Red Hot Christmas (22 page)

 
“There’s more to life than work, kid,” Patty said, before removing the headset. Her coworker ran her fingers through her eighties inspired shaggy brown short hair, due for a cut. The helicopter touched the ground, and the rotation of the propellers muzzled the other words that came out of Patty’s mouth.
 

      “We’re clear,” Jeff, the pilot, warned them and opened the door.
 

      They stepped on the ground, and a gust of wind slapped Sydney in the face. She shivered inside the bulky work jacket, over her flight suit.
 

“Frank Lewis. Gunshot wound to the right side of the chest. Sixty-year-old male, hypotensive. Robbery attempt,” the ground nurse briefed them, as they bend down to assess the patient lying on the gurney.
 

Patty signed some release documents so they would be able to transfer him, and Sydney tried to zero in on the guy, filtering out the mess and noise around them. The lights from a police car flashed, and she blinked a couple times. Her heart raced every time she saw a police car, knowing how cold and lonely the back seat of one of them had been. Several pedestrians with shopping bags in tow stood, whispering to one another. The street had been blocked and secured for the landing, but they couldn’t prevent passersby from indulging in curiosity. Unfortunately.
 

“Sir. Can you hear me?” Patty said.
 

Sydney assessed the patient, whose breathing came out in quick pants. “Hang in there, Frank,” she said, her voice softer than usual. She produced the oxygen mask and put it on him. “You can do it.”
 

Maybe he understood what she meant, for his thins lips moved as if he struggled to push words out. With help from Jeff, they strapped him on the backboard, and loaded him in the helicopter. Once inside, they managed his pain with meds, made sure he was getting fluids in his system through the IV. A fresh amount of blood stained the bandages covering the stitches. Shaking her head, Patty changed the bandages from the ground crew on his wound.
 

“We need to get him to a trauma surgeon fast,” Sydney thought out loud.
 

Patty offered her the gentle smile of a woman in her sixties who had been working in the industry for too long and had seen too much.
 

Frank’s pale face turned to her, and he groaned, in pain no doubt. He shook his head and squirmed.

His muffled sounds pushed through the oxygen mask. She pulled it to the side.
 

“You’ll be okay.” A clunky lump lodged in her throat, and swallowing became a hard task. Giving patients false hopes had to go against the guidelines, but why would she deny them what she herself had never had?
 

A couple of incomprehensible words flew past his lips, his breathing worsening. It was almost impossible to hear anything with the rotors going. She leaned closer to his ear. “I…I…” he started. “Tell Alejandro Soto…there is…” He closed his eyes and his oval face tightened for a moment. “I’m…sorry I put him at risk. My…fault. I tried to—” His eyes rolled, the effort to use his brain too much at that point.
 

“I will,” she said, and nodded to Patty to put his oxygen mask back on him. He closed his eyes and the contours of his face softened, his wrinkles stretching.
 

“Wow. That was strange.” She raised her gaze to Patty. “Do you think he just told me some Alejandro dude is in danger?”
 

Patty shrugged. “Maybe. The guy’s been robbed, shot, and you know how patients can get after pain meds. Delirious.”
 

“I know.” She had heard her share of odd stories at work, but the desperation in this man’s eyes was something she couldn’t ignore. “He just seemed genuine.”
 

“Oh darling. Aren’t you a sweetie pie?” Patty used the same tone of voice one would to talk to a baby or a puppy.
 

Making a face, Sydney observed him. His state was critical, but if he got to the hospital in time, hopefully he would make it. Yeah.
 

Fifteen minutes later, the helicopter landed at one of Chicago’s best hospitals, and they unloaded the patient. A couple of ground staff, nurses and doctors greeted them. But even after the patient had been released to the care of the hospital, and Sydney and Patty had finished their charts, a strange feeling shook Sydney.
 

Unlike most places, this helipad was on the same level as the hospital emergency entry and not on the rooftop. She glanced around them, and most of the employees hovering around the helipad and manicured bushes she recognized. A quiver went through her, and she sucked in a breath. Her stomach growled. The turkey cheese sandwich from hours ago wasn’t cutting it. Although, there was something else unsettling her.
 

The sensation she was being watched was silly. Or was it?
 

“Shouldn’t we let the police know? What he said up there?” she asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
 

Patty retrieved her cell phone from her pocket and skimmed through text messages. “Go ahead.”

She sat on the bench, plopping down until her shoulders sagged against the metal. “Talking to the police isn’t my thing.” She could have laughed at her understatement, only that required energy she didn’t have.
 

“Tell you what. This is probably nothing. But if you insist, I’ll give them a call tomorrow. Didn’t add it to the report because I am too darn tired.” She compressed a yawn. “Grandkids in town. Those kids don’t know what quiet time is.”

“Thank you, Patty.”

“No worries, Syd. And the Christmas offer is still good.”
 

The gunshot patient’s face stalked her memory all through her shift, and the subway ride to her apartment. After chowing down a microwaved chicken fettuccine dinner, Sydney reached for her laptop and Googled the patient. Frank Lewis. Tons of links popped up on her screen, most of them of review sites or online bookstores. He was a writer. A link to his publisher directed her to his bio, but she didn’t find anything revealing.
 

What was the name of the guy Frank had told her, again? The one he wronged? Alejandro was a common Hispanic name, but what was the surname? She misspelled a couple times until Google threw a suggestion at her. God Bless the Internet, she thought.
Alejandro Soto.

Wow. The picture of a gorgeous male specimen graced her monitor. If she had on glasses, they would have fogged. For real. She clicked on the mouse to enlarge it, and the image was enough for her to wiggle on her tattered old chair. Holy shit.
 

He could be a model for an aftershave commercial. Alejandro’s face took over her screen as if he stared back at her. When was the last time she ran into a man with a pair of sexy slanted black eyes? Not ever. A five o’clock shadow dusted his imposing, aristocratic jaw. His nose was just a tad longer than normal, which made him even more remarkable.
 

A wave of heat went through her, and she opened the first two buttons of her flannel pajama top. Something about this man told her when he demanded attention, he got it. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and she gulped down the rest of her Diet Coke at once.
Get it together, Sydney
. There were other pictures of him, which she decided to skip. Most of the articles were in Spanish, but she clicked on one in English.
 

“South American investor moves to Chicago,” she read aloud. She scrolled down the page, and continued to read about the Argentine who moved to Chicago to oversee the growth of his company’s North American business. Hmmm…
 

Tell him he’s at risk
.
My fault.
The voice from the patient rang in her ears, and she closed the laptop. What if Frank Lewis was someone important to Alejandro? Some family member or a valuable employee? Someone who made a mistake, and didn’t have enough time for redemption.
 

She drew a long breath, and released it very, very slowly.
What should I do?
Maybe Patty was right; it was probably nothing. What if it was? Ugh.
 

She glanced at the silver frame on the top of her desk. It still displayed the black and white picture of a happy couple laughing with a child. Really, she meant to put a picture in there, but after weeks of looking at her surrogate family, she ended up getting used to them. Even naming them.
Nancy, Beau and Maggie.

Phew.
What should I do, guys?
She could go on with her life, as if nothing had happened. Forget about the silly message. Or she could just pass it on.
 

Yep. Tomorrow, she would wake up and find a way to tell Alejandro Soto about the message. Then, she would go on and not worry about it anymore. Ever again.
 

***

“What do you mean, dead?” Alejandro Soto clasped the phone and turned to stare at the floor to ceiling view of the Chicago Loop in front of him. The guided boat tours, packed in the summer, were scattered on Lake Michigan. Dark clouds amassed in the sky and hid the midday sun.
 

“Someone robbed Mr. Lewis after he left the office last night. He…he always hated walking, but his doctor insisted he exercise after his blood pressure spiked,” Meryl, Frank Lewis’s longtime assistant, said, her voice strangled on the other end of the phone. “And he dies like this,” she continued, bursting into a hysterical cry.
 

Alejandro heard a rustle and guessed she wiped her nose. His stomach curled, and his spine locked into place.
Dead?
“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I had no idea.”

No, he had no idea. Just two days earlier, he had met with the biographer in charge of penning his book. Although he’d met the man only a handful of times, a wave of sorrow washed through him. “Did he leave family behind?”

Meryl grew quiet, as if trying really hard to keep it together, then sobbed again. Louder. “A beautiful wife. And two stepsons.”
 

Two kids. Alejandro lost his father at ten. “That’s terrible. Did the police catch the criminal?”

“No. They’re still investigating; they’ve had a rash of burglaries in the area. You know, it’s that time of year.”

Alejandro glanced at the strand of colorful Christmas lights strung in his office. His assistant Jessica had put them up, even though he’d be in Buenos Aires with family for Christmas. His father had loved Christmas, and although he was no longer with them, Alejandro always made a point to return home for the holidays, and tried to celebrate with the same enthusiasm. That’s what Papa would have wanted—and that’s what he had promised him.

“Let me know if his family needs anything,” Alejandro said, although he doubted they would. Frank Lewis had been one of the best in his field, and wore a shining Rolex to prove it.
 

“Thanks. Someone from the publisher will get in touch with you to, er, assign someone else to your project.”
 

Alejandro jammed a hand in his pocket. “We’ll sort that out later. Sorry for your loss. Good-bye.” He tossed the phone on his desk and let out a long sigh.
 

What was he supposed to do now? Frank had been such a great help. Opening up wasn’t his thing, and he’d trusted the old man. Well, maybe old in age. His burly physique and jet-black hair made him seem younger than his 60 years, and he certainly didn’t come across as the stereotypical introverted writer.

After walking to the console table, in between a set of Scandinavian sofas, Alejandro retrieved a square crystal glass and poured himself a shot of whisky. “See you on the other side, Frank.” He downed the shot.
 

Publishers had bugged him for years, offering him deals to pen a manuscript about turning his grandfather’s family owned winery into an international success. A book about his passion for grapes and making award-winning wines, woven through with details of his personal life growing up in the spotlight, would bring more recognition on a global scale. Not to mention, it would be the perfect clean slate after the unsavory rumors that had threatened to ruin his reputation.
 

Being from a political family, with his father having carried the vice president title decades ago and many of his uncles and cousins occupying cushy government jobs back home in Buenos Aires, he always craved something else. Alejandro worked in the family business of real estate and made it blossom, proving to anyone that, while politics wasn’t his calling, multiplying assets was a different story. He got a high on accomplishing success, turning things around. Saving.

Although…there was one person you couldn’t save.
Determined not to dwell on the past, he poured himself another shot, then lifted the glass to his mouth.
 

The intercom beeped. “Mr. Soto…there’s someone here to see you,” Jessica said.
 

“There’s nothing on my calendar. Who is it?”
 

“She doesn’t have an appointment. I’m sorry. The thing is—hey!” Jessica shouted.
 

Footsteps sounded against the floor, nearing his oversize door. He set his glass down on the console, his gaze riveted to the entrance.
 

The door swung open, and a woman with red hair marched in his office, her black clunky boots thumping on his dark wood flooring.