For the Love of Jazz (13 page)

“Well, this does make things a bit easier, Jazz. But you will have to come down to the station. We need to take a statement,” Tate finally said, tucking away the pad he had been doodling on as he jotted down notes.

“Mind if I ask who I supposedly tried to kill, cuz?” Jazz asked, his jaw clenched tight. A sick feeling was spreading through his gut, one that had to do with the odd, strained way Tate kept glancing at Anne-Marie, the way Larry’s jaw had dropped when she had come sauntering down the stairs.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for the both of you,” Tate said slowly. As Jazz wrapped a supporting arm around Anne-Marie’s waist, his cousin reported, “Sometime early this morning, at approximately three a.m., somebody broke into your father’s house, Anne-Marie. And he was shot. Whoever it was tried to kill him. And it would appear they are wanting to point a finger Jazz’s way.”

A swirling, black mass rose within Anne-Marie, darkening out everything for just a brief moment. When her eyes cleared, she was sitting cradled in Jazz’s lap on the stairs, shuddering wildly.

“That can’t be true, Tate,” she whispered. “There must have been a mistake. Daddy is home, working in the garden.”

“No, honey.” Kneeling down in front of her, reaching out, and taking her hand, Tate said gently, “Your daddy is in surgery in Lexington. He took a bullet in the chest.”

Surgery.

He took a bullet in the chest.

Somebody tried to kill him.

No. It couldn’t be real. Looking up at Tate, she shook her head and said, “No. That can’t be right.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. I really am,” Tate said, clenching his jaw when she continued to stare at him with those weeping, heartbroken eyes.

“Oh, God,” she moaned. Tears welled in her eyes and she turned her head to stare at Jazz. “I can’t lose him, Jazz. I can’t lose Daddy, too.”

Jazz wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled her against him, holding her close. “He’s strong, Annie. He’s healthy.” Trite words, meaningless, but he could think of nothing to say to her, no way to help her. “If anybody can make it through, it’s the doc.”

Himself, he was numb, too shocked to really feel anything just yet. “I’m going to Lexington with her, Tate. You can take that statement there, or you can get it some other time. But I am going with her to Lexington.”

Tate sighed, reaching up to rub at his neck. “I can take it tomorrow,” he finally said, clenching his eyes shut. “Ya’ll best get going. I’ll get a deputy to give you an escort.”

“Hey! He’s been reported at the scene of a crime. You have to take him in for questioning,” Larry snapped, jabbing a bony finger towards Jazz.

“He was reported through an anonymous phone call and he has a damned good alibi. I’ll take his statement when and where I choose, Muldoon. Now take yourself off to your cruiser,” Tate said quietly, a subtle threat in his voice. “I mean that.”

“But he—”

Anne-Marie shot up off Jazz’s lap, tears rolling down her cheeks. Face flushed, eyes shining, she moved in a whirl of motion and before they even realized her intent, Larry Muldoon was laying on his back, staring up at her, blood gushing from his nose. For a brief moment, all were quiet. And then Jazz started applauding, Tate was hiding a smirk behind his hand, and Muldoon was cursing viciously.

Hands steady as a rock, face once more composed, Anne turned to Tate and said, “I’ll turn myself in for striking an officer after Daddy is stabilized.” Then she held out a hand to Jazz. When he folded his hand around hers, she linked their fingers, raised his hand to her lips, and kissed it. “Let’s go. Daddy needs us.”

Chapter Six

Desmond could feel himself pulling away, leaving his body. As he drifted further away, he looked around him and was pleased to see that he had been right. There wasn’t just some empty maw of darkness. Not dark at all. Desmond could see his body down on the operating table, colleagues trying to pound and force life back into him.

His life was leaching away, but instead of feeling sad about that, Desmond felt just fine. There was a beautiful, golden light glowing just ahead of him and when he got there, he’d be with his boy again. And his wife. His pretty, pretty Anna—dear God, he’d missed her. But he was going to be with her again, and soon.

He liked knowing that he’d been right about what happened when the body died. A lot of his colleagues didn’t think there was anything after death, but Desmond had known otherwise.

Death was just another beginning, not an end. He rather wished he had the chance to tell them, but it was time for him to move on.
Useless, old buddy
, he thought fondly as he studied Jed Munroe’s haggard face above the blue, surgical mask. His long-time friend barked out an order for epi. They started another IV line and Desmond automatically flinched as he watched, even though he didn’t feel a thing.

Their voices came from far off. “Come on, you mean old sonuvabitch! Don’t do this to Anne-Marie.” That was Dr. Munroe there, former classmate and another lifelong friend. The other soothing tones were from the anesthesiologist and the assisting M.D.

Drifting further and further away, the voices got fainter and fainter.

And then they were gone all altogether, and he was alone, drifting through the gray fog, drifting closer and closer to that warm, golden light. No. Not alone.

A familiar, beloved presence wrapped around him, and there was a voice he could hear only in his heart. But even as he drifted closer, something stopped him, an answer of sorts, to a question he didn’t recall asking.

Don’t do this to Annie
.

* * *

It wasn’t easy being the one in the waiting room, Anne-Marie thought, staring at the clock as the second hand circled the face endlessly. Theoretically, she knew this, but this was the first time she had ever experienced it herself. Her father had been in surgery for nearly eight hours now.

“He can’t die, Jazz,” she whispered. She’d thought she was cried out, but as she spoke, the tears started again “He can’t. I’m not ready to let go of somebody else.”

He locked his arm around her neck, pressing a kiss to her wavy, black hair. “He’s going to be fine,” Jazz murmured.

More time passed as she pressed her face against his neck, taking comfort in his presence, in his strength. Anne-Marie shifted closer, rubbing her cheek against the smooth cotton of his T-shirt. Her mind bounced from one thought to the next, confusing, unconnected thoughts and disjointed phrases.

A phone started to ring, intruding on the silence she had cocooned herself in, and she turned her head toward it with a frown. It was then that she replayed the conversation they’d had with Tate just that morning. An anonymous phone call.

From the circle of his arms, she watched as the receptionist lifted the phone and spoke quietly into the receiver. “Somebody wants it to look as though you did this,” she said softly, anger starting to kindle inside.

“I’d have to agree,” somebody said from the doorway. Together, they looked toward Tate as he entered the waiting room. In his hand, he loosely held a plastic evidence bag. “It would appear that our culprit left this behind.” Dropping into a seat, he held up the bag to display the single hair in the bag.

“I’d lay money that it’s yours, cuz,” Tate mused, sliding his fingers up and down the seam of the bag. “If it wasn’t for your very tight alibi, I’d be taking you to the station for questioning. As it is, Anne-Marie coming down your stairs this morning saved your butt.”

With a frown, Jazz reached out, taking the evidence bag and holding it aloft. “The haircut,” he murmured quietly, running his free hand through his recently shorn hair.

“At the salon in town? Momma mentioned seeing you there,” Tate mused, taking the bag back. “That seems the most likely possibility. Which means the majority of the possible suspects are little, blue-haired ladies, Momma, and Laura.”

“And Maribeth. She works there,” Anne-Marie said quietly.

Jazz snorted in contempt. “She doesn’t have the kind of brains to pull something like this. Cold-blooded enough, definitely. But having the smarts to do it? No way.”

With a frown, Anne-Marie conceded he had a point. “Did Larry Muldoon have anything to do with this?” Anne-Marie asked, her brow puckering with worry.

“I doubt it,” Tate said, shaking his head. “This takes more cunning than he or Maribeth Park could ever hope to possess. More brains. You were an unexpected addition, one Jazz’s secret admirer couldn’t have planned on.” With a slight grin, Tate added, “I certainly never would have expected it.”

With a tired sigh, he rose, shoving his thick hair back from his forehead. “Jazz, have you got any idea who’d want you implicated for murder?”

Jazz held her securely against his side as a tiny whimper escaped her lips. He shot Tate a cold glare before pressing his lips to her temple. “Annie, he’s gonna be fine.” As he rocked her back and forth, he stared at Tate. “This isn’t a good time for this,” he said flatly. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Damnation, Anne-Marie,” Tate muttered, slapping his hat against his thigh. “I’m sorry. Punchy. Haven’t slept in nearly two days.”

She offered a trembling smile before turning to the man who held her securely against him. “Jazz—” Anne-Marie tried to push him away, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“It can wait,” he repeated. “I’m not leaving here until we know if Doc Kincade is going be okay. And I’m not discussing this here. So why don’t you go on home and get some sleep?”

With a slow nod, Tate replaced his hat on his head. “I’d like—” His words faded away as the door swung open a second time. Clad in baggy, blue scrubs, his eyes weary, Dr. Munroe entered.

Jeb Munroe studied the woman before him with tired eyes. This wasn’t a colleague before him now, but the daughter of a patient. Never mind the fact that she had studied under him before deciding to pursue pediatric medicine instead of surgical.

“Anne-Marie,” he greeted, holding out his hands.

She took them and held tight. “How’s my father?” she asked, her voice wavering.

“Hanging in,” he said, smiling at her. “We’re cautiously optimistic at this point. You know how important the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are. But he is strong, he is healthy, and he’s got an angel on his side. Otherwise, he never would have survived this long.”

“How bad was the damage?”

“He has a long groove on his head, along the right side of his skull. My guess would be that he heard somebody coming up behind him and moved. The person shot again, this time in his chest. The bullet was lodged along his spine, but there’s minimal damage there.” He paused, sighing. “Normally, I don’t do this, but Annie, I’m going to sit down.”

Dropping his face into his hands, Jeb took a deep breath, fighting back the tears of relief that threatened to overflow. Friend or not, doctor or not, she was the family of a patient right now, first and foremost.

Oh, the hell with that
, Jeb thought viciously.
If physicians couldn’t be human in front of other physicians…

“Anne-Marie, your father is one hell of a strong man. We lost him, twice, on the table. And each time, I swear to God, I thought we’d lost him, and he came clawing back. I’ve seen my share of fighters on the table and I always figured your dad to be one, but I’ve never seen anything like it, Annie. It’s a bloody miracle. The surgeon in me knew he was gone that first time, but I just couldn’t give up. Then he came back.”

A sob caught in her throat as Anne-Marie’s knees gave way. Falling back against Jazz, she stared at Jeb with terrified eyes. “And now?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Raising his head, Jeb stared at her with eyes that still bore traces of baffled wonder. “He’s stable, Annie. I’ve never had a patient undergo a surgery like that, lose that patient twice, and then stabilize so quickly after surgery.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Jazz asked, rocking Anne-Marie, pressing a kiss to the top of her bent head.

“I think so. We’re not out of the woods yet. The problem was that the bullet tore through the left lobe of his lung, pierced the pericardial sac. He had a large amount of internal bleeding. He’s undergone several blood transfusions and will need more before this is through.”

As he spoke, Anne-Marie straightened, taking deep breaths until her racing heart calmed a bit. Clamping her hand tight around Jazz’s, she told Jeb, “We’re the same type. I’ll donate after I see him.”

“What type is he?” Jazz asked.

“O positive,” Anne-Marie and Dr. Munroe replied at the same time.

“Me, too. I’ll donate, if you think he would allow it,” Jazz offered, his voice hesitant, his eyes uncertain.

She offered a teary smile and said, “I’d say it’s only fair. He always said you and Alex cost him a lot of blood, sweat and tears. You’ve already given him sweat and tears, waiting here with me.” Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she looked back at the surgeon. “You lost him twice on the table, Jeb. How can he be stable?”

“Because your dad’s the luckiest son of a bitch this side of heaven,” Jeb replied, only half joking. “Your daddy and I had an angel with us in that operating room, Annie. That’s the only thing I can tell you.”

* * *

Tate settled in at his desk, rubbing his hands across tired eyes. Across from him sat Jazz, his face haggard and exhausted. “How’s Doc Kincade?” he asked, picking up his pen and twisting it absently between his fingers.

“Stable. That’s all they’ll say right now. He’s stable. He’s healthy, he’s strong.” He blew out a frustrated breath and said, “Anne-Marie is taking this whole thing too calmly, if you ask me. Shoot, she’s had to grab hold of me a couple times to keep me from strangling that damned surgeon.”

“The not knowing is one of the worst parts,” Tate agreed, pressing pen to pad and doodling absently. “What we have here, Jazz, is a big-ass problem. Somebody went and leaked it already that you were supposedly spotted at the scene of the crime, and that Anne-Marie is your alibi. A particular woman, who shall remain nameless, has suggested that this is a scam you two cooked up for his life insurance money.”