An Intimate Murder (The Catherine O'Brien Series) (27 page)

Until the department called with the news of my first shooting. Just a scrape on my arm from a ricochet when we went to arrest a gang banger who killed his girlfriend, but the wound had been enough to bring Gavin face to face with the truth of who he was dating. He ranted and raved that he couldn’t be with someone whose job was to get themselves killed. He proposed to me the same week. Gavin said, ‘I do’ with zero illusions of who I was or what I do for a living.

“Don’t give me the fall off a horse, get back on speech.” He stood behind me with his hands on my waist. “I’ll help you get ready.”

Gavin nuzzled my neck. “Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you won’t take a pee today.”

A laugh burbled up, and brought searing pain to my ribs and stomach.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh. It hurts way too much.”

He kissed my cheek.

“Come on gimpy. You’re not fooling me with the brave face. I know you’re in an ass load of pain. I can at least help you get dressed.”

I relented and put my arm around his shoulder. There were advantages and disadvantages to having someone know everything about you, including when you’re lying. If I didn’t take advantage of the advantages when they came, I’d be stupid, so I let Gavin help dress me.

We ate breakfast together like two normal people. No talk of killers, attackers, or pain. I talked about plans for this year’s Thanksgiving celebration. It was our year to host, so I nagged him about finishing the bathroom in time, while he flicked through the morning paper.

“Oh, shit!” Gavin sat upright and pulled the paper closer to his face.

“What?”

“I think you’d better call your mother, quick.”

“Why?” I grabbed the top corner of the paper and gave a light tug. “What happened to my mother?”

“She’s going to have a coronary.”

He released the paper into my custody and pointed to an article in the center. I read the story.

There was my black and white service photo under the headline,
Veteran Police Officer Attacked in Police Station
.

“Oh, shit!”

Gavin nodded. “I’ll get the phone.”

Jane Katts had run a story about my attack. At least she’d had the decency to run it on the third page of the metro section instead of page one. It didn’t matter; mom had friends that read the paper from cover to cover including the obituaries. Even if she only skipped to the lifestyles section for the
Mr. Fix-It
column and the recipes, her friends would call her and make it sound like there was nothing left of me but a stain on the bathroom floor.

“Hi, Abby,” Gavin rolled his eyes at me. “No, we were going to call you . . .”

He nodded and rolled his eyes again.

“It’s really not that bad . . .”

He strolled over to my chair.

“Abby— Abby— She’s right here Abby.” Gavin was now talking like my mother was deaf or stupid. “I’m going to put her on now.”

He handed me the phone.

“Good luck,” he whispered.

I mouthed,
thank you
, and waved my coffee cup in the air. If I were going to deal with my mother, I would need more fortification. He nodded and left to get the pot of coffee.

“Catherine Margaret, can you hear me?” Tears filled her voice.

“Yes, Mom. I hear you.”

Gavin tipped the pot and filled my cup. Fill it to the rim as the old
Brim
commercial used to say. What happened to
Brim
, I wonder?

”You sound terrible,” Mom said.

“I sound fine, because I am fine, Mom.”

“No you don’t. You sound puffy. Are you puffy, Catherine?”

I took a long pull from my coffee.

“Catherine Margaret, are you puffy?”

I sighed. “Yep, I’m puffy, but only a little. I’m not even staying home from work today, that’s how non-puffy I am, Mom.”

A muffled struggle for the phone came down the line. After a few uttered no’s from my mother, I finally heard my Dad say, “Give me the phone, Abigail.”

“You okay, kid?”

Tears sprang to my eyes. Something always made me cry when I heard my Dad.

“Yeah, Dad, fiddling fit.”

“That’s what I told your Mom. I said if it had been serious they would have called.”

“I would have called last night, Dad but I was . . .” My voice thinned.

“Never mind,” he said, in his no-nonsense fashion. “You needed your rest.”

“Yeah.”

“See Abby, it’s exactly like I said.”

Mom told him to give the phone back to her but he didn’t.

“You going to work then, kid?”

“Yep.” I let out a deep breath. Finally, into a territory I felt comfortable talking about, and away from my health. “I feel pretty good. Anyway, all this is just a bucking horse that I need to get back on.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Do they know who did it?”

“No, but I’m going to find out.”

I could almost hear the grin that split Dad’s face through the phone line. Whenever I came home bruised from a fight at school and believe me there were many at my Catholic girl’s school, he’d have the same grin on his face, and he’d ask, “what does the other guy look like?” Knowing that I didn’t stop fighting after taking one hard blow.

“I’m sure you will, Katie.”

A shiver raked over my body. Dad was the only person who would ever call me Katie, but if he hadn’t it wouldn’t have come to me.

Katie
.

“I have to go now, Dad.” I could feel a culmination of anger and excitement building in my chest. “I love you, Dad. Kiss Mom for me.”

The abrupt end to the conversation didn’t bother him in the least.

“Will do. Have a good day. Call us later.”

“I will, Dad. I love you, and thanks.”

He hung up and I pressed the end button on the cordless handset just long enough to reset it and make another call. I punched in Louise’s cell phone number. She answered on the second ring.

“Detective Montgomery speaking.”

“Where are you, Louise?”

“I’m just down the block. Are you feeling up to today?”

“Oh, yeah!”

“What’s going on?” She asked.

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

I hung up and then got to my feet. Adrenaline rushed through my veins minimizing the pain in my body, or maybe the ibuprophen had finally kicked in, either way I felt great.

Gavin walked me to the door. He kissed the healthy side of my face and slipped something into the right pocket of my jacket.

“Take the Vicodin, just in case you need it later,” he said.

There wouldn’t be any point arguing. He had my health and comfort in mind even if it did feel like he was babying me.

Louise pulled up as I stepped onto the front porch.

“It’s about time,” I said. “What took you so long?”

I eased myself down the steps and practically skipped down the sidewalk.

I slid into the passenger seat and Louise lifted a Venti
Starbucks
cup.

“You’re forgiven.” I took the cup with the reverence of a priest lifting the sacred chalice.

“Quad shot Venti Caramel Machiato,” she said. “I figured you could use a treat today.”

With furrowed brows and grimaced mouth, she studied my face.

“Does it hurt?”

The coffee instantly relaxed my body. For years, I have railed against the notion that coffee was a stimulant. For me coffee did a better job than Xanax in taking the edge off any situation. I guess a caffeine addiction was like cigarettes that way.

“I feel great today,” I said.

Louise nodded with brows still furrowed. “It’s those pills Doctor Dave gave you yesterday.”

“I haven’t taken any today.” She looked doubtful.

“I know who hit me.” I blurted the words as if they’d been pressing against the inside of my lips waiting for their escape.

“Who? How?”

“My Dad told me.”

She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. “How did your Dad know?”

“He didn’t.”

“What?”

I took another sip of my mocha.

“Just drive.”

“Where to?”

“The office, my dear Watson!” I toasted her with my paper cup. “We have some checking to do.”

Louise slid the gearshift to drive.

“I promised Doctor Dave I’d haul your butt in to see him first.”

“First the surveillance room,” I said.

“First Doctor Dave.” She said it like she was addressing a petulant child. “Then we’ll find your assailant.”

If it was, who I thought it was, we might find more than just my assailant, we might just find our killer.

Within fifteen minutes, I found myself swinging my legs from a metal exam table, next to another table, with a dead body on it, and wondering where my life went all loopy on me. The answer came without hesitation, in a cold unfeeling voice.

The moment you refused to go to the hospital, you chicken. All this, because you’re afraid of a little needle.

That statement wasn’t exactly true. I also held a deeply ingrained fear of scalpels, antiseptic smells, and doctors in general. Normally, I wasn’t the least bit afraid of Doctor Dave, but as he approached me with a thermometer, and I realized where I was, I reconsidered my position.

“No way.” I pressed my lips together tight.

“I need to get a temp.”

“Then stick that nasty thing in your own mouth. There is no way I’m opening up to say
ah
.”

Louise took the thermometer from Doctor Dave.

“Can I keep this?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I guess so, but why?”

“Normally we can’t get her to keep her mouth shut. If this little piece of glass does the trick, I want to have it close at hand.”

Dave snatched the thermometer away from Louise and shook his head. He scolded her with the thin piece of glass, and then he turned the thermometer to me.

“This is a brand new thermometer,” he said. “I just took it out of the box.”

He pointed to a torn package on his desk.

I glanced at the body next to me. The thermometer. The body. The thermometer.

“Oh for Christ’s sake. This is why I tell my wife I don’t work with the living, too many issues.”

Dave opened one of the overhead cabinet doors and pulled out a rubber glove. He shoved the thermometer into the index finger of the glove, and then pulled the rubber tight around the outside.

“Happy?” He raised his eyebrows. “Now open up.”

“Just let him take your temp,” Louise said. “You’ll never get to the video tapes if you don’t.”

I cast one last glance at the body next to me then, reluctantly, I opened my mouth. Doctor Dave moved faster than a shadow against a wall. He shoved the rubber-covered thermometer under my tongue.

“Don’t talk.” Dave wagged his finger at me.

While I gagged on latex, Doctor Dave waved a pen light in front of my face, and we played follow the light. He pressed his fingers against the skin around the bruises. Then he trailed his fingers along what felt like one giant bruise that ran from the back of my head, down my neck and over my shoulder blade.

“You’ve got one hell of a muscle cramp here.”

He pressed the right side of my shoulder near my spine. Pain shot through me, and an involuntary jump rocked me forward on the table.

“Well,” Dave said. “I was going to ask if it hurt, but I guess I don’t have to.”

He pulled the rubber glove from my mouth, then extracted the thermometer, read the number, and tucked the glass sliver into the pocket of his lab coat.

“Give it to me straight, Dave, I can take it.” I hopped off the table. “Will I live?”

Dave set his fists on his hips and widened his stance.

“From what I can tell,” he said. “You don’t appear to have a detached retina, though those popped blood vessels are nasty. You don’t appear to have any broken bones. Did you fill the prescription I gave you yesterday?”

I reached into my right pocket, took out the bottle, and rattled the pills.

“Good, you’ll need them,” he said. “Don’t forget, if you get a headache or any lethargy, go to the hospital. Don’t mess around thinking everything will be fine if you ignore it. Have you had a headache?”

I considered a quick lie, but the look on Dave’s face said he would know.

“I did yesterday, you can understand why, but today I feel pretty good.”

Doctor Dave pressed his lips flat and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m serious. The bruises on my skin ache, and when you pressed on them, they throbbed. Other than that, I feel all right. Just a little stiff.”