Imperfect Contract (12 page)

19

After I let Sunshine out of his crate and submitted to the expected welcoming ritual, I called Samantha Davis, the staff nurse who found Hutchinson in cardiac arrest. 

"Tell me what you saw when you found Hutchinson."

"He wasn't breathing, making no respiratory effort at all.  His ventilator tubing was lying next to him on the pillow
—
like it had popped off." 

"Did you have any reason to think he disconnected himself when he coughed?"

"You mean with a lot of secretions?"

"Yes."

"No, the respiratory therapist left the room a few minutes earlier.  I saw her go from Hutchinson's room to the patient down the hall.  The tubing was clean as a whistle."

"Did you see anyone else around?"

"There have been so many people in and out of Hutchinson's room.  Umm.  A bunch of young dudes.  A tall, white, skinny guy with a big scar on his face.  Barry's wife, and I don't know who else.  I had the patient in the next room, and we were talking about the amount of commotion and the number of visitors."

"Samantha, I was in charge.  Why didn't you tell me you found the vent disconnected?"

"I told the doctor.  I told Connie.  I charted it.  I put it in the incident report.  I just forgot to tell you.  What's the big deal?"  She sounded annoyed.

"I'm curious, that's all.  Staiger raised the issue.  I didn't know the details until I read the incident report.  You'd left for the day.  Then I find my name on a serious incident.  Caught my attention."

"Anything else you want to know?"  The tone was cutting.

"No, you've told me enough.  Thanks for the help." 

I showered, slipped on an above-the-knee black skirt and white pullover, then applied blusher, shadow, mascara, and lipstick.  I spritzed Chanel No. 5 behind my ears and between my breasts—I can't quite call it cleavage.  I planned to find Ray, and I intended to get his attention.  It was time to get to the truth. 

I had no facts to support the ventilator tubing popping off versus someone removing it.  If my hunch was accurate, someone disconnected Hutchinson's vent.  That would make the drive-by shooting an attempted homicide, and this the actual murder.  Maybe it was the same person behind it all.  Hutchinson was dead either way. 

I inventoried the suspects.  Amelia.  Possible but doubtful.  Jamel.  More feasible.  I heard him threaten to disconnect the ventilator, but I thought him to be spineless.  Michael Wiley.  Competition gone bad?  Hutchinson's girlfriend?  Improbable, she would have everything to lose and nothing to gain by his death.  Who else?  If Hutchinson had mishandled Vanessa's real estate deal, he might have done the same with others.  The possibility existed that Barry Hutchinson created many enemies.

Rather than calling, I decided to drop by the police department.  I hadn't set foot inside for two or three years. 

A handwritten sign taped to the glass in the first floor lobby directed all comers to the second floor by way of the elevator.  Beyond the unused reception window, bare two-by-fours framed a small area.  A stack of sheet rock blocked an unfinished spiral stairway. 

When I approached the glass-enclosed counter in the second floor lobby, the woman sitting there greeted me by name.  I hadn't seen her in years.  "Are you here to see Detective Stone?  I think he's back there."  She motioned over her shoulder.  She called Ray's extension.

I made my way through the maze of unmarked corridors.  Though the building appeared modern from the outside, the inside showed the years of use and abuse—drab paint, worn tile, and marred furnishings.

Ray smiled as I approached.  He seemed glad to see me.  A couple of the other detectives watched me walk by, one commenting I never looked like that in uniform.

"Chuck," I said, throwing him my biggest smile, "police uniforms weren't intended to be attractive—what with bullet proof vests and all." 

One thing I remembered hating about the job was the nasty pants—cut for a man.  As a result, women ended up with square hips, and the heavy belts covered any hint of a waistline. 

"How you doing?" he said when I stopped next to his desk.

"Fine.  Nursing is my niche.  It fits me." 

"Why are you here then?" he persisted.

"Just came by to see Ray, that's all."

He cocked an eyebrow and nodded in Ray's direction.  Chuck had been around a long time and knew my history with Ray.  By tomorrow everyone in the department would know I visited and rumors of a renewed romance would be rampant.  The department is like a small town.  Everyone knows everyone's business.

I pulled a chair next to Ray's desk.  He looked good.  He'd opened his white shirt at the neck and loosened his gray and red print tie.  Wisps of chest hair peeked out.  A slate gray suit coat hung on the back of his chair.  I waited for him to finish whatever he was writing. 

He laid his pen on the legal pad and smiled, his eyes traveling the length of my body.  "To what do I owe the honor of this visit?"  He leaned back in his swivel chair, making eye contact.  "I expected a phone call, maybe."

"You know Hutchinson was declared brain dead," I said, intent on my agenda.  "They’re harvesting his organs at this very minute."

"I didn't know about the organs."  He reached for the telephone.  "Have they been in contact with the M.E.?"

"Sure.  He made the suggestion."

He dialed the telephone.  "I'll just verify that if you don't mind."

"Sure, why not?  I came from there.  What would I know?"  I stood to leave.  I didn't like distrust.

"Sophi, sit."

"Arf, arf."  He pissed me off.  I waited while he finished his discussion with the M.E.  I saw his point.  If he didn't make the call, and the organ donation compromised the case, it'd be his butt in the sling.

"Now, would you like to relax, or did you come here to get ticked off?"  He raised his left eyebrow and waited. 

I sat.  "It was a tough morning.  I went to ICU to check on Barry and ended up staying through the donor request process and the aftermath.  It's draining, exhausting."  I told him about the whole thing, including Jamel's repeated request for payment.  "I don't know about that kid." I finished my tirade and smiled, relieved to have it off my chest.

"I had him in here yesterday morning to ask him about your prowlers."

"And?"  I reached for Ray's cup and took a sip.  The black coffee was room temperature and bitter, but it helped the dryness in my throat.

"He denies being in your area.  In fact, he denies knowing where you live."

"Where did he say he was?"  I took another sip of Ray's coffee and made a face.

"He didn't.  He told me it was none of my business.  Unless I was prepared to charge him with something, he didn't think he'd hang around and answer my questions." 

"Non-productive."

"Except I did learn a bit more about his personality and that, maybe, he has something to hide."  He stroked his beard and mustache.

"Like what?"

"What I can't figure is why he needs money from his mother if he's dealing drugs." 

"Just the point I was trying to make yesterday when you blew me off."  I leaned forward in the chair.  "Did you ask him?"

"No.  We want to see what goes down on the drug side of this case.  I didn't want to tip him off."

"Maybe he always asks his mother for money and doesn't want to change the pattern, doesn't want her to know he's dealing."

"Could be, but I think he's in debt and not seeing any drug income at the moment."  Ray stretched and put his hands behind his head. 

If nothing else, it gave me an excellent view of his chest muscles, bringing back memories of the six-pack below.  I've always enjoyed looking at a well-developed male chest.

I said, "He must have left here and gone to the hospital to see his dad."

"Probably.  I called him at home and asked him to stop by.  A couple of his friends waited for him while we talked."

"Let me guess.  Tall skinny dudes?"

"Right."

"The same ones were with him at the hospital yesterday.  They've been in a couple of times.  Rough young men."

"I agree.

"When he was here, did you happen to ask him why he bullies his mother?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."  Ray flipped open a small tablet.  It kept his current case notes in bound, pocket-sized pads.  He started a new one for each investigation.  He used to keep a stack in his car.  I wondered if he still did. 

"What did he say?" 

Ray looked at pages toward the end of the little notebook.  He'd been busier on this case than I realized.  He hadn't been sharing much information with me, but again, why should he?

"He said if his mother wanted to put up with it, what business was it of mine."

"Tough kid."

"He's not a kid.  He's twenty-eight friggin' years old.  Give me a break." 

Oops, I'd stepped into it.  The twitches of his cheek muscles pulled at the edges of his goatee.  "Damn, Ray.  He's too old, but he dresses like a kid.  He acts like a kid.  You know, looks like shit, smells like shit, tastes like shit, must be shit."

"This time I think the dude stepped in it."

I smiled. 

So did Ray.

"Listen," he glanced at his watch, "it's almost three.  Want to grab a bite?  I'm starved."

"Sure, why not?" 

Ray stood and slipped on his jacket while I watched with interest.  His matching suit pants hung loosely on his narrow hips, accenting his long muscular torso and broad shoulders.  He smiled in a crooked, annoying way.  I knew that he knew, but so what, a girl can look, too.

He rested his hand on my back and guided me out of the building to where he had parked the S2000.  He held the door for me to slide into the low passenger seat.  "You look really good."

"Thanks.  You do, too."  I fastened my seat belt and stared straight ahead, wondering if I was complicating my life. 

We didn't talk as he drove the short distance to
Patty's
Pub.  I laid my head back against the headrest and stared at the clear sky.  It was a nice day for a ride in a convertible.  The Honda's engine roared as Ray put it through its paces.  I noticed it was a hot little car, not as hot as the Viper, but impressive nonetheless.  I thought I'd like to drive it sometime.

20

Patty's
opened at three o'clock and catered to shift workers—for the most part cops, but also emergency nurses, paramedics, and a smattering of locals who liked to hang out with them.  It was a dimmed joint with a long shiny mahogany bar, several tables with Irish memorabilia embedded in thick polyurethane, and a couple of semi-private booths in the back
—
near the kitchen door.  A thick, glossy finish covered the rough-hewn floor.  As the night progressed, peanut shells littered the floor, but it began each evening shiny-clean.  There was a single pool table near the front window.  The cops kept it busy into the wee hours.

The fare consisted of thick burgers, grilled chicken sandwiches, wings, fries, and corned beef and cabbage on special occasions.  There was no printed menu.  Regulars knew the selections, and for strangers, there was a blackboard behind the bar. 

Ray escorted me to one of the booths and waited, southern gentleman style, while I slid into the booth.  He seemed to hesitate—maybe he wanted to slide in next to me—then chose the facing bench instead.  He ordered a burger, and I asked for chicken.

I was on edge.  I expected to sit at the bar and have a quick bite. 

He took my hand.  "Sophi, I've been thinking," he said, his soft, bass drawl soothing to my ears.  "Do you think—"

"No," I pulled my hand free.  "I don't want to be abrupt, but I don't want to put my heart in harm's way again."  I stared into his deep blue eyes.  "I'm glad we're getting along and can work together, but that's all I want."

For a fleeting moment, he looked annoyed.  Then he smiled and said, "I was saying, do you think I could make a burger as good as Patty's on my grill?"

I gulped and blushed, then took a moment to regroup.  I'd stepped into that one.  "Sure, why not.  Just make sure you get it hot enough."  I touched his hand, then pulled mine back to my lap.  "What's your lineup of possibles in the Hutchinson case?"  I thought of the mental list I made earlier in the day.  "Did Barry have enemies I'm not aware of?"

"Huh?"  He looked confused.  "Oh, yeah.  I'm just finishing, but we went through his client list for last year.  He was busy, closed a lot of deals.  He also pissed off people, but no one's mad enough to consider murder."

"He screwed up my friend Vanessa's finances, told her partial truths, twisted things around.  Then Amelia finished her off.  Now Van has to buy a house she can't afford."  I paused while Patty set our drinks and food in front of us.

"She's not the only one making those allegations."  Ray took a bite of his burger then wiped his beard.  "I'm surprised his clients haven't reported him to the Florida Real Estate Commission."

"You checked?"

"Of course.  They've never received a complaint."

"Maybe his customers weren't savvy enough to know how to file a grievance."  I tasted my sandwich.  It was good, moist with a hint of rosemary and garlic.

"Good point, although most of his customers appeared on the ball.  The consensus is Hutchinson wasn't attentive to detail and required a lot of follow-up on the part of the clients.  No one seemed unhappy with the outcome, just with the time it took him to do the job.  He pushed the deadlines on the contracts.  Last minute."

"With Vanessa it was worse.  She believes he lied to her, trying to force her into a deal.  Then he sent her to a mortgage broker who didn't follow through, and he gave her a contract with big holes.  That sort of thing."

"It may be more Vanessa's interpretation than actual fact, but it is more extreme than his other customers reported."  He took another bite of the burger and wiped his mouth.  "I didn't find a viable suspect in the lot of them."

"Who are your suspects?"  I washed down a mouthful of chicken with my Coke.  "I figure Jamel, the wife, maybe Wiley.  The girlfriend?"

"Not the girlfriend.  No reason."

"I agree.  That leaves the three of them?  Have you talked to Wiley?  There seems to be a lot of friction between Amelia and him."

"I'll talk to him later tonight or tomorrow morning."  He toyed with his iced tea.  "Wiley doesn't fit though.  He had more to gain by buying Hutchinson's agency or beating him out.  Killing him would give the agency a bad name, and he'd have nothing to buy.  From what Amelia Hutchinson said, Wiley is willing to take over her outstanding contracts and give her a job.  Why resort to murder?"

I shrugged.  "He was there yesterday, right before Hutchinson died."

"You're convinced someone disconnected him from his life support?"

"It wasn't an accident."  I set my sandwich down and leaned across the table.  "He wasn't strong enough to cough off his vent tube, and it was clean.  I asked the nurse who found him.  Someone had to remove it.  Maybe a weaning accident, but Vanessa was his therapist, and she's careful."

"That's rich.  His most dissatisfied client's responsible for his life support on the day it gets disconnected.  What were you people thinking?"  He shook his head, then paused a moment, appearing thoughtful.  "Why don't you poke at Vanessa and see what happens?  Be casual."

I frowned at him.  "I don't want to rat on my friends."

"We need to clear her of suspicion, and you can help with that if you're willing." 

What Ray said was right.  Connie and I had tried to warn her, but she'd insisted on caring for Hutchinson.  "Okay, I'll give it a try."

I helped Ray make a list of other people to interview at the hospital.  Samantha, the nurse who found him and started the code.  Connie, his nurse for the day.  Vanessa, his therapist.  Dr. Kravitz, who ran the code.  Dr. Jennifer Staiger, his neurologist.  Amelia.  Jamel and his friends.  And Wiley.  As an afterthought, we added the hospital's risk manager, the nurse manager, the head of respiratory therapy, and me.  Life was getting interesting.

Ray dropped me off next to my Mini Cooper in the police station parking lot.  I extricated myself from the S2000—sliding, turning, and standing in the same motion, causing a cramping pain in my right hip—and waved before he said or did anything.  I climbed into my red car and zoomed off across the parking lot.  I gave him the satisfaction of a parting beep-beep as I turned the corner.