High Noon (10 page)

“Yeah.” Phoebe sat on the exam table. Her ribs ached, that rotted-tooth throb she already knew would give her trouble for days if not weeks. But the sling around her arm eased the pain in her shoulder.

“Mild concussion, bruised ribs, sprained shoulder.”

Liz stepped closer. “Nasty cut on your forehead and a shiner coming on. Split lip. Your jaw's swollen. Son of a bitch did some work on you.”

“He didn't kill me, there's that.”

“Always a plus. Your captain was in. He left after the docs gave him your status. I'm to tell you he'll come back to take you home when you're ready.”

“It's better if he stays at the house, finds…I don't know what there'll be to find. I was coming down from my office to the conference room for my training session. That's habitual. I use the stairs habitually.”

“Claustrophobia?”

“No, vanity. I don't always have time to work out, so I go for the stairs instead of the elevator. He was waiting for me.”

“You said you didn't see him.”

“No.” Cautiously, Phoebe touched her fingers to her face, just under her eye. She'd never had a black eye before, never appreciated how much it hurt. “I was going down pretty fast, and I caught just a blur of movement out of the corner of my eye—on the right. Thanks.”

She took the ice bag Liz offered, laid it gently on the side of her face. “He had me before I could even turn my head, before I could reach for my weapon. He knew what he was doing. Disabled me immediately with the blow to the head. Rapped me face-first into the wall, stunned me. Taped my mouth and cuffed me quick. He's used cuffs before. Anticipated my defensive moves, such as they were, and had the hood on me, or whatever it was.”

“Laundry bag. It's in evidence. You're thinking you should have been quicker, fought harder. Don't.”

“I didn't get a single lick in. I realize, intellectually, that I was stunned, physically outmatched, and still…My weapon?”

“It hasn't been recovered.”

The look between them held for a long moment. It was a hard blow when a cop was disarmed. It was a harder one when the cop was female.

“No one's going to blame you for that, Lieutenant. Not under these circumstances.”

“Some will. You know it, I know it. He knows it. That's why he took it.”

“Some are idiots. Did you get an idea of height? Build?”

“Not of height. He shoved me and I went down. But he was strong. He choked me at first…” Her fingers traced over the bruises on her throat, and she remembered the feel of those hands cutting off her air. “Choked me when I was down, put his hands around my throat and choked me. He had big hands. Big, strong hands. He wore gloves. I felt…I felt gloves—thin, probably latex—when he groped me. And a knife, maybe scissors, but I think a knife to cut through my clothes.”

“He touched you.”

“He…” Facts, Phoebe ordered herself. Think of them as facts. “He squeezed my breasts. He pulled my nipples, hard. He laughed. Just kind of a wheezing laugh, like he was real tickled and trying to hold it back. He pushed his hand—Shit. Oh shit.”

Anticipating, Liz grabbed a bedpan, shoved it under Phoebe's face. Held it steady while Phoebe was sick.

Sheet white under the bruises, Phoebe leaned back. “God. God. Sorry.”

“Just take a breath, take your time. Here.” Picking up the plastic cup and straw on the table, Liz offered it. “Drink some water.”

“Okay. Thanks. I'm okay. He put his fingers inside me. Rammed them in. It wasn't sexual. He just wanted to hurt me, humiliate me. Then, I think he leaned down because his voice was close to my ear. He whispered. ‘Don't worry. I don't fuck your kind.' Then he hit me in the face. And he left me there.”

“Do you have a gauge how long the attack went on?”

“It seemed like forever, but probably two, maybe three minutes. No more than that. He had his plan in place, and he executed it efficiently. It probably took me longer to get the hood off and get down to the door. Altogether, it was probably six or seven minutes.”

“Okay. Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”

“No, he only spoke that one time.”

“Did you notice anything else about him. A scent?”

“No. Wait.” Phoebe closed her eyes again. “Baby powder. I smelled baby powder.”

“How about his voice? Would you recognize it again?”

“I don't know. We're trained to pay attention to details, but I was so scared, and the blood was pounding in my head, and the hood. He was local,” she said suddenly. “There was enough of an accent that he sounded like a local.”

“Have you had trouble with anyone? Anyone you think would want to hurt you?”

“You know I have. We may not work the same division, but we work in the same house. You know I have.”

“Do you think it was him? You think it was Arnie Meeks who attacked you?”

“Yes, I do. I can't prove it, but yes, I think it was. I reported an incident on Saturday morning.”

“What incident?”

She told Liz about the doll.

“I'll touch base with Detective Sykes on that. And I'll make some discreet inquiries as to Meeks's whereabouts this morning.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You weren't raped, Lieutenant, but you were violated sexually. If you want to talk to a rape counselor, I know a good one.”

“No, but thanks. You're good at what you do, Detective. I appreciate you being the one to take my statement, to be here.”

“I'll be following up. I promise you.”

“For now, can you steal me some scrubs so I can get out of here?”

“Why don't I call someone for you. If you don't want the captain, someone else. Have them bring you some clothes, take you home?”

Phoebe shook her head. “I don't want to go home until after I've had my breakdown, which is going to come along pretty soon now.”

“Anyone else I can call for you?”

“Actually…” Phoebe touched her fingertips to the trio of butterfly bandages that closed the wound on her forehead. “There's a friend, if he's around.”

 

The old building had potential. Of course its current owner was giving the deal what Duncan thought of as the pitch-and-wish. He let that play in one side of his brain while the other side played with the possibilities.

The warehouse was currently a dump, and no question about it. But it could be transformed into very decent apartments—close enough to the plants and the docks to fill up with blue-collar families. Reasonable space for a reasonable rent. Well off the tourist track, of course, well apart from the green elegance of the historic district. But toss maybe a bakery or a coffee shop on the first floor, a deli or a small family restaurant, and you'd get a return on your investment. Eventually.

Good thing he wasn't in a hurry for it.

The rank and file of the city needed good, safe housing as well as the rest. He should know. He'd been one of them most of his life.

Phin stood with the owner, shaking his head as Duncan wandered. That was Phin's fine skill, in Duncan's opinion. Just putting on that dour, disapproving look could lasso the pitch-and-wish and yank it back toward reality.

The guy wanted the moon for the dilapidation, figuring he had a bright gold fish on the line. Duncan didn't mind being thought of as a fish, especially since he'd already set his maximum offer at a couple of asteroids.

When his cell phone rang, he was studying a trio of broken windows. He kept studying them while he pulled it out. “Yeah, this is Duncan. What? When? How?”

He turned when Phin, obviously hearing the alarm in his tone, crossed the pocked concrete floor to him. “Where? Okay, all right,” he said a moment later. “I'm on my way. I have to go.” Already heading for the doors, Duncan shoved the phone into his pocket.

“Mr. Swift,” the owner began.

“Personal emergency. Do what you do,” he said to Phin and rushed outside to his car.

A dozen horrific images flashed and burned into his mind as he set the car racing toward the hospital. The woman who'd identified herself as Detective Alberta said Phoebe was being released, he reminded himself. She couldn't be that badly hurt if they were releasing her from the hospital.

Then again, the detective had been very brief. Coplike, Duncan thought in annoyance as he was forced to brake for a red light.

She hadn't said how; she hadn't said how bad. And when was this fucking light going to turn green?

Maybe she'd been shot. Jesus, Jesus.

He peeled out when the light changed. He threaded his way through traffic, then chewed his way through more. Years of hacking had taught him how to get from point to point fast—or how to get there round about and pad the fare.

He swung into the parking lot, cursing bitterly as he searched for a space. By the time he found one and was running for the ER doors, he'd worked himself up into a frantic mix of nerves and temper.

He'd have run right by her if not for the hair. The beacon of red caught his eye, had him stopping, spinning back around.

She sat with the other wounded and the sick in the waiting area. She wore pale blue scrubs. Her arm was in a sling, and her face—her fascinating face—was bruised and battered.

“Oh, Jesus, Phoebe.” He crouched down in front of her, took her hand in both of his. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Ambulatory.” She nearly managed to smile. “Not so bad. You just popped into my head as someone to call. I shouldn't have.”

“Don't be stupid. What happened?”

“Duncan…Since I did call, and you did come, I need to go somewhere for a couple hours, so I can fall apart and put myself back together again before I go home. Can you just take me somewhere quiet for a couple of hours? Big favor, I know, but—”

“Sure I can. Are you sure you can walk?”

“Yeah.” When she started to rise, he slid an arm around her waist, drew her up with the care of a man lifting a fragile work of art.

“Lean on me.”

“I already did, calling you out here.” And God, it was a relief to put a little weight on someone else. “I didn't even think you might be busy with something.”

“Me? Idle rich.” He dug out his sunglasses as she winced and turned her face away from the glare. “Put these on. That's a hell of a shiner you got coming up. What's the other guy look like?”

This time she couldn't manage the smile. “I wish I knew.”

It could wait, he told himself. The questions could wait until he got her inside, got her settled. Got her tea or something. He helped her into the car, hooked her seat belt himself. “Let's put you back a little.” He eased the seat back. “How's that?”

“It's good. It's fine.”

“Did they give you anything for the pain?” he asked when he got behind the wheel, and she tapped the purse Liz had brought to the hospital with her.

“Good drugs. Got some in me right now. I'm just going to close my eyes if you don't mind.”

“Go ahead. Try to relax, rest.”

She didn't sleep. He could see her hand fist. It might relax for a moment or two, but then it would fist again as if she was determined to hold something tight inside it.

Bandages bound her wrists, and baffled him. If she'd been in an accident, why hadn't she contacted her family? And what sort of accident injured both wrists, bruised up the face and caused enough injury otherwise to have a woman walk as though her bones were brittle glass?

So it hadn't been an accident.

As other options began to circle in his mind, he shut them down. No point in speculating, not when speculation—where were her clothes?—sent him into a minefield of possibilities.

He gave her silence. He'd hauled enough passengers in his time to know what people wanted. Chat, debate, information, quiet.

Phoebe wanted silence.

She barely moved but for that restless hand-into-fist over that span of bridge from mainland to island, as he passed the marshes and creeks and drove through the green tunnels of arching trees.

Only when he slowed for the last turn, eased to a stop, did she stir and open her eyes.

He'd gone for grand with the house, leaning on traditional elegance and adding bits of quirk with the widow's walk that topped it like a crown. Oaks draped with moss fanned around it, strong accents for the soft blue with its delicate white trim. Gardens—azaleas just ready to pop and burst—flowed out and about in a casual way that turned the grand into charming.

Pots and baskets of mixed flowers decked veranda and terrace along with gliders and generous chairs that invited visitors to sit awhile, relax, have a cool drink.

“It's beautiful.”

“Yeah, it's growing on me.” He got out, came around to her. “Let me give you a hand.”

“Thanks.” She leaned into him. “Really. Thank you, Duncan.”

“No problem.” He led her to the steps, up to the veranda to the door with its Celtic knot in stained glass.

“How long have you lived here?”

“I guess about five years now. Mostly. I figured I'd sell it, but…long story.” He gave her a quick smile as he unlocked and opened the door.

Golden light basked over rich colors, a wealth of space sweetened by curves from the elegant staircase, the wide archways. She moved beside him, stiffly, across the foyer into the parlor. There the atrium doors opened to a terrace, and beyond that more gardens danced, centered by an arbor where wisteria climbed and twined in a riot of beauty.

A piano angled to face the front windows, while chairs and divans in soft grays to offset the strong burgundy of the walls sat in groups. There was art on the walls, and she had an impression of marsh and river, Georgia dreamscapes along with a mix of antiques and the odd touch of a fat ceramic pig.

When he would have led her to a seat, she stepped away, crossed to the glass doors.