A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (42 page)

“She was already gone when I got there. They were executing a search warrant.”

“Still. That’s awfully nice of them.”
 

Chuck smiled. “I have my ways.”
 

“Of course, you do.”
 

“Jealous?”

“Terribly.”
 

“I thought so.”
 

We arrived at the ER, cutting off anymore insinuations. Chuck was diagnosed with a serious concussion and admitted for observation. I stayed with him on the sleeper chair in his room. Stevie charmed his way into the nurse’s lounge and got a date with a nurse that was way too good for him. Lana was charmed by his tale of peril at the campus police station and the blood on his shirt didn’t hurt. I gave him a hundred bucks to take her to dinner, but it was really to keep him from talking to anyone who would listen. The hospital was crawling with cops and nobody, as of yet, had thought to ask him who he was beyond his cursory statement that he’d been with me. Pretty soon somebody was going to ask and he’d be arrested for whatever he’d done in Missouri.
 

It took forever to get Chuck settled into his room. He had a screaming migraine and squeezed my hand so hard I expected bruising. Once the Vicodin was onboard, he relaxed and I retreated to my chair to watch his monitor and the nurse coming in for repeated unnecessary blood pressure checks. She asked me several times about our relationship. I suppose she was hoping we were blood related, which we weren’t, despite the same last name. My uncle adopted Chuck during his brief marriage to Chuck’s mom and it stuck.
 

The nurse left reluctantly after the third check and Chuck gazed at me, all drugged and bleary. “You can come over here.”
 

“I’m not getting in your bed if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said, crossing my arms.
 

“You could. There’s room.”
 

“Go to sleep.”
 

He held out an arm that looked completely out of place in a hospital gown. “I can’t sleep, if you’re so far away.” His eyelids drooped and my resolve softened. There were still traces of blood on his face, a good section of his hair was shaved for the twelve stitches he required, and he hadn’t been able to keep down jello so far. In short, he was pathetic and it hurt me to see it.
 

“Alright, but don’t be trying to feel me up or anything.” I dragged my chair over to his bedside and lowered his side rail. “Better?”
 

He reached for my hand and I gave it to him. “Much. Now get in bed.”
 

“What does it take to get you to sleep?” I asked.
 

“You. Naked.”
 

“If I was naked, you’d go to sleep?”
 

“Oh, yeah. I wou…”
 

And he was out. I leaned on his bed and put my head on the mattress.

“Mercy,” said a woman’s voice.
 

I looked up and found Cortier peeking around the curtain. She was wearing skintight workout clothes and her hair was in a ratty ponytail.
 

“Can I come in?” she asked.
 

I rubbed my eyes. “Sure. What’s up?”
 

She laughed softly. “Plenty, with you in the center.”
 

Chuck stirred and reached for me. I took his hand again. “Right place and all that.”
 

“Definitely the right place for Wellow,” she said.
 

“How is he?”
 

“Looks like someone put his face in a meat grinder.”
 

“They let you see him?”
 

“No. That’s what the wife said.” Cortier pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed. “How’s he doing?”
 

“He’ll be fine. They’ll keep him overnight, but it’s nothing dramatic.”
 

She eyed the stitches. “That’s not what I’d think if it were me.”
 

“Could’ve been worse,” I said.
 

“It was worse. Johnson had a stroke. He’s in a coma.”
 

I nodded, thinking of nothing useful to say. Stroke after a head injury could happen. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. Surprised and saddened. I had a pit in my middle. Not a new pit. An old one, freshly opened. Rory Dushane, from my adventure in Copper Mountain, was still in the hospital, trying to learn how to hold a fork. I couldn’t think about that at the best of times and now wasn’t the best of times. Change of subject required.
 

“The lab confirmed listeriosis in both the frat boys and the remaining cupcakes,” I said.
 

“I know,” said Cortier. “Have you seen the boys?”
 

“Briefly. Alex’s having a rough time, but it looks like they’ll all recover fully. Did Vanessa pick Farrell out of the lineup?”
 

“We did a photo array, but no. The best she could do was a probably. We did get one print off of a cupcake box. It looks like he tried to wipe it clean and missed a spot.”

“What did Farrell say?” I asked.
 

“Not a damn thing. Bastard clammed up tight. He has four lawyers hovering outside his room.” Cortier rubbed her hands together. “God, I’d love to get him in interrogation.”
 

“Do you think it would do any good?”
 

She sighed. “It’d make me happy to harass the hell out of him. But no, he wouldn’t give anything up. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
 

“Harassing Farrell?”
 

“His connection to the Tulio case in St. Louis.”
 

“If there’s a connection, it’s news to me,” I said.

She leaned back and rubbed her jaw like my dad did when he was thinking. “I heard this big lug was over at Schwartz Realty when the Feds raided it.”
 

“He was going to interview Mrs. Schwartz.”
 

“What for?”
 

“Rob Berry worked for her and—” My phone rang. Dad. 911. “I have to get this.”
 

She shook her head. “This is important. Why was he talking to Schwartz?”
 

“Sorry. It’s my dad.”
 

She sucked in a breath and a muscle twitched in her jaw.
 

“Hi, Dad,” I said, turning away.
 

“Don’t tell her anything!” he burst out.
 

“Who? What?”
 

“Cortier. She’s on her way to find you. Don’t tell that woman diddly-squat.”
 

“Oh, well…”
 

“She’s there, isn’t she?” he asked.
 

I looked back at Cortier. She was trying to look nonchalant and failing miserably. “Yeah, she’s here.”
 

“What’d you tell her?”
 

“Nothing.”
 

“Good girl. Now tell her to piss off,” said Dad with glee in his voice.
 

“I don’t think so.”
 

“Alright fine, ya goody two shoes. Now I want you to get yourself over to the lockup and interview that Schwartz woman pronto. I can’t find any connection between her husband and Andrew Marlin, neither can Spidermonkey.”
 

My chest went tight. “Spidermonkey?” I squeaked out.
 

“You’ve heard of him?”
 

“Um…Chuck uses him sometimes, I think.”
 

“Yeah, he does. Morty’s partying at that Comic-Con and I needed this ASAP. For god’s sake, don’t tell Morty.”
 

“No problem. So you don’t have anything?”
 

Cortier flashed a smile and then quickly concealed it.
 

“We’ve got Andrew Marlin. Cortier doesn’t have anything. I need you to get the connection from Schwartz. Her husband ran for it, so all we’ve got is the wife.”
 

“Dad, I’m not the one for this. Think about it,” I said.
 

Cortier perked up.
 

Dad mumbled something. “Yeah, yeah. This is up Chuck’s alley. He could charm the skin off a snake.”
 

He didn’t know. I hated giving bad news and this news felt like a huge screwup on my part. If I’d figured it out sooner…

“Mercy?” said Dad.
 

“There’s been a complication,” I said.
 

“Ah, shit. I knew I should’ve sent Aaron with you. All that chocolate makes you think. What’d you screw up?”
 

“I solved the poisoning.” I glanced at Cortier and she nodded with a smile.
 

“Really? That Farrell kid?”
 

“Her father.”
 

“What’s the bad news?” Dad asked.

“He tried to kill Chuck and two other cops.”
 

Dad let out a string of curses that would’ve made Uncle Morty take note. Very creative. When he calmed down, he asked, “How’d you solve it if people almost died?”
 

I told him what happened and he grudgingly gave me a few props.
 

“So there’s really no point in me going down there,” I said. Schwartz wasn’t going to tell me anything. If Chuck was on his feet, maybe.
 

“Figure something out!” Dad yelled. “I’m not eating catfish!”
 

I glanced at Cortier. “Catfish?”

“I hate freaking catfish!”
 

“Okay. Nobody is going to make you eat catfish, Dad.”
 

Cortier raised her hand. “I am.”
 

“What the…”
 

“That woman’s trying to bogart this case.”
 

“Let her. I need a vacation. A real one. No blood.”
 

“To hell with that. We have a bet. Loser eats catfish.”
 

So that’s where I got it from. All my stupidity was Dad’s fault. Mom would be thrilled. The argument about where my brain came from was long-running.
 

“How can she take the Tulio case? It happened in St. Louis,” I said.
 

Cortier smiled.
 

“It’s complicated, but there’s some small basis, if the crime was planned in her jurisdiction and the Berrys were lured to St. Louis. The Schwarz employees are going to be locked up tight and most of them are women. You’re no use there.”
 

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Why’d you let Chuck get clobbered?”
 

“Not my fault.”
 

“I’d like to know whose fault it is?” he asked.

“I’m going with the guy that did it. Farrell.”
 

Dad started typing in the background. It helped him to think. “Yeah, yeah. Who else would know about the Schwartzes and doesn’t owe them anything? Who else have we got to ask?”
 

“I’ll think of something,” I said.
 

“You better. If I eat catfish, you eat crab.”
 

Crab again. It always comes back to crab.
 

I hung up and looked at Cortier.
 

“So the big man has told you to shut up,” she said.
 

“Yep.”
 

“He’s a huge pain in the ass.”
 

“Nobody knows it better than me.”
 

Cortier tried to pump me for information, but it didn’t last long. She paced and then walked through the curtain only to pop her head back in. “Where’s your partner? I need to interview him.”
 

“Comic-Con,” I said.
 

“What?”
 

“My partner, Aaron, is at Comic-Con in Portland.”
 

“Not that partner. The other one. Gangly, but charming.”
 

“Oh, him.”
 

Think fast. Nope. I’ve got nothing.
 

“He’s on a date.”
 

That flummoxed her. I guess people don’t generally get romantic after going through a bloody crime scene. She didn’t know Stevie and, if I had my way, she never would. When he got back to Nana’s, I was shipping him off. Anywhere was preferable to New Orleans and Chuck was in no shape to take him home. Dad could snag him at some later date, assuming he could avoid the Costillas.
 

I fussed with Chuck’s blankets and he grabbed my hand. “What’s wrong?” he slurred.
 

“Nothing.”
 

“Don’t believe…”