Raney & Levine (13 page)

25


K
eri hadn’t called yet, and it was forty minutes till
Jill’s clinic duty. David – uptight and just called to a delivery - told Jill
to go help Phipps and Ortega update charts. He kissed her cheek hurriedly. And
whispered, “
Please
rethink this. You’re going to be in a room with a
crazy man.”

“Okay,” she said with a look that didn’t reassure him.

Which he expected, so he handed her a capped and loaded
syringe. “Valium, 20 liquid milligrams,” he said low. “If Nash gets violent,
don’t
wait for the cops
. Zap him.”

She hugged him, right there in front of the nurses’ station,
behind which three nurses grinned.

“Go save a little life,” she whispered, pocketing the
syringe.

And joined Phipps and Ortega in the OB lounge. Nervously
checked the time on the wall clock with the time on her phone, then gritted her
teeth and read, flipped pages, took notes and checked on doctors’ orders. As
they worked, Gary and Charlie muttered wistfully about donuts with sprinkles;
Jill tuned them out and chewed on her lip.

And only looked up when someone came in with a real
dead-trees paper, its headlines blaring POLICE SEARCH WIDENS IN BOMB THREAT,
POSSIBLE CONNECTION TO SURROGATE MURDERS. She only skimmed the first paragraph
before feeling sick. Oh, reporters must have been digging all night. Had they
seen the DevilSpawn website too? Probably. If David had found the search so
easily, certainly hard-digging, excited reporters had. The police, said that
first paragraph, were searching for one deranged suspect with a hatred for
surrogacy and IVF, and who had threatened to bomb Madison Memorial for having
“created” the ultimate of all test tube babies.

Jill pushed the paper away and chewed her lip harder, felt
so impatient she couldn’t stand it.
Call, Keri, call,
she kept thinking.
Her heart thudded hard

But her rote-mode still helped to override her anxiety.
Luckily, pages in patient charts were color-coded, which made the going easier
if you were half-dead exhausted, or
anticipating meeting a horrific killer
.
Lab and X-ray reports were pink, doctors’ order sheets were light green,
progress sheets were yellow, TPR (temperature, pulse and respiration) sheets
were light blue, and nurses’ notes were white.

Pages flipped. Charts came out and went back into their
rolling rack. Nothing dramatic - until Jill’s phone dinged…and she frowned at
it. An email, not from Ralph Nash or Kerri. “Righteous” in the subject line.

Righteous?

Oh… Last night, that second email she’d sent to SurroMoms
Forum. Blitz-tired, she’d been “Desperate” and posted to “Righteous” who’d
yelled at the others with all exclamation points.

She froze. Leaned away and opened the email.

“Dear Desperate, You are right to feel torn because God
is speaking to your heart. And yes, I do live in nyc and could meet with you if
you wish to talk. Name a place and time. I’ll see if I can manage it.”

Jill stared at the message.

Its voice sounded different from last night, and not just
because it lacked exclamation points. Could this be more than one person
posting as “Righteous?” Logging on to SurroMoms to make connections with
surrogates?

She didn’t know what to answer.

Charlie next to her said, “Wanna order out for lunch?”

“Sure,” she said, and then, “Oh, I forgot. Will you switch
clinic duty with me?”

“Sure, I owe you. This is boring.”

She looked back to her phone, breathing faster. Started
hesitantly to tap out an answer…and it buzzed.

Keri Blasco, speaking in a low rush. “We’re going to see you
at three? Would’ve called earlier but we’ve been investigating Nikki Sheehan’s
murder. Found a link between her and Jenna Walsh.”

Jill’s breath caught. She said nothing.

“Sheehan belonged to an online group called SurroMoms
Forum,” Keri continued. “There are other such groups but this is the biggest,
comes up first in searches. Nikki’s friend said she made online buddies there,
met with one of them to vent about flak she’d been getting from her family-”

“Keri. Wait.”

Jill stood jerkily and went out to the hall. Leaned her brow
against the wall and spoke low. "I wrote that same group last night,” she
managed…and told about Righteous, who had just answered and offered to meet and
“talk about it.” Any time, any place.

“Forward me the email,” Keri said.

“Just did.” Jill finished punching keys. Her lips were dry.

Seconds passed, and then, “Got it.” Seconds more to skim.
“This is great. Okay, email back. Suggest meeting this Righteous at, say, 2:15,
same neighborhood as your three o’clock with Nash but not
too
close.
Let’s see, Nash is at St Mary’s on Avenue B…”

“Tompkins Square is good. It’s just a few blocks.”

“Right. Okay, here’s a place. Meet us at 1:40 at the Hookah
Café at 107 Avenue A. That will
give us time to explain the wire and scram and then for you to meet Righteous.”

“
Explain
the wire?”

“Actual
wires are extinct. It’s digital now, you’ll see. So let me know if Righteous
agrees to that time and location. We’ll be with you every step, watching,
listening. Then you’ll have time to make Ralph Nash’s acquaintance, with us
still listening.
Hey, you got us a double
. Two meetings with two crazy,
maybe murderous zealots.”

Jill
listened, scribbling on her clipboard. “I’ve got another idea about the meeting
with Righteous.”

“What?”

“Tell you
when I get there. See you at 1:40.”

She
emailed, said she’d be wearing an old pea jacket, and heard back
too
fast,
as if Righteous had been waiting.

“Two-fifteen,
yes, see you then at the Hookah,” went the bland message. She forwarded that
email to Keri too, and pulled in a deep, shaky breath.

No paranoia
in that second email. No exclamation points, no suggestion of nastiness, the
voice again sounding different from last night’s ‘Righteous.’

How many
people were involved in this?

Real fear
set in.

Cheeseburgers
had arrived. She grabbed hers, thanked Gary who had run down to pay the guy –
“my turn next,” she said – and reminded Charlie to sub for her in the
outpatient clinic.

“I’m on my
way,” he said, rising with his mouth full. “You going shopping or something?”

“Ha!”

In her on
call room she changed and ate simultaneously, nearly choking on a fry. Then
called David, leaving a detailed voicemail including the second meeting with
Righteous. Then got out her Mace, which she hadn’t used since last July. The
label pronounced it “the most powerful pepper concentration allowed by law!” It
also had a pretty, adjustable strap that looked like a bracelet.

Now, as in
last July, she strapped it on, then pulled on her oldest jeans and her beat-up
pea jacket. The Valium syringe went into the jacket pocket. She tugged her
sweater sleeve down over the Mace, then pulled on her grungy man boots, not
used since some college hikes.

Wig? No wig?
She had two from last summer, one blond, one light-brown, both short. She hated
them. They itched.

Forget the
wigs. It occurred that she was most recognizable to patients in the hospital,
when she was in her element. Perception is everything. Looking scruffy,
clomping down some dingy East Village Street, a movie star would go
unrecognized.

She brushed
her long dark hair down and parted it in the middle, hippie style. Looked in
the mirror again and pulled the sides forward to hide her face more.

Dark
sunglasses completed the look. Very Yoko Ono.

Downstairs
in the crowded foyer she almost bumped into George Mackey, looking tense and
going the other way.

“S’cuse me,”
he said, not recognizing her.

Three blocks
away she rushed down cement stairs and took the Lexington Avenue Express,
barreling south.

26


D
rums, bongos, and guitars boomed on the train
platform, the stairs, and before she was even out of the subway. Walking down
Avenue A from Fourteenth Street, Jill passed a giant, walking artichoke and
Thai, Punjab, Ukranian, and Vietnamese restaurants, small and squeezed close.
It was said that the East Village was the neighborhood with the highest
concentration of bars and restaurants in the city, perhaps in the world.
Further down was a wall of elaborate graffiti screaming DIE, YUPPIE SCUM - a
protest of the gentrification that had crept in and driven up realty prices.
Also, no doubt, what had caused the closing of St. Mary’s. Jill remembered
Tricia saying, “Condos! Argh!” describing the Archdiocese putting the church up
for sale.

This whole area was known as Alphabet City. Somewhere Jill
had read that it used to be one big marsh, until developers started filling it
in in the 1890s. In the next hundred years it went from crowded immigrant
communities to cheap housing for artist types to Trendy. Condos and boutiques
now crowding exotic pubs and clubs.

But if the rent for a one-bedroom had gone up to three
thousand a month, the area still kept its atmosphere of artists, musicians,
students, and diversity. Four and a half blocks down, just past a guy pounding
steel drums and a plastic naked woman leaning coquettishly forward for a kiss,
Jill reached the Hookah Café.

She was early. Keri Blasco and Alex Brand were earlier,
already lounging at one of Hookah’s sidewalk tables and also in jeans and ratty
jackets. Keri wore bangle earrings and her blond hair down. Alex had a black
gym bag at his feet.

Jill sat down with them, saying, “I just saw a walking
artichoke.”

Alex smiled and leaned closer. “A panhandler. He didn’t stop
you?”

“No.”

“Then you look like you belong. He makes a beeline for
tourists.”

Keri said, “They love him. They get their pictures taken
with an artichoke, then give him money. His father’s a hedge funder in
Greenwich, but he likes to make his own way.”

“Ha. Beats working.” Jill’s hands were clasped on the table,
working nervously, and Alex looked at them.

“Relax,” he said quietly. “Look high or something.”

Jill did her best to. Alex ordered a café latte for her, it
came swiftly, and chatty openers were over for anyone watching. The man at the
next table really was smoking a hookah. Alex and Keri muttered to each other.
Jill sipped the latte and checked her phone.

One text from Tricia: “Where are you?” Jill texted back,
“Out spying.”

There was nothing from David. Probably in the O.R. or some
delivery room. Jill felt afraid, and terribly alone. Switched to view Jesse
sleeping, with some nurse’s hands gently adjusting his little blue blanket. He
looked so darling. For an instant tears stung her eyes.

Blinking them away, she looked back to see Keri pass her the
bowl containing sugar and Splenda packets. “Don’t you want to sweeten that?”
Keri asked pointedly, giving Jill a solid stare:
Look in the bowl.

Jill followed her gaze and saw it. A delicate necklace with
a golden, praying-hands medallion wrapped around a sugar packet.

“You’re right, this is kinda bitter,” Jill said, deftly
palming the packet and medallion. She switched the medallion to her left hand
as she tore open the packet and dumped in the Splenda; drank; and said, “Oh, better.”

Alex leaned to her. “You can hide bugs now in buttons, pens,
cuff links…” Jill was nodding and he stopped.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Keri checked the time. “Almost two o’clock. Put it on in the
ladies room?”

“Was just headed there.”

There were two dingy stalls in the john. In one of them Jill
studied the clasp, looked for long seconds at the two hands praying…nice…and
slipped on the medallion. On the wall was scrawled
Vodka/Xanax/Hashish
WORKS!!

When she returned Keri said, “By the way, what was that idea
you had about this first meeting?”

Jill leaned forward. “I don’t like it. What if Nash and
Righteous
are one and the same?
Psych patients can fake normal, fake
taking their meds. I’d rather watch first, see who comes.”

The two detectives traded looks.

“Better,” Alex admitted. “Where do you get these hunches?”

“My suspicion radar. Maybe because my mother was a
prosecutor.”

Keri grinned and smacked her palm on the table. “I
knew
there was something about you.”

They crossed the street to an Indonesian restaurant. Ordered
syrup-colored coconut juice and watched through the window. Minutes passed, and
then more minutes. Righteous was late.

Finally, at 2:28, a thirty-something blond woman in jeans
and a dark coat came and sat at the Hookah, ordered nothing, and looked around
in annoyance.

Jill almost choked on her coconut juice. “It’s Jenna Walsh’s
sister-in-law!” She had a flash of Tricia saying, “That woman is
scary
.
Did you see the muscles on her?”

My God, she thought. Was Dara Walsh capable of the brutality
on Jenna and Nikki Sheehan? There’d been no rapes, nothing sexual…just bashing
those women’s heads, and the rest.
Could Dara handle snakes?

Keri breathed, “I’ll be damned.
That SurroMom site is how
she met Nikki Sheehan.”

Alex was using his phone to tape Dara, who fidgeted and
craned around, looking angrier. The corners of her mouth turned down. She
reached for a paper napkin, wiped her hands furiously, and tossed the napkin
onto the tabletop.

“Good, her hands are sweating,” Keri said. “Sweating hands spill
DNA.”

Dara yanked the sweetener bowl to her, swiped a fistful of
packets, pocketed them and then started pounding on her phone.

Jill’s phone dinged. She read, “Are you still coming?” from
Righteous, now known to them as – surprise! - Dara Walsh. The words seemed to
leap from Jill’s phone screen. Her hands shook as she showed it to the others,
then took a quick pic of Dara with her own phone and sent it to David:
“SurroMom’s
Righteous is Dara Walsh.”

Was he still in delivery or surgery? Jill so wanted to talk
to him, tell him. Open-mouthed, she blinked at Dara across the street again.

“Tell her you were delayed,” Alex whispered.

Her hands were cold, trembling. She punched letters, the
emotion in her answer ironically real: “Oh, so sorry! Delayed! Another day
maybe?” She hit Send. Seconds later they watched Dara read, then snap at a
waiter and furiously punch her phone.

The email torrent arrived. “Maybe! Another day you’ve
delivered your soul to the devil! I could have helped you! If you still want to
talk, I’ll give you one more chance to save yourself from burning in eternal
hellfire!”

Now
exclamation points…

The three of them squeezed together to read it, then saw
Dara rise and stalk off.

“Heading north unfortunately,” Keri said. “The way we want
to go.”

Alex held his hand up, and they waited a minute, Keri
tapping her fingers and Jill twisting her juice straws into knots. Then:
“There’s time,” Alex said. “Wait.”

He crossed the street pulling on leather gloves. He badged
the waiter, who made a face at the just-vacated seat and took a bill from him,
nodding. Then he pulled a small plastic bag from his pocket, bagged the
sweetener bowl and the tossed napkin, and crossed the street back to them.

“Fantastic.” He put his bagged evidence into his gym bag as
the other two rose from their seats. “Now we’ve got Dara Walsh’s prints
and
her husband’s. Likely even Dara’s DNA from her sweating, thieving fingers.
Jill, you should’ve become a cop.”

“I almost did,” she said.

Keri looked at her.

Jill fingered the syringe in her pocket. “Long story. I’ll
tell you on the way to St. Mary’s.”