Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) (7 page)

ten

They wanted to cut
Grant's clothes off. Massachusetts General may have been the third oldest hospital in America and the largest in New England, but they didn't have enough staff for Grant to let them cut his clothes off. Boston Medical almost became
Boston Legal
until the nurse examining him realized Grant could take his clothes off himself.

The nurse wasn't amused.

The pain wasn't funny either.

The nurse smiled. “You're going to look awful stupid if your arm drops off trying to get out of that orange jacket.”

“It's my favorite.”

“Which is your favorite arm? The other one?”

“My favorite nurse was the other one.”

“There is no other one.”

“Any other one. Give me a hand here, will you?”

The nurse pursed her lips and folded her arms. She tapped one shoe as if keeping beat with an unheard song. It was a soft and sensible shoe. It didn't tap at all, but the effect was the same. Don't mess with me, the pose said. Grant stopped struggling with his jacket and looked her square in the eye. It was his turn to smile. “Please?”

The shoe stopped tapping, but the arms remained stubbornly folded. Despite the smell of antiseptic and voided bowels, a flowery scent wafted off her like roses in the summer. She was short and wiry and looked like she could wrestle alligators. All muscle and determination. The smile didn't work on her. Not straightaway.

“You're that cop from England, aren't you?”

Grant looked blank. He wondered what Miller had said before he left. There wasn't going to be any dying declaration, and they'd needed him back at E-13. The nurse raised an eyebrow. “It's all over the news. You can't hide in that orange signpost.”

“I'm not trying to hide.”

“Maybe you should try ducking then.”

She stepped forward and helped Grant slip his arms out of the sleeves. He tugged the T-shirt out of his jeans, and she pulled it off over his head. She was about to throw them into a grey plastic bag marked MGH, but he took them from her and folded them up. Military training stretched to more than self-defense and typing. If he'd ever known his mother he might have blamed her, but keeping his clothes tidy was an army trait.

The nurse began tapping her shoe again.

Grant paused in mid-fold. “Don't tell me you're Irish too. Hated the English from birth?”

The shoe stopped. “Third-generation English. From York.”

“A Yorkshire lass. Hallelujah. D'you know the secret?”

She looked nonplussed. “What secret?”

“For making Yorkshire puddings. The one thing you can't get supersized in America. A decent Yorkshire pudding.”

“Well, don't hold your breath. Hospital food is functional. Not big enough to feed you, not good enough for you to want to stay.”

“I don't want to stay.”

“We'll see after I've examined you. Drop your pants.”

“But nurse, I hardly know you.”

“You're not going to get to know me either.” She produced a hospital gown and dropped it on the bed. “Put this on and lie down.”

“I hope you warm your hands before you ask me to cough.” He thought that got through her defenses because there was a hint of a blush. It took a lot to make a nurse blush. He turned away from her and dropped his jeans. The laugh was deep and throaty, and he glanced over his shoulder. The nurse was looking at the No Entry sign above his back passage.

“No confusing your sexual leanings.”

“Like an orange jacket in a gunfight.”

“Right. Well, let's see what's wrong with the rest of you.”

It was like waiting to see the school nurse at Moor Grange. Grant shrugged the hospital gown on and prepared to be abused.

There were no broken bones and no internal injuries. That was the conclusion after four hours of poking and prodding and examinations by all manner of electronic devices. The ER was busy and quiet in waves. From his place inside the curtained cubicle he could hear emergencies rolling in, followed by periods of relative inactivity—just like any hospital in any major city. It was only the scale that separated the MGH from the BRI. Bradford Royal Infirmary performed the same function in Yorkshire but with a smaller population and restricted budget.

Americans even supersized their hospitals.

The voided bowels and antiseptic smells gave way to perfume and hot food. When the nurse came to check on him, it was the perfume. When she fed him, it was the food. No Yorkshire puddings. There was a brief spell when he could smell gunshot residue, like a freshly struck match or the aftermath of a fireworks display. Some kid shot over on Parker Street. A second victim had been taken to Brigham and Women's Hospital but died on arrival. Grant picked that up by listening to the attending officer. He picked up a lot by simply listening. It was a cop's most important tool.

The x-rays and scans confirmed what he already knew about his own injuries. The rest was simply scratches and sore eyes. The nurse cleaned and dressed the cuts. She rinsed his eyes with some kind of solution that stung at first, then produced blessed relief. His ears had stopped ringing hours ago, but his hearing was muted slightly. She told him that would ease by tomorrow.

The main concern was the bang on the head and his initial disorientation. He hadn't told the doctor about the combat trousers and boots but had to admit to feeling woozy when he'd come round immediately after the explosion. The fact that he'd lost consciousness, even briefly, was the deciding factor. Grant was going to have to stay overnight for observation.

That was the hospital's plan. Grant's plan was completely different.

“They'll come take you
to a ward after dinner.”

Grant didn't speak. It wasn't because his mouth was full of whatever the orderly had just served him, but because he didn't want to give a heads-up that he wouldn't be here when the porter came to pick him up.

The curtain swished shut.

Grant counted to ten. He swung his legs off the examination bed and put the food tray on the mattress. The grey plastic bag was on a shelf under the bed. His back, legs, and arms ached, but he managed to struggle into his jeans and T-shirt. Tying his shoes was too hard so he just slipped them on. He carried the orange jacket over one arm. No point causing more pain than he had to.

He waited for the next pulse of activity and raised voices. A car-crash victim was rushed past on a gurney, with all the staff that entailed. The gurney and the nurses went one way. Grant stepped out of his cubicle and went the other. Along the corridor, turn right, and he was away from the examination area. It looked like it was always busy out here. The pulses of action and peace in the ER smoothed into constant activity front of house.

Without the orange windcheater, Grant didn't stand out. He was just another body amid a shifting sea of bodies. He waited until a group of student doctors went out into the reception area and tagged along.

He was almost to the front door when a voice stopped him in his tracks. “I don't suppose you've signed yourself out, have you?”

Grant turned around slowly. Terri Avellone had a twinkle in her eye, tempered with concern on her face. She nodded towards the reception desk. “They're going to be very unhappy when they've lost you.”

“I'm not lost. Just misplaced.”

He saw the plastic name badge with a fancy chemical-firm logo. “I didn't know you worked here.”

“Just visiting. Business.”

He pointed at the front doors. “Just leaving. Business.”

She handed Grant an embossed business card with the name of a pharmaceutical company he couldn't pronounce. Terri Avellone was identified as its chief representative. There was a contact number across the bottom. He slipped the card into his pocket. “Sales?”

“Product placement.”

“A bit late for selling your wares, isn't it?”

“The guys I have to see work shifts. So I work late sometimes.” The concern transferred to her eyes but the smirk was still there. “You're not easy to forget.”

“Well, you know what they say. A good man is hard to find.”

“No. A hard man is good to find.”

He tilted his head as he looked at her. “You are a very naughty girl.”

“I need spanking.”

“Very naughty.”

She waved a hand towards the reception desk. The staff looked busy and harassed. Beyond them the ER continued its trench warfare.

“Professional courtesy—sign yourself out, then I'll give you a ride.”

Grant walked over to the reception desk, gave his details, and told the woman he was leaving. She was even less impressed than the nurse who'd examined him. Using as few words as possible, she shoved a clipboard at him across the counter. “Next of kin details, then sign. Against medical advice.”

“Next of kin?”

“Preferably in Boston, so they can get your body.”

“I don't have anyone in Boston.”

“You must know somebody.”

Grant paused for a moment, then smiled. He scribbled on the form and signed it, then went out for his ride.

eleven

Terri Avellone gave Grant
the ride of his life after a bit of small talk. She explained about supplying and importing drugs to hospitals. He explained about the explosive interview with the prisoner from the UK.

“How is he?”

“Apart from the fact that his arse is two miles away from his elbow and they're playing hunt the thimble for the rest of him?”

“Did you just make that up?”

“No.
The Long Good Friday.
Bob Hoskins. But the quote fits.”

“I'm sorry. The news didn't say.”

Out of sympathy for his condition, Avellone did most of the riding. Everything ached. Everything was sore and bruised. Almost everything. Sex was God's greatest invention, as far as Grant was concerned. It helped take your mind off the problems of life. It helped revitalize you after long international flights. And it relieved pain by focusing your attention on something else. It was the equivalent of stamping on your toe to divert your attention from a broken finger.

Avellone diverted Grant's attention. Big-time.

The shower wasn't an
option today. She helped him undress and put his jeans and T-shirt in a laundry bag outside the door. The orange jacket she dusted off and hung on a coat hanger. If this was a game of doctors and nurses, then she was the nurse and this was bath time.

She spread a towel on the bed and had him lie on his stomach. There was a small bowl under the sink. She filled it with hot water and set it beside the bed with a bar of scented soap and a sponge. The sponge was hers. Grant didn't ask where she kept it. The matchbook condom pack was open on the bedside table.

She soaped his back and shoulders. Most of the shrapnel cuts were on his front. Gentle hands, lubricated by scented foam, worked the band of muscles all the way from his shoulder blades to his No Entry sign. They were hard and tight, giving him core strength that meant if he planted himself firmly nobody was going to throw him over.

Her hands cleaned the sign, teased his buttocks, then slid beneath him to clean something else. He groaned with pain as much as pleasure. She was kneeling astride him and he could feel the flesh of her thighs clamped tight around him. He could only imagine what she was wearing. He'd bet it involved a smile.

She slapped his ass. “Turn over.”

“You didn't wash behind my ears.”

She slapped him harder. “Turn over.”

He turned over, rolling onto his back while remaining in position between her thighs. She had stripped down to her stockings and bra and tight black knickers. The stockings were so sheer they felt like velvet skin. The bra was so small her breasts almost spilled over the top. She wet the sponge, worked some soap into it, then leaned forward to wash his chest. Her breasts jiggled enticingly. He couldn't take his eyes off them.

Her stomach was hard and flat. She had plenty of core strength of her own. The muscles in her stomach and lower back kept her upright while she leaned into the job. She was gentler this time. His face was scratched and bruised, but his chest bore only a few signs of the explosion. His stomach and legs were also predominantly free of cuts, although ugly purple bruises showed in places like ink blots. The table had not only saved his life, but it had protected the bulk of him from serious injury.

Her hands slid down his stomach.

She pushed herself back down his legs to allow more room.

Grant closed his eyes. Everything else was sensory overload. He felt her thighs tense as she leaned forward. He felt her breath on his abdomen, warm and inviting. Then something hot and wet enveloped him in that private place, and he forgot the pain. Her tongue worked even though her mouth was full. Her teeth bit gently. She teased and stopped. Teased and stopped. Then he felt her lean over, and he opened his eyes. She flicked the matchbook open and unwrapped a condom.

“Here's a party trick. Don't try this at home, children.”

She flicked her tongue out to moisten her lips, and he waited. He didn't know it was possible to put a condom on with no hands. Five minutes later he'd forgotten even that. Some things you had to learn several times before they took root.

“Can you drop me
at JP station?”
He finished brushing his teeth and waited for a reply.

“Sure. No problem.”

He rinsed and spat and felt completely rejuvenated. They should give out sex on the national health plan. Americans should be able to get it as part of their health insurance. He noticed the plastic name band on his wrist and remembered what had got him here. Water under the bridge. Now it was time to catch the bastard who'd tried to kill him, even if he had only been collateral damage.

Grant wasn't in a forgiving mood.

He put his toothbrush away and dried his mouth. He didn't spray himself with deodorant. He could still smell Terri Avellone all over him. That was better. A stray thought crossed his mind. Avellone worked for a pharmaceutical company, selling and importing drugs for the hospitals.

This shit ain't my fault. I was just the importer.

Knowing Sullivan, drugs were the most likely commodities he'd be trading in. It was time to start digging. Grant was only a visiting officer with no jurisdiction in the US. The Anglo-Irish thing wouldn't help. Finesse would be needed if he was going to persuade Kincaid to let him tag along. Finesse and a little mild distraction. A look at the station CCTV seemed like a good starting point.