Angel Interrupted (8 page)

“Well, time to go save lives,” he said reluctantly, still holding her gaze.

Oh, yeah, well, there is that. The whole saving lives thing and all.

“It was nice to meet you, Dr. Fletcher,” Maggie answered, holding out her hand.

“Call me Christian.” He held on to her hand just a beat too long. She didn’t seem to mind. “You can find most of the staff in the nurses’ lounge sooner or later,” he offered, stalling. “It’s at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you.”

Maggie’s
thank you
was enough to cause the doctor to bump into the door frame on the way out, but it was scant punishment for his audacity in daring to take my Maggie from me.

Dr. Christian Fletcher? What a jerk. Fletcher the Lecher, more likely.

I took a good look at what I was feeling, and I had to admit it: jealousy was alive and well in the dead.

You’d think nurses would like cops. But not this one. She looked like Nikita Khrushchev wearing a black wig—and she was not letting Maggie talk to any of “her nurses.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I am sure the staff would like to talk to you and we are certainly all devastated about Fiona. But we are understaffed tonight and it’s simply not possible until the shift is over and a new shift arrives.”

“How long?” Maggie finally muttered after the third time she was told this. She was not used to having to give up. It unleashed something unpredictable in her that fascinated me.

“Three hours. But you might be able to catch some of the new shift if you get here a little before that. Some of them knew Fiona.”

“What about you?” Maggie asked, peering at the woman. Her forearms were as big as hams and she was guarding the nurse’s station like a mother bear protects her cubs.

“What about me?” the woman shot back. She had mean eyes, like she was looking for a puppy to kick. I’d hate to see those eyes coming at me if I was dying. Or being born, for that matter.

“Did you know Fiona Harker?”

“No,” she said abruptly. “Not at all.” She turned her back on Maggie and began stacking patient files. Maggie knew it was a waste of time to argue with her and left.

I followed her out of the hospital and amused myself playing hopscotch on the colored lines that had been painted on the floor to help people find their way through the maze of white hallways. I don’t know if anyone actually thought the twisting lines of green, red, blue, and yellow were helpful—they confused the hell out of me—but it sure was fun to jump from one color to the other, chanting old childhood songs.

“Step on a crack, break your mother’s back,” a high voice said.

I stopped abruptly and noticed a little girl of around nine wearing a hospital gown. She was standing in the doorway of a vending machine nook, a pack of potato chips in one hand. Her feet were bare and she had no hair. Not a strand. Her head was shaped like a giant Brussels sprout.

“Those aren’t good for you,” I said, nodding at the chips.

She shrugged. “Neither is chemo, but I’m doing it anyway.” And with that, she followed me in hopping from color to color down the hall for a few moments, then disappeared through two swinging doors, labeled PEDIATRIC ONCOLOGY.

The girl had been real.

It’s things like this that mess with your head when you’re dead.

Maggie was taking the long way out of the hospital, as if she was lost. Perhaps she should have followed the colored lines.
Unless . . .
I noted with a flash of jealousy that she was heading out through the emergency room exit doors, looking around as she did so. But the fantastic Dr. Fletcher was nowhere to be found. Most of the staff was clustered by a double-wide entrance door, ushering in stretchers of people covered in blood. A car accident, I suspected. Their agony engulfed me, and I fled the building, thinking,
It’s not death that people ought to fear, it’s life. Life hurts way more than death.

I can get across town in minutes if I need to, but I like to ride shotgun with Maggie and pretend that we’re partners. It’s difficult to do that if Calvano is along for the ride, of course. There’s no way in hell I’m sitting on
his
lap, but today we had her car to ourselves. Maggie doesn’t play music when she drives. She hums. Not very well, either, but I like to think everyone is allowed a few imperfections.

Maggie hums because she is thinking. Her tuneless melodies form the soundtrack to her mind and she was burning synapses that day as she sorted through the case she had been given. She had an amazing ability to compartmentalize her thoughts. I knew she had put the issue of the missing boy aside while she concentrated on the dead nurse. She cared about the boy—everyone did: there were AMBER Alerts and volunteer search teams and media blanketing our town—but Maggie had been given the nurse’s banner to carry into battle, and that was where her allegiance lay.

I tried to read her thoughts. There was a connection building between Maggie and the nurse. I did not know if I had simply gotten better at reading Maggie’s emotions and this was a connection she forged with all victims, or if she felt an unexpected kinship with the nurse because they had their solitary lives in common. Whatever the cause, Maggie went through sadness, regret, fear, and a little bit of fury. I found that flicker of anger interesting. Fury at someone unknown who had killed the nurse—or fury at someone in her own life who had loved her and left her? But who could ever do such a thing? Who would leave someone like Maggie?

We reached the station at the same time as my old lady friend, Noni Bates. She was not alone. A well-dressed man in his early forties was gallantly helping her from a late model Lexus. He held a briefcase and wore expensive shoes. Dollars to doughnuts he was a lawyer, maybe even a good one. He was definitely a well-paid one. I had expected Noni to bring a fussy, old, retired lawyer to Robert Michael Martin’s rescue, perhaps one with bushy, white eyebrows and hair sprouting from his ears. But, of course, she had been a teacher and probably had a network of professionals from here to Shanghai she’d once taught and could forever call on.

It would take the two of them a while to get past the front desk sergeant, Freddy, who was in a bad mood because his wife was cheating on him with his brother. I knew this because one of the perks of being dead is that you know everyone’s secrets.

“But they may be questioning him right now,” Noni was telling Freddy.

“Not if he asked for a lawyer, they aren’t,” Freddy said politely, recognizing the steel in her voice and not wanting to antagonize her.

“He’s much too . . .” Noni paused. “He probably did not
insist
on one.”

Freddy shrugged. “I can’t help you there, ma’am. There’s no crime in being stupid.”

And stupid Robert Michael Martin was. Despite Noni’s warning, he had agreed to be questioned by Adrian Calvano without counsel present, believing his innocence would protect him.

I could have joined the interrogation and amused myself by making faces behind Calvano’s back, but I felt high-powered energy emanating from the observation room next door, and when Maggie headed for it, I drifted in behind her.

Gonzales shivered. “There’s a draft in here. Can you shut the door? I’ve got to get the air conditioning fixed.”
Not a draft, my friend, just little old me.

“Anything shake loose?” Maggie asked.

Gonzales shook his head. “It’s the usual disaster.” He seemed to remember that a couple of department lawyers were standing behind him and amended his remarks. “I don’t think there is anything to shake out of him.”

We all peered through the one-way glass. Robert Michael Martin sat, perplexed, in a straight-back chair across from Calvano—who was hammering on the table between them with his fist. It seemed a little early in the performance to be pounding on tabletops, but that was Adrian Calvano for you: no finesse.

“So, you are admitting that you actually go by the park every single morning to watch the children?” Calvano shouted at him.

Martin looked like he was going to cry. I felt his fear, but something else, too. I concentrated on it until I had it: the more Calvano screamed, the more Martin seemed comfortable with it. Not only was he accustomed to being yelled at and ridiculed, he expected it. I felt even sadder for him. His mother must have been a real joy.

“I told you,” Martin said, his voice cracking. “I volunteer for KinderWatch. Ask Colonel Vitek. He’ll tell you. He’s the founder of the group. I’m his best volunteer.”

“You’ve said that,” Calvano said with disgust. “Several times.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You like watching the little kids every day?”

“Come on,” Maggie said to Gonzales. “This is unproductive and beneath us. And there’s a lawyer downstairs coming up to represent Martin any minute. Let me talk to him and see what I can get before he shuts down. Maybe he saw something in the park that would help.” I felt a spark from her as she made one of the connections only Maggie can make. Her voice grew more excited. “Sir, let me ask him who was in the park
yesterday
. He may have seen whoever killed Fiona Harker.”

Gonzales turned to her, interested, but a knock interrupted their exchange. I was sure it was Martin’s lawyer, there to call off the dogs, but it was Peggy Calhoun from the lab. She held up a small, clear evidence bag holding a plastic dinosaur. “We got something from the park. Not much, but something.”

Gonzales and Maggie eyed the small green toy. “Are we sure it’s the boy’s?”

Peggy shrugged. “The officers that brought it in say some other kids at the playground identified it as belonging to Tyler Matthews. Its name is Rocky.”

“The dinosaur’s name is Rocky?” Gonzales asked dubiously.

“That’s what the other kids say he called it,” Peggy explained.

“Can you get anything off Rocky?” Gonzales said drily.

“Maybe a print. And if we’re lucky, not the kid’s.” Peggy didn’t sound too sure.

“See what you can do,” Gonzales told her absently. Calvano’s voice had risen to a roar and we were all distracted by his histrionics.

Peggy looked appalled at the scene unfolding behind the one-way mirror. “Sir,” she said firmly, staring at Calvano.

“What is it?” he asked, annoyed that she hadn’t left.

“There’s a rookie patrolman outside who wants to speak to you. I really think you’d better talk to him.”

“Go talk to him,” Gonzales ordered Maggie, not paying much attention. He was watching Calvano as one might watch a lab specimen, studying his behavior and trying to figure out the cause, cataloging Calvano’s triggers so that he might use that behavior for his own purposes one day. To my real dying day, and that could be a long time coming, I would never quite get Gonzales.

Maggie left to speak to the rookie patrolman and I, naturally, followed. It was Denny, the cop who had disturbed the crime scene a few hours before. He turned purple when he saw Maggie coming at him.

“Ma’am, I would just like to say again how sorry I am that—”

“What is it?” Maggie interrupted. She didn’t like groveling, but she didn’t like incompetence, either, so he was not getting off the hook entirely.

The poor kid was so nervous that he almost stuttered. Maggie took pity on him. “Take a deep breath,” she told him. “Now order your thoughts like you’re writing an essay. Get you facts in order. One, two, three . . . ready?”

He nodded.

“Now tell me,” Maggie said calmly.

“I talked to an old lady who is a neighbor of the man being questioned. She was there when we searched his house. A friend of his mother’s, I believe she said.”

“Very good,” Maggie told him. “Keep going.”

“She says Martin came to get her this morning, very excited about a man in the park who was watching the children. He was quite concerned the man might do something.”

“And this was before we found the nurse or the kid was taken?”

“Yes, definitely before.” Denny looked at Maggie. “That’s important, right? It means he didn’t just make it up after he was a suspect.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. “It’s important. Was the neighbor telling you the truth?”

“The old lady?” Denny looked startled. “Ma’am, I don’t think she’s capable of not telling the truth.”

Maggie smiled. “I’ve known a few people like that myself.”

“There was one other thing. The old lady knew the nurse. She says Calvano interviewed her about it.”

“Yes?” Maggie asked, trying to pull it out of him.

“She says the nurse would never have killed herself, that she was a Catholic.”

“We know she didn’t kill herself,” Maggie assured him. “Thank you. I’ll let the commander know.”

Denny scurried away and Peggy, who had been watching Maggie from a spot against the wall, spoke. “What is it? You look troubled.”

“Just one Catholic girl looking after another,” Maggie said. “That could have been me, you know. Seriously.”