New Tricks (9 page)

For now.

I’m about to hit Kevin with a barrage of questions, when I look up and see Pete Stanton standing over me.

“Pete, tell me…”

“All I know is that she’s in surgery, and she’s getting massive transfusions. It’s touch and go, Andy.”

It flashes through my mind that this sounds like the same injury that killed Sean Taylor of the Washington Redskins. Pete
must know that, but he has the good sense not to mention it. Kevin would likely never even have heard of the Washington Redskins.

“Who did this?” I ask.

Pete shakes his head. “Don’t know. According to the neighbor, it was a drive-by. But he got a model, color, and partial plate,
so we’ve got a shot at it.”

“Where can I wait for the doctor?” I ask.

“There’s an empty room on the floor; he’s going to come there when he’s finished. By the way, I told them you were the husband.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Gives you access; if you’re not family you have no rights.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

Pete, Kevin, and I go up to the seventh floor, which is the surgery ward. We go to an empty room, with a bed, small bathroom,
and two chairs. I suppose this is going to be Laurie’s room if she needs one. Please let her need one.

We wait for almost three hours, during which it feels like my head is going to explode from the pressure. The waiting is simply
horrible, yet I am clearheaded enough to know that it must mean Laurie is still alive. Otherwise the surgery would be over.

During all the time we’re there, I don’t think five words are spoken, except for Pete getting an occasional cell phone call
updating him on progress in the investigation. There doesn’t seem to be much, but it’s early, and I’m not focused on that
right now.

I finally realize that Tara and Waggy are alone and unattended, and I mention this to Kevin.

He shakes his head. “I had Willie pick them up. I hope that’s okay.”

As my partner in the Tara Foundation, Willie is as big a dog lunatic as I am, so it’s more than okay. “Thanks, Kevin. That’s
perfect.”

Finally, the door opens and a doctor comes in. He’s surprisingly, almost annoyingly, young, certainly under forty. If he isn’t
bringing good news, he’s never going to get any older, because I’m going to strangle him with his stethoscope.

I stand as he walks over. I can’t read his expression, which bothers me. I wish he were smiling, or laughing, or doing cartwheels.
But he’s not, and I’m scared shitless. The combined pressure of waiting for every verdict I’ve ever waited for pales next
to this.

“Mr. Carpenter, I’m Dr. Norville.”

I don’t say a word; I can’t say a word.

“Your wife has come through the surgery. She has an anoxic brain injury, due to blood loss, and she remains in very critical
condition. She is currently in a coma.”

“Will she survive?” I manage.

“We’ll have a better idea of that in forty-eight hours. She lost a great deal of blood. And you need to understand that survival
is not the only issue.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It is likely that her brain was deprived of sufficient blood for an undetermined period of time. There is the potential for
injury.” He pauses, then adds, “Irreparable injury.”

I find my voice and ask as many questions as I can think of, but I can’t get any more out of him, other than the fact that
the shorter the coma, the better. It’s going to take time until we know more.

He can see my frustration, and before he leaves, he says, “Mr. Carpenter, she’s alive. At this point, with what she’s been
through, that’s saying a great deal, believe me.”

I nod my understanding.

“One step at a time,” he says. “One step at a time.”

I
GO HOME
to get some clothing and toiletries to bring back to the hospital.

The front yard is cordoned off with police tape as a crime scene, and a squad car with two officers is in place guarding it.
I identify myself to them and go in through the back; I wouldn’t be able to stand seeing Laurie’s blood on the lawn.

My feeling right now is that if Laurie never makes it back to this house, then I will never live here again. Certainly I can’t
tolerate the idea of staying here now.

Back at the hospital they still won’t let me in to see Laurie; she is in intensive care and very susceptible to infection.
An intensive care nurse tells me that Laurie is a fighter, and I know that’s true. I also know that the cemeteries are full
of fighters.

I’ve got to get a grip.

I lie down on the hospital bed, fully clothed, at about eleven o’clock, and start to cry. It’s the first time I can remember
crying since my father died, and if memory serves, this feels even more painful.

A nurse opens the door to see if she can help, but when I ignore her, she leaves me alone. Soon I lie down on the bed, and
before I know it, it’s four o’clock in the morning. For a brief moment on awakening I forget where I am or why I’m here, and
the quick realization is like taking a punch in the gut.

I stagger down to the nurses’ station and ask if there’s any word on Laurie’s condition. The nurse smiles and says, “She’s
resting comfortably.”

“She told you that?” I ask.

“Well, no… she…”

“She’s in a coma. How would you know if she’s comfortable?”

“Maybe I should call the head nurse.”

“Never mind,” I say, and head back to the room. I’ve accomplished nothing except attacking a young woman who was only trying
to help and make me feel better.

Feeling better seems a ways off.

My cell phone starts ringing at seven o’clock and simply does not stop. Every friend that Laurie has, and that includes pretty
much everyone she has ever met, is calling to find out how she is, and to offer whatever help they can provide.

Edna calls at seven thirty. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Edna say a word before nine o’clock, ever, but she has many to say
now. It’s a mixture of outrage at the animal who could hurt Laurie, and pleading with me to let her help. She tells me that
she is going to come to the hospital and sit in the lobby, so as to be there in case I need her. I tell her not to, but I’m
actually touched by her reaction, and Laurie will be as well, I hope.

Kevin comes at eight o’clock, and Dr. Norville arrives half an hour later, as part of his rounds. He has nothing new to report,
except to say that Laurie spent a comfortable night. I resist the urge to torture him as I did the nurse.

They let me see Laurie through a glass window into the intensive care unit. She looks better than I would have thought, very
pale but peaceful and extraordinarily beautiful. I want to go to her, to touch her and hold her hand, but they won’t let me.

I go back to the room, where Kevin is waiting. I know he wants to talk to me about the Steven Timmerman case, but he doesn’t
know how to bring it up.

I save him the trouble. “Kevin, I want to take a day or two to think about things. I may withdraw from the case, if I can’t
give it the attention it deserves.”

He nods. “That’s very reasonable. Shall I tell Steven what’s going on?”

I nod. “He has a right to know.”

We hear noises out in the hallway, and Kevin goes to the door to see what has people so excited. He comes back a moment later.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“You’re about to find out.”

After a few seconds, Marcus Clark walks in the door. Marcus is one of the quietest people I know, silent and invisible when
he wants to be, but he creates instant commotion wherever he goes. Actually, “commotion” might not be the right word. It’s
closer to panic, bordering on terror.

I’ve used Marcus as a private investigator on a number of occasions, more frequently since Laurie gave up that job and moved
to Wisconsin. Marcus has also served as my personal bodyguard when cases have placed me in some physical jeopardy. He is uniquely
qualified for both jobs, because he is the most frightening human being on the planet.

With Marcus walking down the corridor, the nurses must have reacted like the cinematic Japanese citizenry when they saw Godzilla
wandering the streets of Tokyo. Actually, Marcus and ’Zilla are similar in a number of ways. They are both basically nonverbal,
fearless, and perfectly willing to kill anything in their path. I think Marcus has fresher breath.

Laurie first introduced me to Marcus, and I’ve always been struck by the change in his demeanor when he’s around her. He becomes
borderline human, and I’ve even detected a hint of emotion. He likes her, which is why I try to remind him at every opportunity
how disappointed she would be if he killed me.

Marcus doesn’t say hello; I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say hello or good-bye. He just looks around the room and is probably
disappointed when he sees only Kevin and me. “Laurie,” he says, and I think it’s a question.

“She’s in intensive care,” I say. “She’s unconscious.”

He takes a moment to digest that information. “She’ll be good,” he says. “The shooter… nuh.”

That probably represents as long a speech as I’ve ever heard from Marcus, and with that he turns around and walks out, sucking
all the air out of the room with him. When talking about celebrities and politicians, it’s often said that when people with
real presence, real star power, walk into any room, they take it over. They become the center of everything. That’s the way
it is with Marcus, and when he leaves there’s a void left behind.

Kevin stares at the door, openmouthed. “Did he just say what I think he said? That he’s going after the guy who shot Laurie,
and that he’ll do something bad to him when he finds him? Maybe kill him?”

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

“That’s vigilante justice,” says Kevin.

“I prefer to call it good old-fashioned vigilante justice.”

Kevin thinks for a moment. “Me too,” he says.

I don’t know who or where the shooter is, but if he’s smart, he’s getting his affairs in order and choosing a casket.

Kevin goes down to the jail to update Steven Timmerman, and I go back to returning cell phone messages. This one is from Cindy
Spodek, a good friend of Laurie’s and mine who is an FBI agent in Boston. She is one of the people I turn to for information
if my cases involve the bureau in some fashion, and she has been as helpful as she can be while maintaining professional confidences.

Her call was to inquire about Laurie, and I tell her what I know, which is unfortunately not much.

“She’ll make it, Andy. She’s a fighter.”

I know everybody is being well intentioned, but that line is starting to drive me crazy. “Right.”

“Any leads on the shooter?” she asks.

“I think so. They got the make of the car, and a partial license. Pete Stanton is the lead detective on it.”

“Good,” she says. She knows Pete, and the kind of cop that he is.

“And Marcus has vowed revenge,” I say.

“Game, set, and match,” she says. “You going to ask for a delay on Timmerman?”

I’m surprised she’s even aware that I am representing Steven. “I’m going to take a couple of days to figure that out. How
did you know I was on it?”

“Are you kidding?” she says. “You cost me an assignment.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“There’s a task force on it. I was going to get assigned, but then you came on board, and they reworked it because they knew
we were friends.”

This is bewildering to me. “Why was the bureau investigating Walter Timmerman?”

“That I don’t know; I hadn’t gotten briefed yet. And you know I couldn’t tell you if I did know.”

“Understood,” I say. If she doesn’t know anything, there’s no sense trying to cajole her into revealing more.

It’s only when we get off the phone that I realize exactly what she said. If I cost her the assignment, then the bureau’s
task force is still in existence, even after Timmerman’s death, because I obviously got involved well after the murder.

It’s not that the bureau “was” investigating Walter Timmerman. It’s that the bureau “is” investigating Walter Timmerman.

The question is why.

A
T FIVE O’CLOCK
the nurse comes in to speak to me.