The Babbling Brook Naked Poker Club - Book One (29 page)

“No. No, I’m fine. Sorry. Must be a delayed
reaction. I had to shoot the assailant.”

Peculiar it would hit me like that, but in
all my time on the Cincinnati force, I’d drawn my weapon only once,
and I’d never discharged it toward a living target.

“Let’s just give you a quick check, shall
we?”

She helped me remove my jacket, and someone
else stepped forward and placed it in a plastic bag that was set by
my feet.

The woman who’d helped with my jacket
wheeled a portable blood-pressure unit over. I submitted to their
ministrations, knowing I might as well. With Devi in surgery, any
distraction was welcome.

Someone must have notified my department
about what had happened because by the time I’d been checked,
Dillingham had arrived, accompanied by a Blue Ash detective. The
three of us were shown to a small office where we could talk
privately, but only after I’d secured the promise from one of the
nurses to let me know if Devi’s status changed.

And by status, the nurse and I both knew
that meant she’d let me know if Devi died on the operating table, a
possibility my mind still refused to accept.

With Dillingham sitting in, I went over the
events of the morning. Although it was still morning, it felt like
it had been hours since I’d sat idly watching the parking lot while
Teddy licked frosting off his fingers.

“Do you know who I shot?”

“Yeah. According to his driver’s license,
he’s a Harry Garrison. From Chicago. Car was a rental, so we think
he flew in. We’re checking on that now.”

The Blue Ash officer took me through my
story again, and I wondered if it sounded as bizarre to him as it
did to me. Why would someone from Chicago come here to shoot an
activities director for a retirement community?

The Blue Ash cop suggested Garrison might be
an ex-boyfriend. I shook my head. I had no idea if that were the
case.

As the Blue Ash guy was finishing up, his
phone rang. It was his dispatcher with a message that Garrison was
out of surgery and could be interviewed shortly, and that Bruno had
been taken to a nearby veterinary hospital and was expected to
recover. The detective passed along the vet’s name and address, and
after wishing me well, he left, presumably to talk to Harry
Garrison.

Dillingham and I stared at each other.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with
what’s been going on at Brookside, does it?”

“I doubt it. But it’d probably be worthwhile
to check for any connection between Harry Garrison of Chicago and
Eddie Colter of Cincinnati.”

“I’ll get on that.”

When we stepped out of the office, the nurse
who had promised me updates on Devi came toward us. The look on her
face made my stomach bottom out.

“I was just coming to tell you, Detective,
Ms. Subramanian is still hanging in there. But another surgeon has
been called in to assist, and they expect it will be several hours
yet before anything more is known about her condition.”

Dillingham had walked up behind me, and he
placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, ma’am,” he told the nurse.
Then he steered me outside.

When the cold air hit, I realized I no
longer had my coat. No matter. I’d never wear it again anyway.

“C’mon, I’ll take you home,” Dillingham
said.

Which was fine since I needed to change
clothes and check on Bruno, but then I was coming back to the
hospital.

“I’ll let the chief know what’s happening.
And I’ll run a check on Garrison,” Dillingham said, pulling into my
driveway.

I thanked him and headed inside. As I
finished changing clothes, the doorbell rang. It was Kate.

“Are you all right?” she said.

I nodded. “Is Teddy okay?”

She nodded. “He saw some of it, but he
doesn’t really understand. He said he saw Devi?”

“She’s the one who was shot.” How odd to be
able to say that so calmly.

“Oh my God, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s touch and go, but if she makes it, it
will be thanks to Bruno.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He knocked her over and then put himself
between her and the gun. How would he know to do that?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea. He was
a rescue dog . . .”

“Maybe in more ways than one.”

“The clerk at the bakery said one of the EMT
units took him some where.”

“Yeah. A vet hospital. I’m going there now
to check on him. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“Thanks. I need to get back to Teddy.” She
paused, and then she stepped closer and hugged me. “I’m so glad
you’re okay. I’ll be praying for Devi.”

~ ~ ~

At the vet’s, I was escorted to a back room to see Bruno. His
middle was tightly wrapped and he was sedated, but I could see he
was breathing.

“He’s got a collapsed lung and a cracked
rib. But the bullet passed through.”

And hit Devi. Although Bruno had tried his
best to prevent that.

“He’s a very lucky dog.”

“And a very brave one.”

If only Devi had been as lucky. I told the
vet how Bruno had been wounded, then asked about the bill, which I
intended to pay.

“It’s on the house. Least I can do after
what this fellow did.”

From the vet’s to the hospital was a
ten-minute drive. I parked my car and once again went in the
emergency entrance. The same woman was at the desk, and she
recognized me and buzzed me into the unit, where the nurse who’d
promised to keep me updated told me Devi was still in surgery.

“Why don’t you get a cup of coffee,
something to eat? Just give me your cell phone number and I’ll call
you when she’s out.”

I considered that a slightly more optimistic
statement than her last one. And it unclenched my stomach enough I
could at least consider food.

She pointed me toward the cafeteria, where I
managed a cup of coffee and most of a bowl of soup. Then I sat
staring out the window while around me visitors and hospital staff
taking breaks came and went.

The light was fading from the day before my
phone buzzed, and I realized I’d been sitting there several hours,
my mind blank, as the remains of the soup and coffee cooled.

“She made it out of surgery, Detective. But
she’s still sedated.”

“Is it possible . . .” I stopped
to clear my throat. “Could I sit with her, do you think?”

“I think that might be arranged. Let me
check and call you back.”

She called back after five minutes and gave
me directions to the surgical intensive care unit.

I spent the next forty-three hours
there.

Josephine

Lill and I didn’t learn that Devi had been shot and almost died,
was still in danger of dying, until Sunday evening. She was
supposed to come to dinner, and when she didn’t show, I called her.
There was no answer, so I called Mac.

Lill and I made it to the hospital in under
fifteen minutes. Mac, unshaven and rumpled, met us outside the
intensive care unit.

“How is she?” Lill and I spoke
simultaneously.

“Still critical. She lost a lot of blood.”
His voice sounded firm, but I could see from the tension in his
eyes and the stiff way he was holding himself he wasn’t as calm as
he was trying to appear.

I reached out, put my arms around him, and
held on tightly. Holding him, I could feel him trembling as if he
were freezing, and that scared me more than his initial
announcement. Lill stepped close and gripped Mac’s shoulder.

The three of us stood like that until Mac
straightened; then we stepped away from each other.

“Did Eddie shoot her?” I said.

Mac shook his head.

“Then who?”

“A Harry Garrison from Chicago. It’s a long
story,” he said.

“Can we see her?”

“I’ll take you to her.”

He buzzed for admittance, and when the lock
sounded, he pushed the door open and led us inside. I had a quick
impression of a nursing station encircled by roomy cubicles, all
containing beds, some with patients, others empty. Mac led us to
one of the occupied beds.

Devi lay there motionless, as if she were
simply sleeping, but that impression was negated by the tangle of
tubing leading from several bags of fluids on an IV pole to Devi’s
arm, and the wires emerging from the blanket covering her that were
attached to a monitor. Colored lines marched across the screen. I
knew from medical dramas that flat lines were bad, and bumpy, spiky
lines good. Devi’s lines were bumping and spiking along, thank
God.

It all seemed so remarkably peaceful, the
three of us standing there while the machines took their
measurements and the IV continued to drip. Then I noticed Lill was
crying, and realized my eyes had filled as well.

Mac pulled up chairs, and Lill and I sat
down. He walked around and stood on the other side of the bed, his
eyes never leaving Devi’s face, his hand going out to touch hers. I
wondered if he was finally realizing how much he cared for her. I
suspected he was.

“Here’s what we know so far,” he said, his
voice weary but calm. “Devi was engaged to Harry Garrison’s
brother, William. Something happened between William and Devi, and
William . . . had an accident. He fell and later died.
Harry claimed Devi murdered William, but before the issue could be
resolved to the satisfaction of the Chicago police, Devi
disappeared.”

“And Harry came after her,” I said. “And
then he shot her. An eye for an eye?”

“Yeah, that’s what it looks like.”

“Has he been arrested?”

“He’s in custody at University Hospital. I
shot him. He’s going to be okay, though.” Mac pulled in a ragged
breath and rubbed his eyes.

“If he hurt Devi, he deserved to be
shot.”

There was still that one worrisome bit in
what he’d said though—the part about the matter of William
Garrison’s death not being resolved to the satisfaction of the
Chicago police. Did that mean Devi was a suspect? But if she were,
wouldn’t the police have located her before Harry did, and
extradited her? And what did Mac think about all this?

“Do the police plan to charge Devi in
William’s death?” I said, hoping the answer would be a definitive
no.

Instead, Mac rubbed his head, obviously
distressed. “I don’t know. Dillingham’s the one checking on that. I
expect they’ll want to talk to her.”

“Didn’t they do that already? After William
was injured?”

He sucked in a breath and spoke as if it
hurt. “I’m sure they did, but their inquiries were still ongoing
when she disappeared.”

“And Devi’s disappearance didn’t help
clarify matters,” I said.

“Sounds like another
he said/she said
situation,” Lill murmured. “Poor Devi.”

“Well, there isn’t a doubt in my mind that
either William attacked her like Eddie did, or it was an accident,”
I said.

“I agree,” Lill said.

But Mac said nothing. Still, he continued to
touch Devi’s hand, as if his connection to her was as important to
keeping her alive as the medical apparatus.

“Have you contacted Devi’s family?” I
said.

He nodded. “The department tracked down her
parents through Devi’s colleagues at the Winterford Art Institute.
They’re both professors at the University of Kansas. They’ll arrive
in the morning.”

There was one particularly interesting bit
of information in what Mac had just said, the part about Devi
having colleagues at the Winterford Art Institute. It helped
explain how she recognized my Hopper painting.

Getting to know Mac and Devi has been like
painting by numbers—fill in some background blue here, a bit of
life-drama red there. And as I filled in those bits, my own heart
had opened. If I were picking a family, I would want them, and
Lill, to be part of it.

Lill suggested we join hands, with Devi as
part of our circle, and then she said a prayer. I don’t do much
praying, but Lill does.

I just hoped the Almighty was listening.

Mac

The first night I spent in the SICU with Devi, I discovered that if
I gripped her middle finger, I could feel her heart beating. Over
the next hours, that steady rhythm eventually lulled me into a
light doze.

When Devi regained consciousness in the
early hours of Monday morning, I felt her fingers move against mine
for the first time. The dim glow from the nursing station shed
enough light for me to see her eyes were open and her expression
was morphing from puzzled to panicked.

I stood so she could see me. “Devi, you’re
okay. You’re in the hospital, but you’re going to be okay.” As I
spoke, I realized I finally had faith in those words being
true.

“What happened?”

If I hadn’t been standing so close, I
wouldn’t have been able to hear her, her voice was so soft and
raspy.

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head, her eyes never leaving
mine.

“Harry Garrison shot you.”

She frowned. “Harry’s here?”

“You know him?” I was testing. Habit, I
guess.

She nodded.

“Do you know why he tried to kill you?”

“Have you arrested him?”

“Yes. Why did he want to kill you?”

I thought it was surreal the way the two of
us were talking so calmly. For my part, I knew this might be my
only chance to get the story from her, as a friend, not as an
officer of the law. And as a friend, I wanted, needed, to know what
had happened.

“His brother, William, we were
. . . engaged. I tried t-to break up with him. He
. . . had a gun.”

She stopped speaking to catch her breath,
and I wanted to say that it was okay, that she didn’t have to do
this now. But I needed her to do it—before her parents and the
police and the rest of the world pushed their way into this room.
So I waited.

“I knocked the gun away, and I
. . . I must have shoved him. Anyway, he fell, hit his
head. When he died a week later, Harry said I’d killed William and
now he’d kill me. I believed him. I ran away.”