When Men Betray (46 page)

The hotel doorman, looking a little surprised, held the door as Clovis and I walked in. “Welcome back, Mr. Patterson. Are you staying with us tonight?”

Thanking him, I said that I was just free for the afternoon and had thought I'd get a bite to eat and a drink in the bar. “Is Ms. Warner here? Can you find out if she can join me?”

We went to the bar, and I sat in a banquette facing the entire room. Clovis sat at the table next to mine. I ordered a glass of wine. Clovis had a Coke.

I kidded him, “When do we get to have a beer together?”

“If we make it through the weekend.”

A sobering thought.

The bar was fairly empty. The lunch crowd was long gone, and the early dinner patrons hadn't yet arrived. A couple of middle-aged guys sat at the bar, and I saw what looked to be a rendezvous between an older man and his “niece” at a cozy table in the corner.

I watched as Brenda walked through the door. Frowning at Clovis, she sat down across from me. I told her not to mind him. “He's just a little edgy today.”

“Well, I guess so! The news about the car bomb is all over town. Thank God none of you were hurt!”

We talked about the hotel, her impending trip to Napa Valley, and made other chitchat until her drink arrived. Clovis seemed engrossed in the messages on his cell phone.

Taking a sip, Brenda seemed to relax a little. “You left without even saying good-bye.”

I apologized and blamed Clovis.

“I heard you met in chambers all morning and recessed until tomorrow. What was that about?”

“Oh, nothing special. We just had some legal issues to work out. It's better to handle that stuff without the press. Tomorrow will be business as usual, if you can say that about a murder case.”

She seemed unhappy with my evasion and tried again. “Everyone
wonders if there's some sort of big surprise coming tomorrow. Come on. You can tell me.”

“Come to think of it, something did come up in court today that I wanted to ask you about.”

I detected a look of caution in her eyes.

“What's that?”

“You and Woody had a few drinks together the Tuesday night before the shooting. You didn't tell me about that. That first morning over breakfast you told me you hadn't seen Woody for a couple of weeks. Remember? Sam caught me off guard today with that little revelation.”

“Oh,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth, “I do remember that. I did tell you he came in here sometimes for drinks. I guess we did talk for a few minutes. It was no big deal, just slipped my mind.”

“What did you talk about?”

When she hesitated, I allowed my voice to harden. “You were one of the last people to talk to him before the shooting. According to a witness, you talked for over an hour. In fact, Woody was quite drunk when he left. So, please, tell me about it.”

Brenda's face was no longer fresh and sweet; she was flushing, and her voice took on an edge. “I told you, I don't remember. Do you remember every bar conversation you've ever had?”

“Brenda, you need to be honest with me. What did you and Woody talk about? What did he tell you last Tuesday?”

I sensed that Clovis was uneasy. The bar was starting to get busy. People were milling around, ordering drinks and finding tables.

“I'm telling you,” she insisted, “I don't remember. What do you want me to say?”

“You're lying, beautiful. I wish you weren't, but you are. You spent over an hour with Woody last Tuesday night getting him drunk, and he told you all about Russell and what they had argued about. Woody told you he'd bought a gun, right? Who'd you call after he left?”

Brenda was shaking her head no, but her eyes told me I had the truth of it.

“I know you're lying, because you're the only person he talked to after he bought the gun. The next day, two men showed up at the
gun store asking about Woody's purchase. I think you called Don McAlvin.” Clovis had learned that McAlvin owned this hotel with a couple of his friends.

“He was the oil exec you told me about when I checked in. You were probably talking to him when I walked in on you the other day. Maybe you have another relationship with Mr. McAlvin. You know, Brenda, you weren't very discreet. Your name appears more than once in Russell's duck club register.”

Seeing her name had come as quite a jolt. I hated to think how badly I'd been fooled. Now, I hardly recognized the woman sitting across from me.

“You son of a bitch. How dare you!”

I held up a hand to cut her off. “I have one bit of advice for you. Leave this bar and call a lawyer. You're going to need one, a really good one.”

Her face bright red, Brenda rose to leave. As she did, she dropped her napkin and appeared to stumble to the floor. I started to help her, when I saw a man in a hotel uniform step out from behind the bar, raise a gun, and fire. The only thing I felt was Clovis slamming into me. Then everything went black.

I
WAS SOMEWHERE
else, someplace dark and quiet, someplace far away. I felt no fear; this place was peaceful and safe. Sometimes, I could sense light, but as I began to feel pain, I fell back into the dark. I could both hear and sense movement around me, but had no desire to react. I had no concept of time—neither the past nor the future—just the now. But the light was inescapable, and slowly, I realized I was alive. I had to be alive—I couldn't hurt this much if I were dead.

At some point, my eyes were able to focus on the vague figure on the other side of the pain, and I recognized the face of the dreamy-eyed nurse who'd taken care of me before. I tried to smile, but my muscles wouldn't cooperate. I drifted in and out of consciousness, always ready to retreat behind the haze.

I opened my eyes again, this time to the reality of IVs, endless tubes, and wires. Someone was constantly checking my pulse and blood pressure, asking about the pain.
Was it a one or a ten?
How do you describe the totally subjective sensation of pain on a number scale? All I knew was I hurt like hell. They told me to push one button for pain meds, and another for a nurse, but I was too confused, so I didn't push either one. I tried to ask questions about what happened, and about Woody, but the only answer was, “Get your rest now—plenty of time for questions later.” I must have slept for a very long time, because when I woke up, I was wide-awake and ready to stay that way.

Beth sat in the chair next to my bed, computer in her lap.

“Hey, babe. How you doing?” I croaked. Beth smiled and jumped up to get the nurse, but I said, “Wait. Just hold my hand for a minute.”

Almost on cue, an army of nurses barged into the room. They were checking bags and tubes and asking me if I needed to pee, which I did, by the way. I'll spare you the indignities I suffered. When they left, I turned to Beth again. All I wanted was to know what had happened.

A doctor, my doctor I guessed, walked in, looked at the charts and at me, and told me I was lucky. I had guessed that myself. He explained that I had been shot. I knew that, too. The bullet had missed my heart and lungs, primarily damaging the muscles of my chest and shoulder. I had also lost a lot of blood and had a concussion, apparently from my head slamming into a table. That's why I felt so groggy. He told me I would need ongoing physical therapy—then reminded me again that I was very lucky.

I woke from another nap to find that Maggie had replaced Beth. Maggie told me that Beth had slept in my room for the last two nights, unwilling to leave even for a meal. I realized that I had lost a whole day. My last memory was of the scene with Brenda at the Armitage—it was now Saturday.

Maggie looked pale, even a little disheveled, and I wondered how long she had been here. I tried to ask about court, but she said I wasn't supposed to be bothered and that I shouldn't worry—Bea and Woody were now in federal custody. As to what else had happened, I'd have to wait. I asked about Clovis, Brenda, and the guy who shot me, but Maggie remained tight-lipped. I'd have to hope for a less rigorous caretaker.

The nurses appeared at regular intervals. After jostling me about and thankfully removing several tubes, they told me I needed to get out of bed and start walking. I felt dizzy, but with Maggie's help, and the IV stand I was holding on to, we began to walk the halls. Clovis had brought me some pajama bottoms, so at least I didn't have to walk the halls clutching the back of an open-air hospital gown that didn't reach my knees. Finding a policeman seated outside the door to my room gave me pause—and a reality check.

To my surprise, we stopped in the waiting room, where Helen, Mabel, and a few other women I'd never met were “waiting.” Maggie
told me they'd been there for most of two days, knitting and chatting—just being there. Helen gave me a gentle, careful hug. “I saw Woody before he left. He told me to thank you … and Jack, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I know I'm not supposed to bother you, but thank you. We can talk more when you get better.”

I shuffled back toward my room, dragging my IV stand along. It seemed a little like the prison shuffle. I turned to Maggie. “Okay, I'm well. Tell me what happened.”

“You're not well. Until the doctor says it's okay to talk, nobody's talking. Everyone wants to see you. Satellite trucks are keeping vigil outside the hospital—the press adores you now. But until the doctor gives us a green light, nobody's going to tell you anything. So behave.”

Beth came up behind us and said, “That means no sneaking down to the ER to flirt with your new girlfriend.”

I had no idea who Beth was talking about, though I did wonder what had happened to Brenda. I figured I'd better not ask. Maggie left, and I had just drifted off to sleep when I woke suddenly to find the doctor examining his handiwork and a nurse removing another line attached to my wrist.

He smiled and said, “You're healing nicely. If things go well, and the x-ray and ultrasound are clean, you should be able to leave tomorrow. Don't plan on going anywhere for a few days—just take it easy. I'll want to see you before you leave town, but I'll write a report for your doctor back in DC. Someone will need to change the bandages regularly, and you'll be in physical therapy for a while, but you're healing rather well.”

I had a hundred questions. Like most doctors on rounds, he came in and out so fast that I hardly knew he was there. This time. I remembered the critical question before he was two patients down the hall.

“When can somebody tell me what happened?”

He turned from the door, looking puzzled, “Whenever you're ready, I guess. There's no reason why you shouldn't know what's going on.” And with that, he left.

I looked at Beth, who flashed a sheepish grin.

“Okay, I know you and Maggie-hen are trying to protect me, but out with it. What's going on?”

She smiled. “Okay, but I don't want to spoil anything. Micki and Maggie deserve to tell you what happened with Woody. As to
everything else, the guy with the gun is in custody. Clovis shot him in the leg, and the police were there within a matter of minutes. He has a long record, and there is no doubt that he was hired to kill you, but so far he hasn't said a word. Brenda wasn't arrested, but she's under investigation. I think Sam and Peggy Fortson are working together on the charges. Sam can tell you more tomorrow.”

“Is Clovis okay?”

She nodded. “He saw the shooter in the nick of time and was able to shove you enough so the bullet missed your heart. Clovis said it was quite a scene—people were running, Brenda was screaming, he was shouting orders—he said ‘it was like all hell done broke loose.' Everyone was pretty shocked. They all came to the hospital in the first few hours after it happened. It took Micki a long time to calm down. First she screamed at Clovis for letting this happen, but she apologized pretty quickly. He told us you insisted on meeting Brenda against his advice.”

Brenda
. Clovis had been dead set against the meeting—claimed I was putting us in unnecessary danger. Turned out, he was right.

“The attorney general is flying in tomorrow for a big press conference. You've also had some other visitors—Tucker, a few of your old baseball teammates, and Ben, who brought barbecue to the waiting room for all of us. Oh, and of course, your new girlfriend. She's been checking on you.”

“Okay, I'll bite. What new girlfriend?”

“Don't pretend you don't remember. Claudia, the nurse who treated you when you fell on the beer bottle, was in the emergency room when the paramedics brought you in. You took one look at her in your loopy condition and shouted, ‘Dreamy-eyes!' Now everyone's calling her Dreamy-Eyes, paramedics, janitors, you name it. She stayed with you almost the whole time you were the in ICU. I apologized for the nickname, but she told me she loved it and not to give you any grief, which of course I am. You're going to have to get in line if you want to make a move on her, though. Interns follow her around like lost puppies. Besides, you're a little old for her.”