Читать книгу All the Pretty Girls - J.T. Ellison, J.T. Ellison - Страница 20

Taylor and Fitz pulled up to Baptist Hospital’s emergency entrance and parked. Making their way through the emergency-room throng was an adventure. Taylor counted six patients that had blood streaming from various places along their bodies. The fluorescent lights made the blood look orange. She swallowed back a moment of distaste. The last time she had come through these doors was on a stretcher, her own blood threatening to spill onto the linoleum floor.

Her last major case popped into her mind—it was always there, just below the surface.

She and Baldwin had met on that case four months prior. He’d been in town on a sabbatical, Metro had needed the help of a profiler. A mutually beneficial relationship ensued, one that pushed Taylor and Baldwin into long hours and tense situations. Being thrown together, two strong personalities in conflict, there had been an inevitable attraction. They had been on the trail of an armed suspect. In the end, cornered, the desperate suspect had gotten into a face-off with Taylor, and lost.

But it wasn’t without a price.

Even all these months later she could see the knife swinging at her, feel it bite into her flesh. She’d killed the man, but not before he left her a permanent souvenir, a wicked slash across her jugular.

Her hand went to her throat. She wouldn’t have it any other way—she and Baldwin made a good team. When she nearly died, he’d been right at her side, and hadn’t left. Still, being back in this emergency room gave her the chills. She tossed the thoughts away.

“Fitz, where would she be?”

“Probably up in surgery. Chief asked the E.R. doc to put her down as Jane Doe so the media wouldn’t get their hands on the story. Let’s see if it worked.” He went over to the information desk, badged the receptionist and asked for Jane Doe’s whereabouts. He turned to Taylor with a smile and pointed toward the elevator, then lumbered away before the receptionist could get too interested. The subterfuge was working so far.

Taylor joined him, and they rode up to the surgical floor in silence. The antiseptic smell leaked into the elevator before the doors opened. Taylor was assaulted with a memory of time served in the hospital. She was sorry that Betsy would have to experience the other side of policing—recovering from assault. It happened, not to everyone, but often enough. The elevator doors opened before she could fully relive her pain, and they went to the nurses’ station.

“You have a Jane Doe up here?” Taylor asked, trying to look noncommittal. The woman looked right back at her and Taylor immediately saw that everyone knew Betsy Garrison was Jane Doe. But the nurse played along.

“She’s just back from recovery. The doctor is with her now. Down the left hall, she’s in 320.”

They thanked her and walked toward the room. Taking a look inside, they could see two men, one the doctor in his green scrubs, the other Brian Post, Betsy’s partner. He looked stricken, but after a moment he laughed and sat down next to the hospital bed. Taylor knocked softly on the door. They looked up and beckoned her and Fitz in.

Betsy Garrison, the tough, feisty head of the Nashville Metro Sex Crimes Unit, was sitting up in the hospital bed, a huge white bandage covering the left side of her head. She looked beaten up and tired but gave as genuine a smile as she could muster.

“Taylor, Fitz, c’mon in. Join the party.”

Taylor took up residence on the opposite side of the bed from Post, who was scowling possessively at Betsy. That’s interesting, she noted. Looks like Post has more than professional concern for his partner.

She leaned over and gingerly gave Betsy a hug. Fitz leaned against the door to the bathroom, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He was an old-fashioned kind of guy, didn’t like to see ladies in distress. Betsy picked up on it immediately. Her voice croaked as she spoke, still rough from the anesthesia.

“Fitz, I see that your chivalrous sense of justice is piqued. Why don’t you take Brian here and get him a cup of coffee. He’s been mothering the hell out of me.”

Fitz didn’t have to be told twice. He crooked a finger at Post, who reluctantly rose. With a brief kiss on the one unbandaged piece of Betsy’s forehead that was still visible, Post followed Fitz out of the room.

Taylor settled in and gave Betsy an expectant look. They’d known each other for several years, had actually been on patrol together. They were as good friends as two female cops could be, and had a great deal of respect for each other.

Betsy jumped in first. “It looks worse than it is. Broke my nose and the cheekbone. But they got everything fixed up, and I’ll look better than before. That sweet doctor did my nose while I was under. No more bump!”

Taylor gave her a small smile. “You’re keeping up a brave face. How are you really?”

Betsy deflated slightly, trying for a smile and grimacing instead. “I hurt like hell. I’m embarrassed as hell. I feel like an idiot. My own suspect rapes me? I mean really, if that got out on the force, I’d have to resign. None of the guys could ever look at me the same again. As it is, Brian’s just about to die having to see me like this.”

“But Brian’s got more than a professional duty to you, am I right?”

Betsy shifted uncomfortably, the starchy sheets crackling at the movement.

“Caught me. We’ve been dating for six months or so. He’s a great guy. I know they always say not to date anyone you work with…” She trailed off, eyes sliding away.

Before the horrible case that nearly cost Taylor her life, she had been caught up in the shooting of one of their homicide detectives. The fact that she had slept with him wasn’t well known. Taylor looked into Betsy’s eyes, wondering if the female in her had picked up on the long-dead affair. Deciding there was nothing to her statement, she brushed the comment aside.

“Now, tell me what happened last night.”

A little light died in Betsy’s eyes, but she answered. “I had fallen asleep on the couch. I woke up when I heard a noise outside. Went into the kitchen to see what it was, and there he was. The Rainman, in his black ski mask, dripping all over my kitchen floor. I tried to handle it, you know?”

“Where was your weapon?”

“Oh, of course, it was upstairs in my safe. I’m really careful with it—my sister brings her kids over unannounced all the time. Don’t want there to be any accidents.

“So I tried to talk to him. Ask him what he was doing in my house. He didn’t say a word, just flew across the kitchen like he was shot out of a cannon. Punched me in the face hard enough to knock me out. When I came to, he was finished and leaving. I wasn’t even awake when he raped me. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but I’m glad I don’t remember it, at least for now. Add insult to injury, you know?”

Taylor did know. And thanked her lucky stars.

“So what was weird to me was that he was in and out in like twenty minutes. I noticed it was three-fifteen when I heard the noise. When I woke up, it was, like, three-forty, and he was long gone. That didn’t give him a lot of time to enjoy himself, you know?”

Taylor got up and walked to the window. “But he never lingers at a scene, right? The other women he’s raped say he’s rather dispassionate. Did you get that sense?”

“Before or after he punched me?”

“Ah. Point taken.”

“Taylor, you and I know this guy isn’t about sex. He’s just some strange little man that feels he needs to make a point. There’s never been any violence before now.”

“Do you think he’s going to keep at it?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Let me ask you this. How do you know it’s the Rainman?”

“Oh, they didn’t tell you? Rape kit came away with DNA.”

“You’ve never gotten DNA before, have you? That’s great news.”

Betsy shook her head gingerly, grimacing at the pain. “We have gotten DNA in the other rapes. He uses a condom, but he’s sloppy—when he takes it off, he always leaves a drop or two behind. We’ve been keeping that tidbit quiet because we can’t get the damn Tennessee Bureau of Investigation to run any of the newer samples through CODIS in a timely manner. At least not anytime soon.”