Nothing Personal (11 page)

“What about this ‘fuck guilt’ attitude?” It was almost a demand.

B.J.’s smile was dark as he reclaimed the cigarette over his ear and set to mangling it again. “I don’t feel guilty about it. That doesn’t mean I can forget it.”

Kate would gladly settle for that much. “It’s time to call John, isn’t it?”

B.J. stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth and chewed. “It’s time to call John.”

By the time B.J. did track down John, it was from the phone at the medical examiner’s office.
He wouldn’t have admitted it to Kate, but he ended up heading back to work in the hope he could find something from any of the murders that would absolve her of the need to get involved. Besides, B.J. wasn’t much more enamored of going home than Kate was.

“You got what?” the big cop demanded on the other end of the line.

“A note from the killer. Aren’t you proud of me?”

“I suppose he jus’ walked up and handed it to you, eh, man?”

“Nope. He walked up and slipped it onto Kate’s bed while she was talking to you.”

John hated surprises. “She had all day to tell me.”

“She wanted to tell me first.”

“Okay, so she had all day to tell
you
.”

“I was tied up with a kid who decided today’d be a good day to ventilate the back of his head. Then I got busy with you, remember?”

Another pause, as John got over his pique and got down to business. “You gonna do de doctor too?”

B.J. rubbed at a set of very grainy eyes. “Yeah. I figured since I had the other two, I might as well. I’ve made the calls.”

“You be aroun’ tomorrow when I talk to Kate?”

“Why?”

“To hol’ her hand, seem to me.”

“I can’t think of anybody who needs to have her hand held less than Kate Manion.”

“Might change your mind after you hear de news.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means I been asked if Kate Manion is my main suspect.”

B.J. sat up straight for the first time in ten hours. “What? Who’d think that?”

“Little Dick, but you knew dat. Also somebody named Inside Source at de hospital, who t’ink de news media be just dyin’ to know. How you like dat now?”

B.J. thought of the deceptively tough young woman he’d left an hour or so before. He thought of how brittle those blue eyes were getting beneath all those baseball caps, and he cursed.

“Now you wanna be dere?” John asked.

“What about you, John? You think she’s responsible?”

Just the fact that John had to think about it boded badly for Kate. For the first time B.J. questioned his own objectivity, because he wanted to argue with the cop before he’d even answered.

“Dat ol’ Doc Fleischer, he had a theory,” John informed him. “Wanna hear it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He decided when Katie kill dat first poor girl, she give herself a great idea how to minimize her problems. After all, who’d suspect a poor sick girl wid no hair?”

B.J. waited. He looked at the poster of Slea Head he’d hung on the wall right next to the gray pinstriped suit he kept for public appearances. Wind and surf, saturated greens and silence. For centuries madmen and monks had inhabited the lonely cliffs at the edge of Ireland. B.J. had spent a month there once, just cleansing himself of
humanity, the Irish version of a sweat lodge. Suddenly he wanted to be back there with a fierceness that astonished him.

Because John was right. Who’d suspect a poor nurse who’d just survived the trauma of her life and awakened to find out that on top of being killed she’d been screwed. Who’d suspect her, except everybody in the metropolitan area, once that news report hit the air?

“You maybe want to be dere, if you’re Katie’s frien’,” John suggested. “I got to tell her we gonna investigate her too. And de way Little Dick wanna do it, we gonna scrape up ever’ cockroach ever walked across dat little girl’s path.”

Kate wouldn’t have seen it if she hadn’t had the nightmare again. Same day, same place, same ending, waking her with the sweats and the shakes. Maybe it had been the news that precipitated it. Maybe she’d heard the beginning of the story even in her sleep. She woke at the end of the piece to see the investigative reporter for KSTL standing in Serious Money’s driveway with the emergency sign visible over his left shoulder.

“…Officials of the hospital refuse to comment on the allegations of an angel of death stalking the halls of this hospital. One inside source told us, however, that police are centering their investigation on a nurse named Mary Kathleen Manion, who might have made threats to at least one of the victims….”

For the first time in almost a week, Kate asked
for something more than a Tylenol to help settle her down. When the night nurse arrived, though, instead of just Halcion, she slipped Kate a ten-dollar bill.

“Here,” she said with a big smile, as if she were placing a sure bet on the derby. “The first contribution to your defense fund.”

Kate refused the money. She refused the Halcion. It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. She was never going to get to sleep when she couldn’t even breathe. Two hours later her roommate called to complain about the crazy woman who was just standing in the bathroom running water over her hands and cursing.

KATE WAS IN
such a bad mood by the time Tim picked her up the next morning she barely spoke to him. She was so preoccupied by the bedpan full of crumpled bills and checks she carried out in her lap that she didn’t think to wonder why she was being dismissed via the morgue door rather than any of the more traditional exits.

She did wonder what was going on when, rather than simply pull around the campus to staff housing, Tim drove them out of the grounds altogether. She began to smell a rat when they pulled into a Denny’s and exchanged cars for an Oldsmobile station wagon before heading back. She should have realized it belonged to John.

“You’d better not be driving my Mustang around while I’ve been stuck in that tank of yours,” she warned him as Tim held the front door of the apartment open for her so she could stump through.

John unfolded himself from the white leather couch and smiled a careful greeting. “Only long enough to lose de cameras, little girl. How you feelin’?”

“Like warmed-over spit,” she admitted, then scowled. “Cameras?”

“All de news crews, dey been waitin’ at your hospital to talk to you. We figured you didn’ feel like talkin’ to dem. Okay?”

She didn’t know whether to be grateful or wary. But then, she’d been through so many different emotions that morning already, she wasn’t sure she had the energy left for either.

“Thank you,” she said, almost grudgingly. “That was thoughtful.”

Tim carried her bags back into the bedroom as Carver, Tim’s seal-point Siamese, stalked up to sniff at Kate’s cast. Kate spent a moment right where she was so the cat could get reacquainted. So Kate could get acclimated.

“Ahhh, home,” she said sighing, surprised by the sense of relief at being here. She took a long, lazy breath and came away without so much as a whiff of antiseptic. The living room was clean and crisp and quiet. Shaking her head so her earrings tinkled, Kate stumped on in. “That hospital is a mess, ya know. After my brief sojourn there, I can almost understand why Edna is so anal retentive.”

The apartment consisted of the basic square of rooms: living, kitchen-dinette, two bedrooms, less comfortable or notable than functional for a building that had to contain six units and accommodate any variation of family groupings that might come with the house staff.

Tim’s apartment was spare, his decorating running toward minimalism just the way Kate liked it, in whites, grays, and blacks, with touches of primary
colors in the prints that hung on the walls. He reserved his whimsy for his bedroom, which was thick with hanging plants, and his prejudice for the stereo, which bled Mozart from thousand-dollar speakers.

It wasn’t that Tim couldn’t afford to live off campus. Most of his prints were signed, and his wine rack held only the best. But for Tim, living on campus was the equivalent of committing to a monastery. The more he could confine his lifestyle here, the less chance he had toward indiscretion. On paper, homosexuality was no crime. In this corner of the world, the people who controlled his residency were far less enlightened, so while Tim depended on the hospital for his training, he abstained, at least while he was on the grounds. And the more he was on the grounds, the more he abstained.

For Kate, this place had become her refuge, and she hadn’t really realized it until coming back.

“You been collectin’ souvenirs again, little girl?” John asked diffidently.

Kate didn’t bother to answer until she’d eased herself down onto the tulip chair by the window, laid down the crutches, and pulled off her newest cap, a lovely chartreuse number with
RN
across the front in purple, which Tracy had given her after the code on Mr. Peabody.

“Souvenirs?” she echoed. “What happened, somebody call you and tell you I stole the towels?”

John just shook his head and pointed at the bedpan.

“Oh, that.” Kate’s tone wasn’t nearly as light as
she’d intended. “I decided to defray the bills by dancing nude on the countertops last night. That okay with you?”

She’d almost managed to get comfortable. She’d almost managed to delude herself that all she had to worry about was John. Then the doorbell rang and she felt her stomach slide right down to her knees.

“Oh, good.” John headed for the door. “Everybody made it okay.”

Kate had just gotten her leg up onto the ottoman. “Everybody?” she demanded.

Tim reached the living room as John opened the door to reveal the next set of players: Little Dick; Tim’s brother Steve, the lawyer, who was manfully ignoring the impolite grunts coming from the much shorter and homelier police detective; and a woman who looked like Pussy Galore in a business suit.

“Nobody’s asked any questions, have they?” Steve demanded, bearing right in with his briefcase in hand. As near a carbon copy of his brother as was allowed without monozygomatic advantage, Steve was older, less buttoned-down, and avowedly heterosexual, with a wife and three kids on his tally. He belonged, however, to the Gucci-and-BMW School of consumerism. Considering what he was protecting her from over at the hospital, Kate forgave him.

“We’ve barely said hello,” Tim retorted.

Steve grinned. “Hello, Kate.”

Kate did her best to smile past that damn panic. It was her cornered animal mode, so old
she could actually smell Johnson’s No More Tears shampoo when it hit.

“Kate.” John spoke before Little Dick had the chance to finish scowling at the decor of Tim’s apartment. “Like you to meet de newes’ kid on de block.”

The vision stepped in, as brisk as her suit, hand outstretched, every male eye on her as she offered a well-worn smile.

“Mary Cherry,” she said. “No cracks about the name, please. There isn’t one I haven’t heard. I’m from the FBI.” An ID materialized in the other hand, as if she were used to having to prove her claim.

Kate actually had her hand out for a handshake. She damn near pulled it right back in. “Jesus,” she breathed, almost oblivious of the calluses on the elegant hand she briefly held. “Most people get flowers when they get home from the hospital. I get two homicide detectives, a lawyer, and an FBI agent.”

“And your good frien’ B.J.,” John added evenly. “Right after he be finished wid de good Doctor Fleischer.”

Everybody settled in on the furniture without so much as a by-your-leave from Kate. It was all she could do to stay in the room, much less on her chair.

“I don’t suppose you all came over to inquire after my health,” she challenged. Carver, ever perceptive to nuance, climbed right into her lap to keep her pinned in place.

“Did you inquire after Doctor Fleischer’s health yesterday, Kate?” Little Dick demanded.

“That’s a question,” Steve interjected. “I haven’t heard any rights here.”

“I haven’t heard why anybody’s here,” Kate snapped, and was encouraged to see everyone turn to her in some surprise. Without a word, Tim appeared with a full cup of coffee for her. Then, as if he had truly been her fiancé instead of just her friend, he settled himself onto the arm of her chair and slid a supporting arm around her shoulder.

“John wanted to be able to talk someplace you’d be comfortable,” he explained, the apology all in his eyes. “Someplace away from the station. You knew he’d want to talk to you.”

Kate spent a minute silently admonishing her friend. “You know about the note?”

“He had to convince me I’d want to help.”

Kate cradled the mug of coffee in her hands and settled her head back against Tim’s arm. John she could be mad at. Administration, all of them. Even the staff who had filtered into her room throughout the night alone or in untidy clumps to add to the defense fund in the bedpan, their offering carrying an implicit demand. But how the hell could she be mad at Tim? He just wanted to help, as always.

She took a good slug of coffee and almost choked on the brandy he’d added. That, finally, brought a half smile to her face.

“Okay,” she said. “Mary, you’re the mystery guest. Why don’t you sign in and tell us who you are?”

Mary of the exotic eyes and drop-dead figure, beneath all that gray serge, was the behavioral
sciences liaison for the St. Louis office of the FBI. In a nutshell, Mary studied up on serial killers. If there was a possible problem within the jurisdiction, she had the training and access to Quantico to expedite information and the talent to command the respect of her peers. John’s boss had called her in when they’d gotten the call on Dr. Fleischer.

“You score a point for bein’ right, by de way, little girl,” John offered Kate by way of explanation. “Results are in. De good doctor had enough penicillin in his coffee to cure de whole county of plague. We foun’ it in the nondairy creamer in de doctor’s lounge, jus’ like you said.”

“Pretty good instincts, ya ask me,” Little Dick ventured, his eyes never making it higher than Mary’s shapely calves. If Kate had been feeling a little more frisky, she might have despaired. Nothing to make a girl feel more feminine than facing off with Miss November when the only thing on your head is a ball cap and your best coloring comes from old bruising. Fortunately for Ms. Cherry, Kate had other things on her mind.

“Why are we talking serial killers?” she asked, absently scratching Carver’s dark ears as he kneaded his front paws against her knee. “Isn’t that more your slash-and-stash situation?”

Mary actually grinned, which made her look human. And damn if Kate didn’t like her. “The papers have called it right. Angel of Death. We get a fair number of those, medical people looking for power, notoriety, heroism. The Munchausen by Proxy variation.”

Kate nodded. “Inject a patient with potassium so you can be the first one on the scene to answer the code. I worked with somebody like that once.”

Little Dick snapped right to attention. “You never told us that.”

Kate smiled benignly, the brandy at least warming her stomach if not her hands. “You never asked.”

“Questions again,” Steve warned, leaning forward. “Quit dickin’ around and decide what we’re doing here.”

“We’re askin’ Kate some questions ’bout dat note,” John assured him. “Mary wanted to sit in since she’s now on de case. Dat okay?”

“Do you want to answer, Kate?”

Kate’s laugh was not polite by any means. To Mary’s credit, she smiled again.

“I want to take a nap and eat a real steak dinner, John. I want to go back to work like this had never happened. I want to find out who gave my name to that asshole at KSTL so I can personally return the favor to both of them.” She wanted to go back in time so she could still save that baby and avoid everything that had happened since, but she didn’t tell them that. “I’d be happy to answer any questions John has.”

“Will you help us wid de hospital staff?” he asked, all levity missing from those wonderful eyes.

Kate never flinched. “I thought I was the prime suspect.”

His smile flashed, big enough to expose a
gold tooth way at the back, so he looked like a pirate. “You are. But don’ you t’ink it would be great fun if we snuck in like little fishes and nabbed de real killer while ever’body t’ink we mad at you?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“Why not?” Dickie demanded.

“Because what you want from me is rumor and innuendo. And I won’t have another person have her name splashed on the news like mine, just because I heard she didn’t like Fleischer. Shit, if I did, half the women in Saint Louis County would be suspects.”

“Women,” Mary echoed quietly. “Why do you assume it’s a woman?”

“Percentages. Frustration levels. Method of attack. The guys I know fantasize about calibers and garrotes, not poison in the coffee.”

Yet another smile. Mary was relaxing pretty quickly here. Next she was going to be unbuttoning that androgynous suitcoat of hers. “Want a job with the FBI? That’s exactly the initial profile we’re working with.”

“That the killer’s a woman.”

She nodded. “Unless it’s a crime of passion or defense, women tend to be much less confrontational in murder. It’s societal. Of course, a lot of the pseudo-heroism situations have been male, but I’m not so sure this comes under that umbrella.”

Kate went ahead and finished off the coffee, much more comfortable with this line of discussion than the “let’s burn our friends” direction. Then she turned on John, who was already
pulling out his notebook and pen. “If you’re still asking for my help, you don’t really think I’m guilty. Why not?”

Kate knew Dick’s answer would have been completely different. John, however, settled the notebook in his lap and considered Kate seriously. “I’m not sure of anything, little girl. But I got instincts, and dey say poor Frances was gonna be dead before you got your hands roun’ her t’roat. So unless you a miracle worker, you couldn’ kill her, now, could you?”

“Not without making medical history. Are you saying you think Attila was definitely part of this pattern?” she asked.

It was Mary who answered this one. “I think so. There still isn’t any proof, but that’s what Doctor O’Brien is working on.”

“What about the note?” Kate asked. “Did you get anything off it?”

“Nothing other than your fingerprints and the fact that the sender is a very careful person. Probably straightens pictures on a wall. Those letters were perfectly aligned. From what John told me and what I see in that letter, I’d say there’s a good chance our killer is trying to win your approval. That’s why we thought it would be important to include you in the investigation.”

“Win my approval?” Kate demanded. “For God’s sake, what for?”

“Maybe because she thinks you understand. That you approve.”

That made her head hurt even worse. “Wonderful. Just what I wanted to hear.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have expressed a sentiment like that?” Mary asked, all business.

Kate couldn’t even manage an answer. Tim did it for her.

“So far, anonymous members of the staff have left Kate almost three hundred dollars for her defense fund. That tell you anything?”

Mary’s elegant eyebrow lifted. “That tells me a lot. As for the other people at the hospital, we’ll get into that later. Right now, with your lawyer’s permission, we’d like to go over the night Frances died, if you don’t mind.”