Armed With Steele (4 page)

Even in the dim, unnatural lighting of the parking garage I saw color flood his cheeks. “Yeah, not exactly how I planned to spend the evening. At least you got what you wanted.”

I stared up at him, shocked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Matt chuckled. “Easy, killer. I just meant that all this,” he said, motioning toward the hospital, “got you out of your blind double-date.”

I gave him a sheepish grin. “Oh. Yeah. What did he say when you called, anyway?”

“That he was relieved it was a legitimate excuse…and that he can’t wait to reschedule.”

“Not if I have anything to do with.” Getting back into the dating scene meant setting myself up for more heartache. Thanks, but no thanks. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and Grace will forget all about it.”

“Grace? Forget something?” Matt shook his head. “You, of all people, should know better than that.”

My gaze flashed back to the hospital entrance. Would this coma rob Grace of her memory, her sense of humor, or any of the other hundred things I loved about her?

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later, I walked through the back door of our little rental house and yelled out of habit, “I’m home!”

Dead silence greeted me. Reminded me again that there would be no Grace home with me tonight. And maybe not tomorrow, either.

With a shake of my head I pushed that possibility from my mind, determined to stay positive. I passed through the kitchen in darkness, reached the living room, and took a step toward my bedroom. But one spare glance in the direction of Grace’s room later, my temporary bubble of optimism burst. I sank onto the couch, tossed our purses aside, and let the tears I’d fought back so valiantly all evening have their way with me.

After a few minutes, I reached for my purse and rummaged around for a tissue. But after a moment of searching, I realized nothing in it felt right. The objects my hand touched seemed foreign to me, all the wrong shapes and sizes, and not a single tissue in the bunch.

I fumbled in the dark to turn on the closest end table lamp. Once my eyes adjusted to the light I realized why, in my blind search, I’d found nothing suitable for drying my cheeks—it was Grace’s purse I’d reached into, not my own.

I pulled the black bag onto my lap and stared down at it. Debated whether or not to snoop a second time. After a second or two, I peeled the Coach open once more. And I felt guilty for doing it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Though we were the best of friends and long time roommates, we’d always had an unspoken rule, a mutual understanding, that there were two things in our home that were sacred and not to be touched: our individual containers of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, and our purses.

Of course, there were exceptions to the purse rule: quick dives into them to snatch up ringing cell phones, grabbing a wallet to pay the pizza delivery guy for the roommate whose nail polish was still tacky, etc. And I’d shopped with her enough times to know how meticulous she was when putting things into, or taking things out of, her purse. Which meant I also knew that the mess in my lap was sure as hell not just from her car rolling down a hill.

I hadn’t argued the point with Matt, but even back in the parking garage I’d had the sneaking suspicion that someone had rifled through her bag. But why? What had they been looking for?

I unlatched her wallet. The one credit card she carried was still nestled squarely into its little pocket, right next to her library card. I counted the cash tucked evenly into the larger sleeve. Eighteen dollars—more than usual for the gal who would rather throw herself to the wolves than relinquish the use of her VISA debit card.

I snapped her wallet shut and frowned. If it wasn’t money they were after, then what was it?

The purse was deep, its lining black. I scooted closer to the light, to get a better view inside. Scraps of paper were scattered around its bowels—so very unGrace-like. Me, I always stuffed receipts inside the main zipper and tossed my wallet in on top of them. Left them buried until the accumulated clutter drove me to have a
clean my purse
day. But not Grace. She lived by the
a place for everything and everything in its place
motto.

I continued to dig until I found her zippered, leather day planner. The place for all her loose papers. Her notes-to-self. Her appointment reminders. She’d think of something she needed to grab at the store, or which book she wanted to borrow from the library next, and whip that puppy out to scribble her thoughts down. Then she’d re-zip it—as if the zzzzup sound brought closure to her moment of planning—and place it carefully back into her purse.

Tonight, however, the leather planner flopped open in my hands. It was empty of receipts and loose notes, its notepad void of scribbles. I started to close it, then noticed the calendar on the left was crinkled. I brought the planner up to my face to take a closer look. And then I saw it: the scraggly remains of a since-removed page from her small, spiral-bound notepad.

A knot formed in my stomach. Before, the notion that someone had searched through her purse for something was just that—a notion. But after seeing the thin strip, its jagged edges wedged among the spiral metal loops, I knew: Grace, with her semi-OCD tendencies who never left a paper crinkled and who never, ever, left a sliver of paper in her spiral binding, had not been the last one in her planner.

Someone else had been, and they’d taken something from it.

There was more to this accident than Officer Steele had concluded. And then a different kind of knot formed in my stomach as I realized he might be my only hope in uncovering what had really happened to Grace on that fateful car ride home.

Chapter 3

“Good morning, Miss Hartley.”

I closed my car door and spun around to find Officer Steele approaching, a smile on his face, navy uniform pressed to perfection, and sunglasses tucked neatly into his left breast pocket. My heart began to race, and not from being startled. Damn those deep blue eyes. A woman could surely drown there.

But not this woman, I reminded myself. Not today, or any day.

“Why, good morning, Officer Steele. What, not enough speeders out there today?” I tipped my head toward the main road. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a few reckless wheelchair drivers here in the parking garage.”

He chuckled, the smile playing at the corners of his eyes. “No, apparently all the speeders are in here today.” My cheeks warmed, and he worked to conceal a grin. “No, actually I’m here to interview another accident victim. I thought I’d swing by and check on Miss Sullivan while I was here.”

I glanced at the hospital entrance and wrung my hands together. “Last I heard, she was still out. I was really hoping to walk in and find her awake, though.”

“Only one way to find out.” He smiled and waved his hand toward the hospital’s sliding glass doors. “Shall we?”

I was torn. The guy was a little bit intimidating and whole lot tempting. Then again, a walk with Officer Steele might provide me just enough time for a little interrogation of my own. In the end, logic prevailed. At least that’s what I told myself. “Sure.”

We passed through the doors, and were instantly greeted by the overpowering smell of disinfectant. I made a quick mental note to buy lemon-scented everything our next shopping trip. If I didn’t smell this scent again for twenty years it’d still be too soon.

My tour guide paused then to allow passage for small group of women all bubbling and gushing about some adorable newborn they’d just seen. Once they caught sight of Officer Steele, though, the gushing turned to giggling.

He gave them a small nod. “Ladies.”

“Officer,” one answered, her tone coy. More giggling ensued.

I rolled my eyes and commenced walking. Officer Steele turned from his admirers and followed. “So, did you come up with anything else on Grace’s accident?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Nothing new turned up.”

We rounded a corner, and dodged a janitor pushing some sort of oversized laundry cart. “You’ve been doing this a while, right?”

“A few years now.”

“Then you probably have a good idea of how fast she had to be going, you know, to make her car flip like that?”

“Well, speed is just one component. I mean—”

“Excuse me.” A little old man walking in the opposite direction cut in. “Can either of you direct me to the nearest restroom?”

I bit back the location I wanted to suggest—which sounded an awful lot like
thanks for rudely interrupting us, you old crow
—while Officer Steele calmly pointed him in the direction of the main lobby. Thank goodness I hadn’t picked law enforcement as a career. I sure as heck didn’t have the patience for it.

As soon as our elderly interjector headed off to find the potty, I resumed my line of questioning. “You were saying?”

He looked at me, confused for a moment. “Saying? Oh, right. Speed. Well, yeah, there are other factors to consider. Weather. Road conditions. Traffic density. Obstacles. Things like that.”

We set off again, him with his long strides, me with my short legs doing double-time to keep up. “Makes sense, I suppose. So, now which of those—”

“Officer Steele?”

My eyes darted to a new voice. One that belonged to the flirty nurse my companion had been engaged in conversation with the day prior before I’d interrupted. I hadn’t seen her approaching, but sure enough, there she was.

My blood started to boil. How many freaking interruptions were we going to have?

“Yes?”

Her gaze fell upon me, darkened slightly, then lightened as her eyes shifted back to Officer Steele. “Mr. Speck is still in the ER. His injuries were pretty minor, so they should release him yet this morning. You’re welcome to go back and speak with him now.”

Officer Steele’s face lit up. “Thanks, Sam. Don’t know how you do it, but you always seem to be one step ahead of me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she said.

And I had no doubt she meant it, in more ways than one.

Nurse Sam sashayed on down the hall, and I turned back to Officer Steele. But before I could ask him anything else, he beat me to the punch. “I’m sorry, Miss Hartley, but I need to catch this guy before he leaves. If I have time, I’ll swing up and see if Miss Sullivan is awake. Maybe I’ll see you then?”

So much for my interrogation.
I squinted down the hall at a whole lot of nothing. “Um, yeah. I understand. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

With a sigh, I turned to go. But he snagged my arm. My gaze flashed up to his face and became trapped in the snare of his brilliant blues.

“You found something.”

He released me and I took a step back, the skin on my arm still tingling from his touch.

“Well, sort of. Maybe. But it’s probably nothing.” I resisted telling him about the purse, afraid he’d react like Matt and blow off my idea. And then what would I be left with?

Nothing, that’s what. And I couldn’t bear the thought.

He looked over my head at the ER entrance, then leaned down to put his face on level with mine. “Look, I need to see Mr. Speck. But I promise, when I’m done with him, I’ll do my best to swing by and check on you and Miss Sullivan. Will you tell me then what you found?”

I searched his face, desperate to find an ally. In his eyes I found sincerity, intrigue. What choice did I have but to trust him? “Yes.”

“Okay.” He straightened up, face still serious. “If for some reason I get sent on another call and we don’t reconnect, you still have my card?”

The card he’d given me yesterday? The one I’d turned over and over in my hands last night, wondering if I’d ever see its handsome owner again? I’d say the likelihood was about one hundred percent.

“Yeah, I might still have it somewhere.”

“Good. If you don’t see me before you go, call me.”

I watched him walk away. Enjoyed the view until he pushed through a set of double doors leading to the ER wing. Then I turned and headed for the hospital’s main lobby. It was time to see if today’s reception desk warlord would allow me passage to see Grace.

* * * *

I stood outside room 312 ten minutes later, torn. Part of me wanted to burst in and rush to Grace’s bedside. The other part wanted to run away. Seeing Grace, actually taking in the sight of her still, silent body, would force me to accept that the surreal events of the past sixteen hours were all true. Denial was so much easier.