Brutality (2 page)

The space overlooked an inner courtyard, and although the windows promised natural light, it was nearly impossible to see the sky given the size of the building. Across the courtyard, hallways and rooms were brightly illuminated, offering a montage of hospital life.

Fina took off her coat, stuffing her gloves and scarf into her pockets before taking a seat in a straight-backed chair. A woman of about forty was lying on a sofa wrapped in a thin blanket. She appeared to be sleeping, but every couple of minutes, she would toss and turn on the unforgiving couch. A Japanese family occupied the chairs opposite Fina. They were deep in conversation, their voices low but insistent.

Rather than contemplate the personal disasters that had brought her roommates to this place, Fina scanned the landscape across the way. In one room, a man sat up in bed, eating off a tray, his eyes trained on the TV mounted on the wall. A woman sat in a chair next to him, flipping through a magazine. Another room held half a dozen people, their smiling faces amongst a sea of flowers and balloons. Fina pondered the vista offered by the waiting room. It seemed cruel to force devastated family members to gaze upon others’ more mundane or joyful recoveries.

Fifteen minutes later, Fina was thoroughly engrossed in a CNN story about National Tortilla Chip Day when a woman entered the room. She was dressed in street clothes rather than medical attire.

“Ms. Ludlow?”

Fina stood and offered her hand. “Yes. Are you Mrs. Barone?”

“Call me Bobbi.” Her handshake was firm, and her skin felt dry. “There’s a meeting room that we can use.”

Fina followed her down the hallway, trying not to stare at the occupants of the glass-fronted rooms. In some cases, it was difficult to even see the patients amidst the medical equipment. Machines and endless tubes and cords snaked around the beds that seemed as large and as complicated as luxury sedans. Each room boasted a dedicated nursing station right outside its door. The level of care and attention was extraordinary. If you had to be in critical condition, this was the place to do it. In the hallway, a uniformed Boston Police officer sat on a chair, flipping through the
Herald
.

Bobbi led her to a small nondescript room with a round table and four chairs. There was a poster on the wall about patients’ rights and another extolling the virtues of hand washing, but little attempt had been made to decorate or warm up the space. If you were sitting in this room meeting with doctors, the life of your loved one was in serious peril. No one was going to pretend otherwise.

“Do you want some coffee? Water?” Bobbi asked.

“No, thank you, but can I get you something?” Fina sat down across from her. “I should have offered to bring in some food. I know that hospital food can get old fast.”

“I haven’t felt like eating. This is the most successful diet I’ve ever been on.” She gave a wan smile. Bobbi Barone looked to be in her sixties, with short, dark brown hair, and a complexion that was more olive than fair. She was very attractive, with smooth skin and lovely teeth. Her face was round, but not chubby, and her features were delicate. Fina guessed she was about five feet five inches and carried a bit of extra weight evenly throughout her body. A modest diamond ring and wedding band encircled her left ring finger.

“Is Liz’s husband going to join us?” Fina asked.

“He’s getting some air, but we can start without him.” Bobbi squeezed her hands together as if trying to warm them. The ICU was chilly, which brought to Fina’s mind a morgue.

“So what can I do for you?” Fina asked, pulling a notebook out of her bag. She had a tablet computer with her, but she still liked pen and paper when conducting interviews.

Bobbi took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’ve been reading the papers, but my daughter was attacked a couple of days ago.”

“I did see that.” Fina had only glanced at the item in Friday’s paper, but had gone back and read all the coverage after Bobbi called her. Liz Barone, a thirty-eight-year-old married mother of two, was attacked in her home in Hyde Park. She’d suffered a major head injury, and her prognosis was uncertain. “How is she?”

“She’s in bad shape. She suffered a subdural hematoma”—Bobbi gestured toward her head—“and there’s a lot of bleeding in the brain.”

“Is there anything they can do?”

“They’re considering surgery to relieve the pressure, but we’ll have to see.”

“I’m so sorry,” Fina said. “How can I help?”

“Well,” Bobbi said, “I want to know who did it.”

“Of course.” Fina paused. “I assume the police are investigating?”

Bobbi nodded.

“Which division is handling the case?” Fina asked.

“Major Crimes.”

Fina felt a mixture of relief and dread. Lieutenant Marcy Pitney was the head of Major Crimes and Fina’s sometime nemesis. Detective Cristian Menendez was also a member of the unit. He was Fina’s good friend and sometime date.

“Lieutenant Pitney?” Fina asked.

“Yes. Do you know her?” Bobbi looked searchingly at Fina. The woman was desperate for a shred of hope.

“I do, and she’s an excellent detective, as are her colleagues, particularly Detective Menendez. I’m not sure what I can do for you that they can’t.”

“I don’t mean to question their skills, but there are only so many hours in the day, and they have so many cases. I want someone who’s focused only on Liz.”

Fina had heard this before. Clients generally trusted the police, but they couldn’t accept their limited resources in terms of manpower. Like most things, if you were willing to throw money at a problem, you got more—though not necessarily better—results.

“Okay. Well, tell me about your daughter.”

“She’s married with two kids and works in a lab at New England University.”

“Has anything unusual happened in her life recently? Has anyone threatened her or has she been engaged in any conflict you can think of?”

Bobbi shook her head. “The only thing that’s different is the lawsuit, but I can’t imagine that has anything to do with it.”

“What lawsuit?” Fina asked just as the door swung open. A man in faded jeans and a black pullover sweater walked in and dropped down into a chair. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“This is Liz’s husband,” Bobbi said. “Jamie Gottlieb.”

Fina extended her hand. “Sorry to meet under such difficult circumstances.”

“I was just telling Fina about the lawsuit,” Bobbi explained.

Jamie made a gesture indicating she should continue. Fina listened and studied him at the same time.

She’d done some preliminary research on Jamie in preparation for the meeting. He was a project manager at a local interactive firm, but most of the information Fina found online was related to his band. Jamie was the guitarist for the group, which had enjoyed modest success in the nineties, but seemed largely inactive these days. They were called Wells Missionary, a name that made no sense to Fina, but was probably an ironic reference to art and the capitalist machinery. Jamie was trim with longish brown hair that dipped down toward his eyes. He wasn’t traditionally handsome, but with his square jaw and hazel eyes, he looked slightly tortured, which for some reason was often a draw to the opposite sex. Sitting across from him, Fina could imagine he attracted the ladies when armed with a guitar.

“Liz was working with an attorney,” Bobbi continued. “She was going to sue New England University.”

“Why?” Fina asked.

Jamie studied his fingernails.

“She played soccer there when she was a student, and she’s developed health problems. She thinks they’re related to her time on the team.”

“What kind of problems?” Fina thought she knew what was coming next, but she wanted to hear it from Bobbi.

“Cognitive health issues. MCI, to be exact.”

MCI was mild cognitive impairment, the diagnosis most often given to athletes who suffered sports-related concussions. It was the affliction that so many NFL players were contending with, and although
mild
was part of the name, the impairment could be devastating.

“I’m familiar with MCI. What sort of symptoms was she experiencing?”

“I don’t see how this is relevant,” Jamie interjected. He bared his teeth in a look between a smile and a grimace. “This has nothing to do with her current situation.”

“We don’t know that, Jamie,” his mother-in-law insisted.

“This is a waste of time, Bobbi. No offense,” he said to Fina.

“None taken. What do you think happened?”

“I have no idea, but the world is full of crazy people. Liz didn’t have any enemies. This had to have been random. She probably opened the door to the wrong person.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Jamie,” Bobbi said.

“I know you want to do whatever you can, but I don’t see how hiring her”—he gestured at Fina—“is going to help.”

“I don’t expect you to pay for it,” Bobbi said, a touch of irritation creeping into her voice.

“That’s not what I meant,” Jamie said.

Fina knew that some people didn’t like the idea of an investigator snooping into their lives. Some people were more private than others, and then there was the group that actually had something to hide. Fina wondered which category Jamie occupied.

“I want to get back to Liz.” He rose from his seat. “Do what you think is best,” he said to his mother-in-law before leaving the room.

The two women sat in silence for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Bobbi said. “We’re under a lot of stress, and clearly, he doesn’t want to hire you.”

“Why is that, do you think?” Fina asked.

Bobbi tipped her head back and studied the ceiling. “Jamie tends to take the path of least resistance in life. Right now he doesn’t have the energy or the emotional resources to do more than sit by Liz’s bedside.”

“But you do? You still want me to investigate?”

She met Fina’s gaze. “Absolutely. She’s my child. I’d do anything for her.”

“What about Liz’s father? Is he in the picture?”

“My husband died five years ago. Thank God for small favors; this would have killed him.”

Fina stashed her notebook in her bag and pulled out her business card. “Do you have an e-mail address?” Bobbi nodded. “I’ll send you my rate information, and I’ll get started as soon as you say the word,” Fina said.

Bobbi folded her hand around the card as if it were a talisman.

“I’ll want to speak with you again—and Jamie. I’ll try not to irritate him too much.”

“Good luck with that,” Bobbi murmured.

“I’ll also need the contact info for the attorney Liz was working with. He’ll be a good place to start.”

“He’s in Natick. Thatcher Kinney.” She laced her hands together. “You don’t think I’m wrong about the lawsuit being an issue?”

Fina stood. “I don’t know, but it represents a change in your daughter’s routine and contacts. It would be foolish to dismiss it without taking a closer look.”

“Thank you.” Bobbi stood and gave Fina a hug. It wasn’t the usual way her meetings ended, but this was an unusual circumstance. Bobbi Barone needed a hug, and Fina was happy to oblige.

“Hang in there,” Fina said after pulling away.

“I am. By a thread.”

In the hallway, Fina headed for the exit, and Bobbi went in the opposite direction, presumably toward her daughter’s room. Fina hit the button that unsealed the hermetically sealed unit and took a deep breath once the doors closed behind her. That medical purgatory gave her the creeps.

—

W
hile most of Fina’s caseload came directly from Ludlow and Associates, occasionally she tried to throw in a job independent of the firm. There were a few reasons she might seek out other work: a case was interesting on its own merits; a case offered a potential payoff for Ludlow and Associates down the road; Fina felt like pissing off her father and asserting her independence. Liz Barone’s case hit all three of these marks, though Fina would emphasize the potential payoff when selling it to her father.

Ludlow and Associates was located on the forty-eighth floor of the Prudential Tower. Carl had started the firm not long out of law school and built it into not only a family business, but one of the most successful personal injury firms in the country. All four of the Ludlow children had followed Carl’s footsteps to law school, with varying degrees of success. Rand, the eldest, was a successful lawyer whose recent bad behavior had landed him in a family-enforced exile in Miami. Her other brothers, Scotty and Matthew, were partners in the family firm, but Fina hadn’t made it past the first semester of law school. Instead, she found her niche as the firm’s investigator. It was a competitive, lucrative, and sometimes distasteful line of work, but it was theirs, and they were good at it.

Fina breezed past the security guard at the front desk and wound through the hallways to her father’s office. Since it was Saturday, his assistant wasn’t in, and Fina strode directly into his office. It wasn’t as much fun when she didn’t have to evade his gatekeeper.

Her father was seated behind his desk, his brows knit together as he studied his computer screen.

“Look at these,” he commanded his daughter.

“You know, Dad, other people say ‘hello’ and ‘please.’”

“You’re lecturing me on manners?”

Fina walked behind her father. She leaned over his shoulder and looked at the screen. It was odd being in such close physical proximity to him. Her parents weren’t huggers. In fact, Fina couldn’t remember the last time she and her father had embraced.

“What am I looking at?”

“Your mother’s birthday gift.”

“Don’t you think you should ask Patty?” she said, referring to Scotty’s wife. “She has a better eye for these sorts of things.”

“I don’t have time for that.”

Fina scanned the bracelets on the Tiffany website. Her relationship with her mother was difficult, at best. In Fina’s estimation, coal was always the perfect gift for Elaine.

“She likes blue,” Fina noted, pointing at a delicate bracelet of diamonds and sapphires.

Carl grunted. “It’s a little understated for your mother.”

Fina reached for the mouse and scrolled down the page. She inhaled her father’s cologne, crisp and faintly woodsy. Carl was a handsome man who put a lot of effort into his appearance. He was trim, with a muscular upper body and thick dark gray hair that was developing some flecks of white. Carl was also charismatic. He had a “take no prisoners” attitude people found immensely appealing. Most people wanted to believe that someone, somewhere, was in charge.