Most Wanted (23 page)

“Hello,” Christine said politely.

The woman straightened up with a deep frown. Her eyes were a bloodshot blue, and her nose was vaguely reddish, like a drinker. She was dressed in a vintage Ramones T-shirt, cutoff shorts, and pink flip-flops, and blurry tattoos blanketed her arms. “Going to see Gail's?”

“Yes.”

“You from Connecticut?”

“Yes,” Christine answered, surprised. “How do you know?”

“The license plate.” The woman motioned toward the car with her broom. “I've been seeing all kind of plates, you're not even the farthest. People came down from Québec yesterday. They don't even know her. People, they're ghoulish. It's sick.”

“Not really,” Christine said, defensive. “They're just trying to be nice, I think. Don't you?”

“Hmph.” The woman turned her back, returning to sweeping, while she talked to herself. “What's nice about it? Come see where the lady was killed by the Nurse Murderer? Everybody in town's talking about it. Everybody's saying the same thing, ‘I just saw her, she was just here.' Everybody locking their doors now. We never used to have to lock our doors around here.
Never!
”

Christine and Lauren exchanged glances, but neither of them said anything, and they resumed walking again. They came to a break in the row houses, and a skinny asphalt street that ran behind the row houses, each of which seemed to have a backyard. Blue recycling bins and numbered trash cans lined the spiky privacy fences along the back wall of the yards. Most were also fenced on the sides by more tall wood, white picket, or old-school iron, separating one neighbor from the next, and some yards contained pretty gardens around bistro tables, but others were paved over, converted to a driveway.

The women kept walking, and Christine felt an increasing sadness the closer they got to the house, and by the time they turned the corner and walked partway up the block, she regretted having come. A small group of forlorn people clustered around the memorial, their heads bent over a pastel pile of sympathy cards, scented and votive candles, and more than one SpongeBob SquarePants; Gail Robinbrecht must have been a fan, which touched Christine, showing that the nurse had had a sense of fun. Photographs of Gail covered the signs; candids showing her in navy scrubs at the hospital, hiking with three other women on a hillside covered with wildflowers, or cuddling a chubby calico near a bookshelf full of books.

Christine felt an ache in her heart. She prayed to God that Zachary hadn't been responsible for the brutal death of this lovely woman, then caught herself, realizing that Zachary might not have been her donor at all. Either way, she felt terrible if Zachary had killed Gail, or that anybody had killed her. She heard snatches of the sorrowful talk around them: “… how could this happen…” “… she was so dedicated…” “… I'll never forget how she helped my son when he had his tonsils out…” “… she was the best, just the best…”

Suddenly a woman started to cry, holding a Kleenex to her blotchy face as she was comforted by another woman. They must have been coworkers of Gail Robinbrecht's because they both had on blue scrubs and each wore a laminated employee ID from Chesterbrook Hospital on a green lanyard.

Christine wasn't surprised to see Lauren's eyes glistening, and she touched her best friend's arm. “Let's go,” she said softly.

“Right.” Lauren fell into step with Christine, and they walked stiffly away.

“Sorry I dragged you here.”

“It's okay. It puts things into perspective, doesn't it?”

“How so?” Christine asked quietly as they turned the corner and headed toward the car.

“That life is short, and sweet. You have to live it in a way that makes you proud.” Lauren wiped her eye, blinking back her tears. “That's it, that's all I got.”

“That's pretty good,” Christine said, patting her on the back, but ahead they both spotted the tattooed woman, still muttering to herself as she swept. She was either drunk or crazy, so they gave her a wide berth, but just as they were passing, the woman stopped sweeping, turned, and straightened up, glaring at them.

“Well, girls? Did you see what you wanted to see? Did you get your jollies?”

“No, really, please,” Christine started to say, raising her hand, but the woman's eyes flared with anger.

“Did you shed a few tears, did you have a good cry? Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!”

Lauren fended her off with a hand. “Look, that's uncalled for—”

“Is it?” the woman demanded, stabbing her broom into the sidewalk. “How the
hell
would you know? You don't know her! You hear she was a nurse, you think she was a saint! But I'm telling you, that woman was
no saint
! She was a
slut
!”

“Please, we have to go,” Christine said, shaken. She didn't want to hear the woman speak ill, much less slut-shame, and Lauren hustled away to the car.

“She lived back there!” The woman shook the broomstick toward the backyards. “You see that second floor, the duplex with the yellow door, where the stairs go? That's where she lived!”

Christine looked back toward the yellow door, only because she hadn't realized that Gail Robinbrecht had lived in a duplex. None of the newspaper articles had said that, and Christine spotted the bright yellow door, which had a stairwell that zigzagged down the back of the row house, standing out against the brick because it was of unpainted lumber.

“That's right! Take a good look!” the woman shouted at her. “I live
right
across from her door. My kitchen's across from hers. You know how many different
men
I saw come up and down the stairs late at night?
Plenty!
”

Christine's eyes flared, but she couldn't stop listening. She scanned the back walls of the other houses, and she could see that wooden stairwells had been added to many of them, so they all must have been duplexes with the entrances around the back.

“One man after the other, all different, they were
booty calls
! That's what they're called!
Booty calls!”
The woman shook her head, her lips making a bitter line. “What did she expect was gonna happen? You gonna bring home strange men? You're gonna let them in? That's Gail the
saint
!”

Christine listened, appalled, but she started to think about the implications for Zachary. He could've been one of several men that Gail hooked up with, maybe even one of many. Maybe he had been telling the truth, that he'd found her dead already.

“The neighbors on the front of the street, they don't see what I see! You know what I think? She was a slut and a hypocrite! You play with fire? Sooner or later you're gonna get burned! That's what I—”

“Miss,” Christine interrupted, “what's your name?”

“Linda Kent. Mrs. Kent! I'm a widow!”

“My name is Christine Nilsson, and I'm wondering if you saw anything suspicious or unusual on the night she was murdered. Did you see any man, or men, on her back steps?”

“See something, say something! See something, say something! I already called the police! They said they'd call me back and get my statement.” The woman brandished the broom, her eyes wild. “Now get lost! Get back to Connecticut!!”

Christine turned away, then hustled for the car.

The woman could have been drunk, or crazy.

Or she could've been correct.

 

Chapter Twenty-two

Christine called Griff as soon as she got in the car, driving away from Warwick Street. She hit the
SPEAKER
button so Lauren could hear, then stuck her smartphone on the Drop-Stop sticker she kept on her dashboard, so she could talk hands-free.

Griff picked up after two rings. “What?”

“I was just at 305 Warwick Street, Gail Robinbrecht's house. I found out that she lived in a duplex, and a neighbor around the back said that she used to have a lot of men going up the stairs at night.”

“You went to the crime scene?” Griff asked, surprised.

“Well, I went to her house. I couldn't get inside, it was taped.” Christine cruised through the leafy residential area of West Chester. “But I thought you could follow up on that for the defense. It suggests that there may have been other suspects, other than Zachary. I mean Jeffcoat. He could have been telling the truth.”

Lauren looked over, rolling her eyes, since she hadn't been inclined to credit Kent's ravings.

“His defense is my job, not yours. Assuming he retains me.”

“I know, but I thought I could help, and I'm sure he's going to retain you.” Christine caught sight of the business district up ahead and hit the gas. “The woman's name is Linda Kent and she lives on Daley Street. She tried to tell the police what she saw, if anything, but they didn't get back—”

“I have to go. Call me after you meet with Jeffcoat. Tell me if he wants to retain me.” Griff paused. “Remember, no talking to him about the case. Don't tell him what you just told me.”

“Why not?” Christine turned right, onto the main road, and traffic was moving along steadily out-of-town. People strolled on the sidewalks, window-shopping or waiting in line for restaurants, and folk music wafted from the open door of a bar, under a banner that read,
HAVE A GR8T SUMMER, WCU STUDENTS
!

“I told you already. What are you, stupid? Conversations between you and Jeffcoat are not privileged. They're discoverable and admissible.”

“Okay, okay, I got it.” Christine glanced at Lauren, who was trying not to laugh.

“God in heaven! You're stubborn!”

“No, I'm not, I'm just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.” Griff hung up, and so did Christine, pressing
END
on the mounted phone.

Lauren looked over, chuckling. “You're driving him crazy.”

“Because I'm curious? Curiosity is a good thing.”

“Not for cats. You heard him.”

“Right.” Christine fed the car some gas as traffic broke up, steering out of the town for open road.

An hour later, Christine and Lauren arrived at the hotel, checked in, took turns showering, and flopped in matching bathrobes on the bed, then ordered Greek salads with no onions from room service and a first-run Melissa McCarthy comedy from the Spectravision. The two women enjoyed the movie, tacitly agreeing not to talk about the day, but Christine felt anxiety gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. She tried not to think about Zachary, Gail Robinbrecht, or the other murdered nurses, but they were in the back of her mind. She also knew that she'd have to talk to Marcus to say good night and she dreaded lying to him.

Night fell outside the large smoked-glass windows, and, by the time the movie ended, Christine knew she couldn't put off the phone call any longer. She found the remote, aimed it at the TV, and muted the credits as Lauren looked over, her dark eyes tired and her curly topknot slipping to the side. She had spent most of the movie answering texts from her mother, husband, and sons, who were getting ready for a travel baseball game and couldn't find clean socks, the new cleats, or the dog's Prozac.

“You going to call Marcus?” Lauren asked with a sigh.

“It can't be avoided, can it?”

“My advice, keep it short. You're a bad liar.”

“Good advice.” Christine picked up her phone, and Lauren rose slowly, with a soft grunt.

“I'll leave you alone. I'm going to the bathroom.”

“You don't have to, you can stay.”

“Are you kidding?” Lauren looked back with a smile. “I get to sit on the bowl in peace? I've been looking forward to this all day.”

“Have fun,” Christine called after Lauren, who trundled off to the bathroom, then she speed-dialed Marcus's number, and he picked up after the second ring.

“Hey, babe, how you doing?” Marcus asked, still in cool mode.

“Okay, but tired,” Christine answered, which wasn't a lie. “I just wanted to call you quick before I went to bed. I can barely stay awake.”

“I won't keep you,” Marcus said quickly, and Christine felt a twinge, getting the impression that he didn't want to talk to her.

“How's it going on the site?”

“The usual crap. We'll be able to straighten it out, but it puts us behind schedule, and you know how that goes. It's expensive. How's the weather? You getting any beach time?”

“Not really, I'm helping out in the house. We have to get all the sheets out and the towels, and sweep up.” Christine scrolled quickly to her Weather Channel app, plugged in Long Beach Island, New Jersey, and saw that it was partly cloudy there. “It's not that nice a beach day anyway.”

“Too bad. It's been raining all day, down here. I think I actually ruined my suitpants.”

“That sucks,” Christine said, her mood spiraling downward. She couldn't believe they were reduced to talking about the weather in their respective locations, one of which was fraudulent.

“You feeling any better about the Homestead lawsuit?” Marcus's tone softened, which only made Christine feel guilty, so she faked a yawn to bail on the conversation.

“Yes, I am, but let's not get into it tonight, okay? I'm so tired, and I'm tired of thinking about it. I just want to get to bed.”

“Okay, I get it.” Marcus's tone stiffened again, now that he had been rebuffed. “Sleep tight, and take care of yourself.”

“Love you,” Christine said, then she realized that he hadn't said it first.

“Love you, too.”

Christine hung up first, then tossed the phone aside. A wave of sadness overwhelmed her, so she closed her eyes. She didn't want to think about Marcus, Zachary, or anything bad, any longer. She placed the palm of her right hand over her belly and focused on her baby. Because that was everything good, growing every day, bigger and stronger, right inside her very body.