The Assailant (25 page)

Hastings said, “Look, it's important. Come with me, look at a man. Tell me if you remember seeing him before. It'll take an hour at most.”

“My date is in a half hour.”

“Reschedule it.”

She hesitated.

“Come on,” Hastings said. “Please.”

She glared at him, sighed, then walked over to the telephone.

When her customer picked up, Hastings heard her use a voice and a tone that was new to him. A seductive, sort of smoky tone. Playful and soft and enticing. It was like she had walked onto a movie set and a director had yelled “action.” She was in character, and Hastings had to admit that it was a good performance.

He heard her say, “Now stop . . . You know I want to see you. You
know
I do. . . . All right . . . Nine o'clock, then.” There were a couple of beats and then she gave the guy a throaty laugh and said goodbye. She hung up the phone and turned back to Hastings.

“Are you at least going to drive me to this fucking place?” she said. The sexy mama was off the clock.

•

As Rita sat in the passenger seat of his Jaguar, wearing a black raincoat over her dress, she crossed her legs. She had good posture, Hastings thought. She had a certain poise. She looked like a lady.

Hastings drove the car fast, pushing it hard by vehicles treading along in the slow lane. If Destiny Fisher was right, Raymond Sheffield would be ending his shift in twenty minutes. But he could leave early, and Hastings didn't want to miss him.

They got to the hospital parking lot. It was flat and outdoors but bigger than Hastings would have liked it to be. He drove up and down the rows of cars, looking for the black Mercedes that Klosterman had phoned him about. He found it a couple of minutes later. The tag matched what he had written down. Hastings put the Jag in park, walked over to the Mercedes, and looked at the tag again. He looked into the windows of the car. He saw nothing of interest. He walked back to the Jaguar and opened the trunk. From the trunk he removed a long, steel-cased police flashlight. He walked back to the Mercedes and shone the beam on the tires.

There, between the treads. Mud.

Hastings felt his heart pounding.

It didn't necessarily mean anything, he thought. It
could
mean that the car had been used to transport Marla Hilsheimer's body out to the woods. But it could also mean that the car had been driven down a dirt road in the country. Or through a puddle at a Wal-Mart.

He shone the light along the car's lower chassis. There was no mud along the sides. But the car looked like it had been washed recently. He could get the mud off the roof and sides, but he couldn't get all the mud out of the tire treads.

Hastings took a pen out of his inner jacket pocket. He pried some of the mud loose from the tire and placed it in a plastic Ziploc bag. Maybe it would help.

Now he was standing at the back of the car, looking at the trunk. It was a newer Mercedes and no doubt it had a burglar alarm. Even if it didn't, he would probably have to break the lock to get the trunk open, and he didn't have a warrant to search the car. He walked back to the Jaguar.

Inside, he said to Rita, “Have you seen that car before?”

“No.”

Hastings drove down a few car lengths and then backed into a space. He cut the engine.

Five minutes went by.

Rita didn't say anything.

There was some lighting on the lot. Enough to give the employees
of the hospital some illusion of security. Hastings hoped that they were close enough to the man's car and that there was sufficient light for Rita to identify him. If she could identify him. He didn't want to move the car closer because he didn't want the doctor to know they were there.

Rita said, “How long do we have to sit here?”

“It might be just a couple of minutes. It might be longer, though.” He hoped that Sheffield hadn't left with someone else.

Rita sighed. “I rescheduled the appointment. I didn't cancel it.”

“Hmm-hmm.”

She gave him a side glance and shook her head. She murmured something.

Hastings said, “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, you said something.”

“I said, ‘You too.' ”

Hastings chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“You're using me. Like the others. That's what I said.”

“I'm investigating a murder and you're a witness. There's no need to be self-pitying about it.”

Now she laughed. “Is that what you think? That I'm self-pitying?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, don't flatter yourself. Whatever you give me, don't give me pity. Don't ever give me that.”

Hastings looked at her.

No, not a girl. He had seen her perform tonight, telling her client on the phone that she was looking forward to seeing him. “
Now stop
. . .” Flattering the man, playing a part. Patronizing someone who wanted to be patronized. She was good enough at it that it made Hastings feel sad. What had happened to her, that she could do that?

“Okay,” Hastings said.

She seemed to like this answer. She gave him another look and then glanced out her window. She said, “Hastings.”

“Yeah.”

“What's your first name?”

“George.”

“Maybe you're okay, George. Maybe.”

“You mean, for a cop?”

“For a man.”

“Hmmm,” he said, his tone skeptical.

Rita said, “We're a little alike, you and I.”

“Are we.”

“In a way. You don't really trust people. You're kind of mercenary. Were you ever with a hooker?”

“Every payday.”

She laughed and said, “That's cute. Cops are the worst, you know.”

“How's that?”

“The worst hypocrites, I mean. They judge us, bust us, lecture
us—say things like, ‘Where are your parents? What would your mama think?' Then they hit on us, ask for freebies.”

“Any cop caught doing that would be terminated. Besides, how would you know? You've never been arrested.”

“If I had, you'd probably use it against me, wouldn't you?”

“I use whatever I can.”

“I'll bet you do.” She returned her attention to the window. Then said, “Well, at least you're honest.”

They sat in silence. A minute passed and then another.

A car started on the other side of the parking lot. Hastings looked at it in his rearview mirror.

Rita said, “George—”

“Hush,” he said. He saw someone coming.

A man in a raincoat and a flat hat. He came into the glare of one of the overhead lamps. His face was partially hidden by his cap, but Hastings saw that he was wearing glasses.

He touched Rita Liu on the arm.

She leaned forward.

The man walked to the Mercedes. He removed his hand from his coat pocket, and the car's alarm made a
thweep
sound, then the doors unlocked and the inside light came on.

He got into the Mercedes and started it. The rear lights came on and the car backed up. The man drove past them and then circled around the lot to go out the exit.

Rita said, “That's him.”

“That's the man you saw at the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“The same man you saw speaking to Reesa?”

“Yes. It's him. I'm positive it's him,” Rita said. “Look, I want to get out of here. Now.”

Driving back to her apartment, Hastings said, “I appreciate you doing that.”

Rita Liu grunted. She was smoking a cigarette, the window cracked so that the fumes could wisp out.

“Rita?”

“What?”

“I want you to be honest with me. Are you sure you've told me everything?”

“About what?”

“About the night you met Dr. Sheffield. The night you and Reesa were with Dr. Zoller.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you're sure?”

“Yes. I don't care if you believe me or not. I'm telling you the truth.”

“Okay. Can you tell me something else?”

“What?”

“Are you frightened?”

“Yes.”

“More so than before?”

“. . . Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because I think he killed her.”

“You think Dr. Sheffield killed Reesa.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you, I've told you everything I know. I didn't see anything. I don't know anything.” She turned to look at him. “Really, I don't.”

“So it's an intuition?”

“Don't make fun of me,” she said. “Don't.”

“I'm not. But—tell me why you think he killed her.”

“I don't have reasons. I'm sorry, but I don't. It's a feeling. I should have felt it before. I was there when she met him; I should have known. There's something off, something not right . . .”

“Something not right about him?”

“Yes.”

“But you can't look at a man and say he's guilty of murder. You can't just see it in his eyes. It doesn't work like that.”

“You need evidence, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, that's your problem. But I know what I feel, and I don't want to be anywhere near him.”

“We don't know that he's the guy.”

“And you, you bring me back to see him. Why? Did you think I'd enjoy being involved in the pursuit? That I'd get a kick out of it?”

“No, I didn't.”

They were near her door now, the lighted entrance to her apartment building in view.

“Leave me out of it,” she said. “Do you understand? I don't want anything more to do with this.”

She slammed the car door and walked up the steps.

Ronnie Wulf said, “Do you think the girl is keeping something from you?”

Hastings said, “I doubt it.”

“But you don't know.”

“Do you mean, does she know that Sheffield did something more and she's not telling me? Something like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Again, I doubt it.”

“So you trust the girl?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

Wulf sighed. “She's a hustler, George. They lie all the time.”

“I don't think she's lying. Not about this. She was frightened, Chief. She wasn't faking that.”

“But if she doesn't know anything, how could she be frightened? How could she know enough to be scared?”

“It's a fair question, Ronnie. But . . . I don't know. You asked us not to hoard leads. You asked us to share information.”

“I know. But is this a lead or a theory?”

“You asking me?”

“Yes, I'm asking you.”

“It's a lead.”

“Then follow it up.”

“Okay,” Hastings said. “Look, we found out Sheffield was married. While he was in medical school. They divorced shortly before he moved here. Her name is Cheryl Jensen. She's in Boston. I think it might help if we talked to her.”

“An ex-wife? I don't know.”

“It's worth an interview.”

“Let's say he is your guy. What if you talk to her and she calls him and warns him you're after him?”

“I've thought of that. But I think the interview is worth that risk. Besides, we can warn her not to do that.”

“What if she's loyal to him? Ignores the warning.”

“I'll be subtle.”

“I don't know, George. An ex-wife? If you think it's a good idea . . .”

“I do.”

“And then what? She tells you she was married to a monster, likes to kill women?”

“It beats doing nothing.”

Ronnie Wulf looked at him to see if he was being insolent. But then he realized that they both were tired and out of sorts.

“Okay, George. Make the call.”

“Ms. Jensen?”

“Yes?”

“Cheryl Jensen?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Lieutenant George Hastings. I'm a police officer in St. Louis, Missouri.”

“How did you get my phone number?”

“The phone company gave it to me. They usually cooperate with us.”

“You're not going to ask me for a donation, are you?”

“To what?”

“A police union or something like that.”

“No. I'm investigating a matter in St. Louis that involves people working at St. Mary's Hospital. These include your ex-husband.”

“Raymond?”

“Yes. Raymond Sheffield. You were married to him, weren't you?”

“Yeah . . . What's this about?”

“I'm afraid I can't discuss it. But we're interviewing a lot of people. Just getting background on witnesses. Nothing special.” Hastings was quiet, waiting to see if the woman would push him.

Then she said, “Well, I'm in the grocery store right now. Can I call you back later?”

“No, I'm afraid that won't work for me. Listen, I promise I won't be long.”

“Well, all right. What do you want to know?”

“How long were you married to Raymond?”

“About three years.”

“When did you divorce?”

“We separated, gosh, almost three years ago. The divorce was granted about a year and a half ago. A couple of months before he moved to St. Louis.”

“What do you do now?”

“I work at Cambridge Bank of Massachusetts.”

“Doing what?”

“I help them sell their financial products. It's called financial planning.”

“Did you go to school for that?”

“I went to college, but I didn't study business or banking.”

“What did you study?”

“Arts and sciences.”

Hastings hesitated.

And the woman said, “Well, it was a two-year program. Suffolk Community College.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was going to finish, do four years. But then I met Raymond
and he was going to medical school, so I quit and got a job at the bank. The bank's been pretty good to me.”