”
Ms. Lytle nodded. “All right, then. We’ll see what the police can find. If there are any outstanding warrants or investigations related to your fingerprints, they will discuss those issues directly with you. I wish you a speedy recovery.”
The woman, looking decidedly pale against the white sheets, bit her bottom lip as if to hold back whatever words wanted to pop out of her. Ms. Lytle picked up her bag and turned toward the door before hesitating. She studied the other woman for half a minute before she spoke. “You do realize that if someone hired you to pretend to be Cara Pierce that you’re a loose end?”
The pretender’s eyes grew wider. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“When that person—the person who hired you—is finished with whatever game he’s playing, you will be an unnecessary risk. We—” she gestured to Devon “—can help you, but we’re not going to waste resources on an uncooperative witness.”
A frown furrowed across her brow. “Witness?”
Ms. Lytle nodded. “That’s what you are. Someone has committed a crime. You obviously know who that someone is, so that makes you a witness, perhaps an accessory. If you willingly participated in that crime, then you’ll be charged accordingly—unless you cooperate, in which case the DA might offer you immunity.”
“So,” she said slowly, “you’re a cop.”
Isabella Lytle had introduced herself as an investigator. Devon hadn’t considered it at the time but the move was an ingenious one.
“Investigator Lytle,” he said, saving her the lie, “has been assigned to your case. If you cooperate, she may be able to help you avoid legal charges.”
Silence thickened for several seconds before the woman blurted, “I didn’t know he was going to try to kill me or I would never have gone along with this crazy scheme.” She looked from Devon to Ms. Lytle, her fingers knotted in the sheet. “I thought it was a game.”
Ms. Lytle asked, “The man who hired you, do you know his name?”
She shook her head and then winced. Her head no doubt still ached. “He never told me his name. He offered me five thousand dollars and promised there was a bonus if I didn’t screw up.”
Ms. Lytle reached for her pad and pen once more. “Can you describe the man to me?”
She blew out a big breath, and her blond bangs fluttered. “You’re not going to believe this but it was dark in the room where we met. He wouldn’t let me turn on the lights. He told me what he wanted, gave me a thousand bucks up front and walked out. Next thing I knew, I was snagged from my regular corner. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up here.”
“You’re a prostitute, is that correct?” Outrage burst inside Devon. The idea that whoever had done this had taken advantage of someone so vulnerable made him all the angrier.
“A girl’s gotta make a living somehow.” She straightened the sheet at her waist. Smoothed the wrinkles her nervous fingers had created.
“Where did you and this man meet?” Ms. Lytle asked.
“Over on East Ontario.” She fidgeted with the edge of the sheet some more. “A car picked me up and took me to that real fancy hotel over on Michigan Avenue.” Her lips trembled into a small smile. “I was thinking that was going to be my lucky day. You know, a big tipper.”
“Which hotel?” Ms. Lytle asked.
When the woman had given the name and address of the hotel, Devon demanded, “What can you tell me about his voice? Deep? Did he sound older or younger?”
“Not really so deep. He sounded older than me for sure.” She moistened her lips. “His voice was kind of gravelly like he’d spent a lot of years smoking.”
“What exactly did he ask you to do?” Devon demanded. He realized he’d taken over the interview but it was his prerogative. Ms. Lytle worked for him, after all. This outrageous situation was about him! Fury twisted sharply inside him.
“He said all I had to do was pretend to be someone else for a day. Easy money. Big money.” She shrugged one thin shoulder. “I didn’t know I’d be getting hurt and almost die.”
“What’s your name?” Ms. Lytle asked before Devon could launch his next question.
“Audrey.” She stared at her manicured fingernails, anywhere but at the woman questioning her. “Audrey Maynard.”
“Audrey,” Ms. Lytle began, “you said the hotel room was dark. Did you get any sense of his height or how big or small he was?”
She started to move her head but winced. “Not really. He was sitting in a chair. I could sort of make out his form against the cream-colored chair. He wore dark clothes. He wasn’t a big guy. Thin and medium height, I guess.”
“Did he wear cologne?”
She thought about that question for a moment. “Yes. Something expensive. I think it was that Clive something or other. I only smelled it a couple other times—once when I was part of a group of girls who attended this secret party with a bunch of really rich guys. The stuff costs like thousands of dollars.”
“Clive Christian,” Devon said. The woman in the bed as well as Ms. Lytle turned to stare at him. He was well acquainted with the cologne she meant.
“That’s it.” She pointed at him. “And you. You wear it. I smelled it when you checked on me this morning.”
“Did you keep any of the money he gave you?” Ms. Lytle asked. “What was the money in? A bag? A box?”
“It was in a bag. The shiny pink kind like you get from that fancy lingerie place. But I threw it away.”
“What did you do with the money?” Ms. Lytle prodded.
“I paid my mother’s rent. She was behind. She’s sick. Emphysema.” She sighed. “It’s bad.”
Ms. Lytle asked, “Did he contact you again after that?”
“He just said he’d send his car after me when he was ready.”
“When did the car come for you?”
“Yesterday morning. It was waiting outside my mother’s place when I walked out the door.”
“Tell us about the car.” Ms. Lytle prepared to jot down the information.
“Black. One of those big sedans you see hauling rich people around but not a limo.”
“What about the license plate? Did you see it?” Devon asked.
“No. I’d had a rough night. I was pretty out of it.”
“Did you see the driver?” Ms. Lytle inquired before Devon could.
“Yeah. He was white. Midtwenties maybe. Black hair, cut short. Not exactly cute. He looked, you know, indifferent. Wore a black suit. He told me I was to go with him the way I agreed. After I got in the car, he didn’t say a word.”
“Where did he take you?”
“Damen Silos. He just put me out and drove off. I was still staring after him when someone grabbed me from behind.” She frowned. “Wait. Maybe I did see part of the license plate.” She called off two numbers. “There were some numbers and then a TX. That’s all I can remember.”
“Thank you,” Ms. Lytle said. “We may have more questions later.”
“When will I be able to go home? I’m sure my mom is worried about me. I’m all she’s got.”
Ms. Lytle looked to Devon.
“Leave the contact information with Ms. Lytle and we’ll see that your mother is informed of your whereabouts.”
He walked out of the room. The guard resumed his position next to the door as Devon moved away. How many people knew the cologne he wore? The description of the man who’d hired her was insufficient but there was enough to further convince Devon with whom he was dealing. His former partner Richard Sutter.
Ms. Lytle hurried from the room to catch up with him. “It’s time to call in the police, Dr. Pierce. I don’t believe she’s telling us the whole truth.”
When he stalled, she glanced back at the room and the guard stationed there before meeting his impatient glare. “I know when a witness is lying, and for whatever reason, the woman in that room lied with every breath.”
He had come to the same conclusion. When he continued to stare in the direction of the room without responding to Ms. Lytle’s suggestion, she went on, “At the very least, I should get this cup to a friend of mine who can run the prints. We need to confirm who she is. She has rights and we’re walking all over those rights by not bringing in the proper authorities.”
His attention shifted to her, fury whipping through him. “I am well aware of the patient’s rights, Ms. Lytle.”
“Then you know we have to do something to protect her. I spent far too many years as a cop to ignore the situation. The man who hired her will not want her talking. Victoria and the Colby Agency have a reputation for high standards. I’m not about to let Victoria or the agency down.”
“I’m not asking you to let anyone down.” He started walking toward his office once more. “She has protection at her door and we’re going to do something right now.”
She hurried to keep up with his long strides. Though she was five-nine and in excellent physical condition, he stood at six-two and was quite fit himself. He had the advantage physically. He forced away thoughts of testing her physical endurance in all sorts of ways.
As they reached his office, she managed to get ahead of him and to block the door. “Where exactly are we going?”
He reached for patience. “To see the car. Any personal effects may still be in the vehicle. I’d like to see those and the registration.”
“Makes sense.” She stepped away from the door. “But I’m driving.”
C&C Towing, Noon
GEORGE TALBOT, her friend in Chicago’s Crime Scene Processing Unit, had promised to get results on the prints back to her ASAP. For the moment, she had let Pierce off the hook about reporting to PD what they had learned from the woman who had pretended to be his wife. But as soon as they’d had a look at any personal effects in the vehicle, the call would be made. The TX Maynard had told them about meant the car was a taxi or other chauffeured vehicle. If they could track down the vehicle and the driver, they might learn who’d hired him.
“This is it.” The tow-truck driver had escorted them into the storage yard, down the fifth row and seven cars over to where the Lexus was parked. “Damage isn’t so bad. We have a repair service if you want her fixed. We’re happy to fax an estimate to your insurance company.”
“I’ll let you know,” Pierce said. “At the moment, I’d like to gather my wife’s belongings.”
The lie rolled off his tongue without the first flinch or glance away from the man in the summer-weight coveralls. Bella had barely slept last night for mulling over their conversation in his home. Devon Pierce had the poker face down to a science. It was nearly impossible to determine what was truth and what was not. Worse, there was something about him that pulled at her. Certainly not his immense charm, she mused. Something deeper...something darker.
Perhaps a darkness similar to the one that lived inside her—a distrust of others so deep and profound that it muddied any personal feelings she might hope to ever develop. Who was she kidding? She had decided long ago that a personal life was too complicated. Work was far easier.
“All rightie, then.” The driver tossed the keys to Pierce. “Drop them by on your way out. We don’t release the keys or the vehicle until the bill is settled.”
Pierce gave him a nod.
When the driver had headed back to his office, Pierce reached for the driver’s-side door. Bella stopped him with a hand on his arm. “This car is evidence.”
“Be that as it may, I’m having a look in the car.” His tone warned there would be no discussion on the subject.
She reached into her bag and dug up a couple of pairs of latex gloves. She passed a pair to him.
He shot her a look. “The fact that you carry gloves around in your bag could be construed as—”
“I’m a private investigator. The last thing I ever want to do is render a piece of evidence unusable in court.”
She’d seen more than her share of bumbling detectives do exactly that and the perp ended up getting off on a technicality. Not happening on her watch.
While he settled behind the steering wheel, Bella opened the door to the back seat and had a look there. The small black clutch Maynard—or whoever she was—had with her was brought to the hospital. It had contained the driver’s license, lip gloss and a small round makeup mirror. One black high heel lay on the back floorboard. No overnight bag. No trash or spare change. The car looked and smelled brand-new.
“Have a look at this.”
Bella withdrew her upper body from the back seat and moved to the driver’s door. He held documents he’d taken from the glove box.
“The car was bought—if I’m reading this correctly—yesterday.” He passed the paperwork to her. “There’s nothing else here except one black shoe.”
“The other one is in the back seat.” She skimmed the pages. It appeared Cara Pierce had bought the car from the local Lexus dealership yesterday morning. She passed the papers back to him. “Did you check the console between the seats?”
“It’s empty.”
He peered up at her, blue eyes dark with fury. His lean jaw was taut with that same anger. Someone was using his painful past to get to him. But what was the endgame? That was the part Bella couldn’t yet see. Were they trying to discredit him professionally or destroy him personally? The rage in his eyes turned to something even more fierce...something desperate and urgent, something hungry. Bella abruptly realized how close she was standing to him.
Her ability to breathe vanished. “Well.” She stumbled back a step from the vee made by the open door of the car. “Let’s check the trunk.”
He pressed the button on the dash and a pop confirmed the trunk had opened. Bella headed that way with Pierce close behind. She struggled to dispel the hum of uncertainty and something like need inside her. The foolish reaction was surely related to her utter inability to sleep last night.
The trunk was empty save a single sheet of lined paper with words scribbled frantically across it. The page looked as if it had been ripped from a notebook. Blood was smeared across the center of it.
Pierce snatched up the page and stared at it.
“Don’t touch anything,” she warned again. Then she surveyed the trunk once more. Another spot of crimson at the edge of the carpeting snagged her attention. She lifted the carpeting that covered the spare tire area and she stopped.
Blood.
Lots of blood.
Pierce leaned in close, his face far too near to hers. “Ms. Lytle, I believe it’s time to call the police now.”
