Once Upon a Grind (12 page)

S
T.
Luke's–Roosevelt Medical Center occupied several blocks near Columbia University on the Upper West Side. Quinn flashed his NYPD gold shield, and we made our way to the Intensive Care Unit.

He flagged a doctor going off duty, she collared an overnight physician, and we all moved to an empty waiting room.

The doctors explained that Anya's condition had not changed, but she was stable, and they'd moved her to a private room off the ICU. A nurse brought Anya's charts and they pored over them.

Anxious to see the girl for myself, I set Officer Delecki's cape on a chair and quietly stepped away. A shift change had reduced the nightshift staff, and the halls were eerily quiet, the beeps and pings of medical monitors the only discernable sounds.

A sturdy nurse with tight cornrows and a cherubic face approached me with a question in her eyes.

My presence after visiting hours—not to mention my peasant costume—needed an explanation, and I quickly conveyed how I'd been working at the festival where Anya had disappeared.

“I was the one that found her,” I explained, “and I'm here with an NYPD officer.”

“You're talking about that poor child they brought in from the park?” she said, her melodious island accent thick as burnt sugar syrup. “Down the hall, dear, first room on the right.”

*   *   *

W
HEN
I approached Anya's door, I was surprised to find it closed. Hearing something going on inside, I put my ear to the wood. A sharp hand clap sounded, followed a moment later by a second.

I assumed a member of the hospital staff was administering a stimulus test, clapping hands to see if Anya responded to a sudden loud noise.

I pushed the door gently, but it hardly budged. It wasn't locked, more like blocked.
That's odd.
I applied a little more pressure and the door soundlessly cracked open.

“Come on, Anya, wake up,” a voice whispered. “Wake up, and listen to what I've got to say or I'll slap you again.”

Slap? I've heard of a clap test, but a slap test?

The murmured command was followed by another sharp blow. “Sign it, Anya! Wake up, and sign it!”

Sign it? What in the world?

With all my strength, I shoved the door. The chair blocking it tumbled over, and I charged into the room.

“What's going on here?”

Towering over the hospital bed, a shocked brunette in a nurse's uniform froze in place, right hand poised to strike. Now this woman was a lofty mug of java—six feet tall, with a forehead as wide as Cineplex screen, heavy foundation makeup, and a reach long enough to swat me from across the bed. All I could think of was that awful nurse from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
.

Between us, the beautiful Anya lay unconscious, swathed in white, a string of IVs dripping a clear liquid into her bone-pale arm. The only color was in her cheeks, which glowed redly from the slaps.

Then I noticed the ballpoint pen forced between Anya's limp fingers, and the legal-sized document spread open on her stomach. My eyes went from the document to the giant nurse and back to the document.

My opponent realized I was going for the papers, and when she swung her hand again, it was at
my
face, not Anya's.

I ducked.

On the way down, I snatched at the papers lying on the sheets. I managed to snag a page or two before the giantess grabbed the other end. A brief tug of war ended when the pages split like a flimsy wishbone.

And I came up with the short end.

With a howl, the slap-happy nurse bolted for the door. But she had to get past me. Channeling my pop's favorite Civic Arena wrestler, I aimed the butt of my head for her midriff and tackled her with as much force as I could muster. She grunted as the air shot out of her, and we both tumbled to the floor. On the way down my foot slammed the nightstand, and a pitcher of icy cold water doused me—

“Aaahhh!”

Shaking off the freezing shock, I lunged for the document again.

It was a full-blown cat fight now, and as we rolled around on the floor, the absurdity of the situation was not lost on me. With my sodden, flimsy peasant dress, and my attacker disguised in a nurse's uniform, the whole thing was less like a WWF match than a tableau out of Robert Maplethorpe's kinky imagination.

Thankfully, the scene didn't last long. As the nurse tore away the last of my buttons, my grip slipped on the papers. She pulled them out of my hands, and I grabbed a clump of her thick hair. I did it to restrain the woman—but I ended up with nothing more than a fistful of wig!

I tried to ID her actual hair color—black? brown? auburn?—but she was wearing a tight skullcap. That's when I noticed a reddish brown scar on the back of her neck, in the shape of a crescent moon.

Free from my grip, the giantess scrambled to her feet while I snatched at her ID necklace. Its dangling string broke the second before the nurse stomped my thigh with her sneaker and fled the room.

Leg aching, I picked myself off the polished floor and went after her.

“Mike! Somebody! Help! There's an intruder in the hospital!”

In the very next moment, two things happened.

At the far end of the hallway, double doors opened and Mike appeared in response to my cries. On the opposite side of the corridor, I saw the fake nurse pounding the elevator button, trying to summon the next car.

When she spotted me, she abandoned the whole elevator escape and opted for the stairs. Rather than wait for Mike and maybe lose her, I followed the nurse into the stairwell.

Ignoring the pain in my leg, I clutched together the tattered ruins of my costume and hurried down the stairs, past one, two, three exits. Below me, I heard the fake nurse making a phone call. She was cursing, saying something about coming out. Her voice sounded closer, so I knew the call had slowed her down, and I was catching up!

At the ground floor she pushed through another steel door, and I was right behind her. We both ran through a hall lined with elevators, toward a glass door that exited to the street.

I was about ten steps from tackling the woman when an elevator opened in front of me. Mike stepped out and shouted—

“Clare, get down!”

No
, I thought,
I'm too close to give up!

But Mike's strong arm hooked my waist. Momentum spun us and we tumbled to the sea green linoleum—just in time apparently.

I was so furiously focused on catching the nurse that I'd missed her accomplice. Now I spied the fat man at the exit, a wool ski mask over his face and a very large gun in his hand.

The shot was deafening inside the narrow hall.

I curled into a ball, Mike protectively on top, when the clock on the wall above our heads exploded, raining plastic and glass. Ears ringing, I saw Mike's lips move as he ran his hand over me. I could tell he was asking if I was hurt, and I shook my head.

“I'm all right. Are you—”

He was already up and running. Two hands on his gun, he plowed his shoulder into the door and burst onto the chilly sidewalk.

I arrived in time to see a black SUV speeding away.

Legs braced, Mike was aiming at the wheels when an MTA bus lumbered through the intersection on Amsterdam, blocking sight of the fugitive vehicle. With a curse, he lowered his weapon.

By the time the bus passed by, the SUV had vanished into the night.

W
HEN
the police arrived, two uniforms separated us. Mike already called in a description of the suspects and their car. Now the cops wanted our full statements.

Meanwhile, Anya was moved to a new room, a security guard posted on her door. A doctor checked her over and deemed her fine—with the exception of her near-comatose state.

Then the Crime Scene detectives went to work. They searched Anya's old room for evidence, retrieved the bullet from the hallway, and the sopping wet clothes from my body.

By the end of it, my festival costume was living in an evidence bag, and (thanks to the hospital staff), I was handed a clean pair of OR scrubs. I got into the dry clothes and went looking for Mike.

I found him in the hallway with his suit jacket off. Arms folded, sleeves rolled up, he leaned against a wall, watching the Crime Scene people work.

When he saw me, he tugged my hand, pulling me back into the waiting room where we'd started out.

After a day working in a Fairy Tale Village, and a night chasing through (what felt like) cursed woods, I thought I'd be ready for anything, even a wicked witch disguised as a
Cuckoo
nurse.

What I hadn't expected was a goon with a gun, waiting in a getaway car. And when the dust settled, I realized the heavyset man in the ski mask wasn't necessarily nearsighted.

“He deliberately aimed above our heads, didn't he? To keep us from following.”

Mike nodded an affirmative, but I was no less grateful.

Who knew where that man would have aimed if I had continued running for the door? Mike had saved my “pastry pushing” rear, and I told him so. He touched my cheek.

“One time or another, sweetheart, even the toughest of us needs backup. Unless, of course, you're a superhero.”

“Well, you may see that yet.”

I pointed to Delecki's cape, still folded on the waiting room chair. “The police took my peasant dress, these OR scrubs are flimsy, and the only other thing I have to wear looks like I pinched it from Superman.”

Mike smiled and handed me his suit jacket. “In case you get cold.”

“Thanks.”

“So . . .” he said, leading us to two chairs. “Do you have an opinion about what happened?”

I rubbed my sore jaw. “Either it was the most aggressive health insurance broker in history, or some woman and her partner were trying to coerce Anya into signing a legal document.”

“I'm guessing the latter.”

“Me too. Did they find any of the pages I tore?”

Mike nodded. “One ripped page was mostly blank, but the other had a sentence about the undersigned waiving, quote, ‘all further litigation,' and a space for Anya to sign.”

“If she's involved in a lawsuit, it can't be that hard to find out the details, right?”

“That depends. Both parties could have been negotiating in private. But someone close to Anya might know the facts.”

“It's too bad about the ID photo, the one I yanked off her neck.”

“You said the photo was fake?”

“It wasn't the woman I saw. Not even close.”

“Sounds like a semiprofessional job,” Mike concluded.

“
Semi
professional?”

“Yes, it would have been easy to take a picture of the woman with the wig on, and stick it on the ID. But this pair grabbed some anonymous photo off a social site. They knew enough to manufacture a convincing ID without exposing themselves—that's professional-level thinking. On the other hand, trying to slap her awake was a downright stupid ploy.”

“Stupid and desperate,” I said. “Who would do something so risky?”

“A cut-rate private detective agency maybe.”

“What? Like someone good enough to close a divorce case, but out of their depth for this job?”

Mike nodded. “Or it could be private muscle in the employ of some shady law firm, even a respectable one. Or someone's relative doing his or her cousin a favor. The possibilities are endless.”

“What about the SUV?”

“They're looking for it, but I'll bet a steak dinner at Peter Luger's the vehicle was stolen for this job.”

We both fell silent, and then I said what we both were thinking.

“This doesn't change anything for Matt, does it? I mean, these two wanted some kind of legal release. It's unlikely they were the ones who drugged Anya, only to pull this stunt to get to her again.”

“I agree. I doubt they had anything to do with her overdose.”

“Then I'm right. This doesn't let Matt off the hook.”

“No, but the toxicology report might. We'll have to be patient. The lab results should be back within the week.”

I cocked my head. “And the doctors are absolutely certain it's drug intoxication?”

“According to Anya's medical records, she has no history of illnesses, although they're running more tests. But there was no sign of violence. Anya wasn't molested in any way. No needle tracks were found on her body and no bruises, only some minor scratches on her leg, which they attribute to the brush in the woods.”

“Her leg . . .”

I flashed back to the disturbing vision I'd had on the sidewalk outside that club. Anya had been bleeding from a hole in her leg—her
lower left
leg.

“Clare? What's wrong?”

“Was it Anya's left leg where they found the scratches?”

“Yeah.” Quinn nodded. “Her lower left leg. They bandaged it up.”

“And no needle tracks?”

“None—not that visible tracks prove anything. Intravenous narcotics can be shot under the tongue, where the tracks are harder to detect.”

I shuddered. “I can't imagine.”

“I don't have to imagine. I've seen it.”

“Can't the doctors find a way to wake Anya up?”

Mike rubbed his eyes. “She didn't respond to flumazenil, which is unusual.”

“That's what they used on Matt all those years ago when he nearly died of an overdose.”

“Which means it may not be cocaine or heroin, and that's good for Matt. The specialists are ready with more specific treatment once they know what kind of drug they're dealing with.”

Just then, a beefy young cop called into the room. “You two ready to go?”

“Go where?” I asked.

He shrugged. “That's up to you, Doctor. My sergeant said to take you wherever you like.”

Mike arched an amused eyebrow. “Where to, Doc?”

“Home,” I said. “But before we go, will you do me a favor? Ask a
real
doctor to reexamine those scratches on her leg. I have a strong feeling they'll find something there.”

“What?”

“I don't know. Call it a hunch.”

Mike studied me—seriously this time. “All right. I'll ask.”

“It may mean nothing, but it bothers me, and—”

“It's okay, Cosi. One thing I've learned on this job. Never argue with hunches.”

*   *   *

T
EN
minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a chilly police cruiser, tugging Mike's suit jacket closer around my flimsy OR scrubs.

Delecki's folded cape sat on my lap. I could have put it on, but I wasn't in the mood to fend off one-liners from our chauffeurs in blue. Besides, I was getting too much respect dressed as a doctor, even if I was freezing my padded ass off.

Mike had been leaning forward, chatting with our driver and his partner, when he noticed my shivery shifting. Without a word, he sat back and put his arm around me.

“Thanks,” I whispered. “You're getting pretty good at this.”

“Practice makes perfect,” he murmured in my ear.

The evening had grown colder with a low fog rolling in from the Hudson, yet up ahead the Village Blend's windows glowed steadily golden through the shifting gloom, its flickering hearth making the red brick shop look like a welcoming cottage in a dark forest.

“Almost home,” Mike whispered.

Snuggling closer to his big, warm body, I sighed.
Home
was exactly how I thought of my coffeehouse, and I was glad to hear him use the word.

In all our conversations tonight, he had yet to bring up the question of my moving to Washington. Frankly, I was relieved. I was still holding out hope that he'd find a way around his difficult boss in DC and come back to New York for good.

As fairy tales went, that would be
my
wish come true.

Mike thanked our escorts as they pulled over the cruiser, then he took my hand, and we crossed the sidewalk, toward the four-story landmark building that housed the Village Blend.