Hot Rocks (2 page)

three

The EMTs loaded me
onto a stretcher and wheeled me into the ambulance, Tommy hovering alongside all the while. His partner took the wheel, and we lurched into the street with the siren blasting.

Tommy had fitted me with a collar, which made turning my head difficult. The throbbing persisted, but I wanted to believe it felt better.

“I appreciate your getting me away from the police,” I said. “Now you can drop me anyplace along the way.”

“Ma’am, if you insist, I have to do what you want,” he said. “But I was serious. Doc needs to examine that bump. I’d let him decide when you should be released.”

“Dammit …” I paused, taking a deep breath as my outburst produced a fresh stab of pain, then reconsidered where I’d almost told him to park his opinion. “Whatever. I hurt too much to argue.”

“Glad to hear it because I hate losing arguments with patients. Now my wife … well, that’s a different situation.” He grinned. “Sometimes she lets me think I won.”

“Is it possible to turn off the siren? I don’t think I’m critical, and it’s not helping.”

“Larry. The lady says you’re not helping her headache. Can you close it down except for intersections? She’s in no danger.”

From the driver’s seat, I heard laughter as the keening ceased. “Passengers can sure be picky. Some complain if I give them the first-class siren treatment, while others are insulted if I don’t. However, contrary to what she might think, the damn thing drives me nuts, too.”

“Tell him I am picky. So picky, I’d prefer a taxi.”

They responded with laughter.

The ambulance reached the hospital with a squeal of tires, and they rolled me inside.

“Head trauma,” Tommy called when we cleared the door.

A medical team rushed in and, before I could protest, pushed me into a curtained area and transferred me to a bed. Gentle but firm hands were all around, each doing something different, each in a professional manner. They undressed me, helped me into a hospital gown that covered my chest and little else, then did a quick inventory of my possessions and whisked them away.

In what seemed like record time, I’d had my temperature and blood pressure taken, been weighed and had my height measured, been asked innumerable questions, and at least forty-two people had examined the lump on my head. Well, maybe not that many, but some took more than one look. I was sure I’d felt that many fingers. None of the nametags read
Doctor
.

A man in a white lab coat bustled into the area, blowing through the curtain like an applause-starved actor. “Hello. I’m Dr. Rasmussen, your neurologist. I’m all yours until we release you from bondage. What have we here?”

I wanted to make a sarcastic comment about his use of
we
but didn’t. He’d probably heard them all. Besides, he and his line of banter were cute.

One of the nurses said, “Head trauma. Possible concussion. All vitals are normal.”

Inwardly, I grimaced.
Never thought of this kind of headache as normal. Maybe I don’t want to know what’s abnormal.

As he plugged his stethoscope into his ears and applied the frozen disk to my chest, I looked him over. White jacket over navy slacks. He had the right kind of name tag, or the kind I’d been looking for. It read
Dr. Rasmussen
. Also, he was handsome, wore no wedding band, and was the right age.

“Deep breath,” Dr. Rasmussen said before lowering the stethoscope and fingering the lump.

Forty-third set of fingers. Still didn’t feel normal.

“Yep, we do have a boo-boo. Interesting.”

“To whom?” I said. “From my side, it simply hurts like hell. Break out the pain juice.”

He looked at the chart. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s way too early for pain medications.” He waggled his eyebrows. “There are tests to be run.”

I stared at him, wondering if he was really a doctor. Doctors were supposed to be solemn people of age who said, “Hmm” a lot.

He shined an itty-bitty flashlight into first one eye, then the other. “Hmm,” he said.

One test passed.

“Eyes of blue. My favorite color. And now that you know one of my secrets, it’s time for us to exchange names. I’m Dr. David Rasmussen.”

He gave me the eyebrows again. “That’s supposed to generate a response—preferably your name.”

If he was a doctor, I should cooperate. If he was a hatchet murderer, I’d
better
cooperate. “Elizabeth Angeline Bowman. Some call me Beth. Some call me Angie. Take your pick.”

“Much better.” He eyed me. “For now, we’ll go with Ms. Bowman. After you’ve gotten to know me better, I think I’ll choose Beth. But the fun is yet to come. Let’s get on with the examination.”

I groaned. “I’m okay. No need to pad the bill. Just give me some aspirin and my clothes. Then turn your back, and I’ll be out of here.”

“Your clothes? Not yet. You’re wearing the latest in hospital attire. And, if I may add, you look just adorable in that outfit. It
is
your color.”

I did a quick check to see what body parts were most exposed, then shoved the bottom of the impossible getup under my legs. Doctor or not, I didn’t choose to play peek-a-boo with him.

Ignoring my security-mindedness, he said, “Back in the hall, a couple of guys badged me and asked when you’ll be released. Really nice representatives of law and order. Why are they interested in you?”

I shrugged. “They could be delivering a parking ticket, or maybe they like hospital doughnuts.”

“Hmm.”

There he went again.

“Nurse, make a note. Patient’s sense of humor seems uninjured—sarcastic, but healthy. As for you, Ms. Bowman,” he returned his attention to me. “Do you feel well enough to talk to the detectives this evening?”

Talk to the cops? Oh, yeah. That was way high on my list. With Sargent’s attitude, the evening could end with my being charged with homicide of a homicide cop. My patience with his suggestions was at low tide.

Maybe the doctor was a way to postpone my problem. “Do I get a choice? If so, I prefer you continue to squeeze the lump on my head. Or maybe amputate a couple of toes—anesthetic not required.”

He nodded, then said to the nurse. “Tell the policemen I’m recommending she stay overnight for observation. They can return in the morning. We’ll see if she’s in any condition to talk then.”

“Yes, doctor,” the nurse said, turning toward the door.

“Just a moment,” he said, then looked at me and said in a serious voice, “Of course, I can only recommend that you share our hospitality. I’d like to run some tests and keep you under surveillance, but I suspect you’ll be brushing your hair without pain in a few short days. It’s your call.”

I gave it a quick thought—talk to Sargent while still bleary and anything I said could be twisted against me, or get a night’s rest in the hospital. Not a tough decision. “I’d love to share your accommodations.”

“Good,” the doctor said as he switched his attention to the nurse again. “Arrange for this lovely lady to have one of our best suites. Perhaps something with a sauna and tanning salon. Hold all her phone calls.” He paused. “Unless it’s the president. Patch that one through to the physician of record—Dr. David Rasmussen.” He grinned at me. “So Ms. Bowman, I’m sure you’ll have a nice evening filled with trips to some of our most prestigious testing facilities and nurses taking your vitals every time you fall asleep. Just let one of them know what color Jell-O you want for dinner. Green is the chef’s favorite color. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He wheeled toward the door, then turned back. “Just curious, how’d you crack your cranium? Let me see. Lump on your head. Detectives waiting for you. Do I deserve an explanation?”

“See me in the morning.” I softened it with a smile. “Maybe the plainclothes will let you sit in.”

The eyebrows again. “I may just do that. Now, enjoy our hospitality, although I promise you won’t get much sleep.”

He was right. Interruptions every hour on the hour.

_____

The following morning after being needled, probed, pinched, scanned, and escorted along the halls with my butt hanging out of the hospital
gown,
allegedly covered by a hospital
robe,
Dr. Rasmussen pronounced me fit to face the world. I felt fortunate that in the past, many horny males had told me I had a nice ass. Of course, it could have been the beer talking when they said it, but I didn’t care. When you’re forced into exposure, hope for the best.

At the same time, the doctor warned me the two detectives waited in the hospital lobby. He added in his serious voice, which I had decided he seldom used, “I’m not thrilled with their being here. While the tests don’t show anything abnormal, I can’t be sure your mental faculties aren’t temporarily affected. I may live to regret it, but there are a couple of choices. I can guide you to a phone, and you can call a lawyer. Or I can slip you out the back entrance through the emergency room and tell them you’re not up to questioning yet. However, the most that will do is buy you a bit of time. I’m certain they’ll catch on and track you down. Of course, if you’re an ax murderer or some such, I might not want to do either.” He grinned. “Are you?”

In spite of my night of troubled, pained, and interrupted sleep, I had to smile. “No. I promise I haven’t killed anyone in … oh …” I pretended to think. “… fifteen days now. Thanks for the offer, but I may as well get it over with. Like you said, they’ll find me sooner or later.”

“Great. That kills … oops, bad choice of words … two birds with one stone. We’ll wheel you to the lobby on the ground level and turn you over to the police. I’ll let them know they’re responsible for giving you a ride home. Look on the bright side. Saves taxi fare.”

I groaned. “Did anyone ever say you have a strange bedside manner?”

“Yes, someone said it once, but I figure she was envious of my witty patter.” He waggled his eyebrows.

When I chuckled, he added, “Much better. As much as I’d like to stay and chat with you, I really must run. You’d never guess it, but there are sick people in this hospital who think I should spend time with them. However, in case I forgot to tell you, this ends our professional relationship. I recommend you schedule an appointment with Dr. Levitson, a neurologist that I know and respect. He doesn’t have my sense of humor, but he passed all his medical courses.” He handed me a business card with Levitson’s information.

He tore out of the room, leaving my head spinning—both figuratively and literally, but relieved to have permission to escape the hospital.

His head reappeared in the doorway—yes, only his head. “Is it okay if I give you a call? I always take a personal interest in pretty ladies with lumps on their heads.”

Before I could speak, the head disappeared.

Grinning so wide it stretched the skin on the bump, I pulled on yesterday’s clothes. The grin went away. Clean panties would have been nice. A hospital administrator returned my possessions, minus my gun. It was not on the hospital inventory. That bothered me. Could it be in Sargent’s evidence bag? Or maybe I left it home yesterday. The crack on my head might be affecting my memory. Worrying its absence, I signed the receipt.

four

True to his word,
Dr. Rasmussen had me delivered to the main waiting room. I preferred to walk, but a nurse explained that the wheelchair was a hospital requirement, then passed me off to a volunteer. The trip down in the elevator gave me an opportunity to remember yesterday’s activities, conjure up an image of the dead man, and wonder what I’d gotten myself mixed up in. A simple surveillance had turned deadly. Coincidence, or did someone set me up? Was the dead man my subject? With his face blown away, I couldn’t be sure. The clothes, height, and build were the same. I knew he had entered that particular room. My assumption was that he had to be my Mr. Garcia.

Bannon and Sargent sat on a couch near the main entrance flipping pages in magazines. I studied them, suspecting that neither had any idea what was on the pages they turned. They appeared to be in surveillance mode, their eyes darting around the area. Their faces wore bored expressions, but changed as my chair wheeled into the area. They rose and approached.

I looked them up and down. Nothing special. Two six-footers, or thereabouts, whose clothing, while not bargain-basement, wouldn’t gain them admittance to any of the fancy parties along Miami Beach. Basic blue suits, white shirts, cheap ties, and scuffed black shoes. Everything was clean, but showing age. Probably the best they could afford on a cop’s salary.

“Hello, Ms. Bowman,” Bannon said. “Hope you’re feeling better this morning. In case you’ve forgotten, or your injury precluded your remembering, I’m Detective Bannon, and this is Detective Sargent. We have a few questions if you feel up to them.”

I glanced around the area. “Here? In front of my escort?”

Bannon copied my eye movements. “I’m sure the young lady will give us some space. Is there something wrong with this location?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there seem to be a lot of folks interested in us. Since you have
cop
printed on your forehead, they probably assume I poisoned my husband.”

“Good point. Maybe we should go some other place.”

I gave him my sincerest smile. “What are my choices?”

“Doc said you need a ride home. We can go to your place, or, the most popular of all, downtown.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Do I get Mirandized?”

Bannon looked quizzical. “I don’t think it’s necessary—unless you want to confess you killed him.”

“I’ll pass on that … since I didn’t.” I looked at Sargent. “Are you still in the
bad cop
role?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know.
Good cop-bad cop
. Detective Bannon seems to have taken on the nice guy role so that only leaves the naughty for you. But when you fire it up, remember I don’t impress easily. Hell, I’ve probably played as much bad cop as you.”

Bannon laughed. “You watch too much TV. We’re only gathering a few details to get things started.” He spoke to the hospital volunteer. “If you’ll trust us with Ms. Bowman and the chair, we’ll return it and take her home.”

_____

During the trip to my place with Sargent driving and Bannon riding shotgun, I began to get nervous. The back seats of police cars, even plain ones driven by detectives, are, at best, unpleasant. I didn’t want to think about what some of the stains on the seat represented. And, although it was a four-door car, there were no inside handles on my doors. Guilt or innocence has little to do with such transport. No one is immune to the odor of nervousness that permeates the interior. I added to it.

By the time I unlocked my front door, the nervousness had stepped up to anxiety. After settling Bannon and Sargent in the living room, I went into the kitchen to make coffee. That turned into a competition between sloshing the water out of the carafe and dumping coffee grounds onto the counter. I told myself that the medications they pumped into me at the hospital caused the severe shake in my hands. However, deep inside, I knew it was because of the questions the detectives would ask and my decisions on how to answer them.

I prided myself on maintaining the confidentiality of my clients—unless and until called to testify, or released from my vow. I’d been a PI long enough to know the next case depended on not just my investigative prowess, but on protecting the client. No wife wanted her husband to know she hired a PI to follow him—unless and until there was a big alimony payoff in her future. And husbands felt the same way. So with each job, I took on two tasks—get the information, and deliver it without revealing the customer. Sometimes, the second was the more difficult.

This time, though, it wasn’t just the client. It was my reputation, perhaps my freedom. The police would expect full particulars as to why I was in the hotel room and how I arrived there. I wrestled with the situation, wondering how little I could get away with telling them.

I felt strange, like my whole life had changed, like I was not the woman who woke up in my bed the previous morning. Too many things had happened. A dead body. A concussion—thankfully mild. Two police detectives waiting in my living room. A suspicion of murder hanging over my head. The rest of my day uncertain—mine to plan as I pleased, or a trip
downtown
.

I leaned against the table and examined the kitchen, wondering if it had changed during the last twenty-four hours. A two-door white refrigerator pushing twenty years and a stove to match. A built-in 900-watt microwave that I wanted to upgrade for more power. After all, it was my primary cooking device. The cabinets weren’t great, but I had them on my list to remodel when the money became available. Then there was my pride and joy, a new dishwasher in stainless steel, a recent purchase. This one was so quiet I hardly knew it was running, while the one it replaced sounded like an out-of-control rock band. Same old kitchen, not obsolete, but not the most modern, a mixture of both. If the kitchen was the same, could I assume my life was also?

I checked the coffee and watched it drip for a moment, then opened a package of chocolate-chip cookies and spread them on a platter. Busy work, something to keep my hands moving. Their aroma reminded me I had not eaten breakfast. The rubber eggs and cardboard bacon they served at the hospital were inedible. I had drunk the lukewarm coffee and nibbled on the soggy toast that would have been fresher the previous day—not fresh, just fresher. Not exactly a gourmet meal, or a filling one, but it fit the description of hospital fare—worse than a bad fast food joint. As best I could remember, my dinner the previous night consisted of sleep-inducing drugs.

I bit a chunk out of a cookie and savored its flavor. Rearranging them to cover the plate, I walked into the living room where Bannon and Sargent sat in silence. “Coffee will be out in a moment. I need a caffeine fix before we talk.”

“No problem,” Bannon said. “Hmm, chocolate chip, my favorite.” He picked one up and bit into it. “Thanks. Breakfast seems like yesterday.”

Sargent sat with his hands clasped in his lap, scowling, not saying a word as I returned to the kitchen to watch the coffee drip.

After I poured coffee all around, Detective Bannon said, “Ms. Bowman, this is nice, but could we get to the events of yesterday? I’m sure if I tell the captain what a wonderful hostess you are, he’ll be thrilled, but he’d really rather I interview you.” He smiled, softening the words.

He had a nice smile, quite unlike the scowl worn by Sargent.

“Coffee’s weak,” said Sargent, edging up to the front of his chair. “I like mine stronger.” He set the cup down. “Enough with wasting time. Give us your version of what went down in that hotel room. Start with why you were there.” His scowl stayed in place.

“Easy, Major,” Bannon said. “She’s just out of the hospital. Cut her some slack.”

“Like I’d forget. Not the first time the medicos have gotten in the way.” Sargent leaned back. He didn’t relax, maybe only un-stiffened a bit.

I looked at him. “Your name is Major Sargent? Isn’t that an oxymoron or dichotomy or some such?”

“Save it. I’ve heard them all.”

I selected a cookie, took a bite, and as I chewed, turned my back to Sargent. “Okay, good cop, you ask, I’ll answer. However, remember that I am a licensed private investigator, so if I was on a case, I have my client to consider. If I think your questions are out of bounds, I’ll go mute. Then it will be your call as to whether I yell for an attorney. Fair enough?”