Blood Rubies (34 page)

“I'm fine,” I said.

They hauled a gurney out of the back.

“My staff. I can't leave the place open. The man may come back.”

“I'll wait for them,” Griff said. “You're safe now, Josie. Go.”

Griff left me with nothing to worry about, and as soon as I realized that, I collapsed onto the stretcher and let the men do their jobs. They took my blood pressure, timed my respiration, and checked my pulse, calling in the numbers to someone far away. Moving hurt more than staying still, so I closed my eyes and didn't move. With Griff taking care of my worldly responsibilities and paramedics taking care of me, I was fearless and free to feel the pain.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Nothing is broken,” the doctor said. I'd already forgotten his name. “But you're going to have some pretty colorful bruises.”

“That's great news,” I said. “I can't believe I got so lucky.”

He gave me instructions about painkillers and rest and ice and heat and told me I could go. “I understand Chief Hunter plans on driving you home.”

Ellis and Zoë were waiting for me in the emergency room lobby. A big round clock read 1:20. I'd been in the hospital for more than five hours. I thanked the aide who'd wheeled me out into bright sunshine, then watched him disappear down a hallway.

“Can I hug you?” Zoë asked.

“Sure—if you want to hear a grown woman scream. I've got major bruises.”

Ellis stood nearby. “Let me pull the car up.”

“Okay.”

Zoë sat on a thigh-high stone wall. I leaned against it. I would have liked to sit, but I didn't have the strength to hoist myself up.

“Ty is driving down,” she said. “He expects to be here by four.”

“Good.”

Ellis drove under the overhang. Walking was work, and every step hurt. I managed to get into the backseat and latch my seat belt, but barely.

“Your place or Ty's?” Ellis asked.

“Mine, I think. I want to go home.”

“I'm assigning an officer twenty-four/seven until this is sorted out.”

My throat closed for a moment, and I couldn't speak. I coughed. “Thanks.”

When we got there, Ellis walked inside ahead of me and cleared each room. Zoë took my hand and patted it. I leaned my head against her shoulder.

“All clear,” he said. “Let's be prudent, though, and close all the drapes.”

“You sit,” Zoë said to me. “Ellis and I can do it.”

I felt too battered to argue. I sank into my favorite chair, a blue velvet club chair. The pain was constant but dull. Zoë turned on lamps, then pulled down the blackout blinds and drew the velvet panels together. The living room looked cozy in the incandescent light.

Ellis came into the living room. “You look like you're ready for a nap. Can I ask a few questions before we help you get settled?”

“I take it that means you haven't caught him?”

“Not yet. My guess is that he parked on Dover Street, on the far side of the church. No one who lives in the area noticed him—or a car. Why were you at work so early?”

I told him about the e-mail and how I was certain it would be a dead end, a message sent from an account set up for the purpose from a public computer in some location without security cameras, like a mom and pop Internet café.

“You're probably right. We'll check it out anyway. How about a physical description?”

“I don't know. He was tall, but in the normal range. Ditto, his weight.”

“How sure are you it was a man?”

I met his eyes. “Not very.”

“No outstanding features?”

“No.”

Zoë came up beside me and squeezed my arm. “Do you want something to eat, Josie? I have chicken soup.”

“You're a wonder woman. Boston cream pie last night and chicken soup today. I'd love some. Thanks.”

Zoë headed out. “I'll bring the pot.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Would you get my tote bag, Ellis? I should check messages and e-mails.”

“Let them wait.”

I tried to smile. “That's a sensible idea.” I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Will you call my office and let them know I'm okay?”

“Sure.”

I felt disassociated, strangely unconnected to what was happening around me. I could hear Zoë and Ellis chatting, not their words but the pace and tone of their comfortable companionship, yet it was as if I were dreaming it, not living it.

“She's going to be stiff as a board when she wakes up,” Ty whispered. “I'm going to carry her up to bed.”

I opened my eyes and smiled. “Ty. You're here.”

He stretched his left arm under my knees and slipped his right arm around my back.

“I'm too heavy.”

“No, you're not. Put your arms around my neck.”

I did as he said and pressed my cheek against his chest. He stood up, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

“I didn't have my soup.”

“I'll bring it to you in bed.”

“You don't need to do that. I can sit at the table.”

He kissed the top of my head. “Let me take care of you.”

I smiled again and closed my eyes, and for the first time since Phillippe LaBlanc had burst into my office, I relaxed.

*   *   *

I slept for ten hours. It was dark. I turned to see the time, rolled onto my bruised shoulder, and groaned, then glanced at Ty, hoping I hadn't awakened him. He was on his side, facing away from me, solidly asleep. I reached for the old-fashioned clock, a relic from my childhood. The green luminescence glowed brightly: 4:03. I was hungry and achy and stiff. I dragged myself to a sitting position and stood up, holding on to the bedside table. I made it downstairs by taking one stair at a time and leaning on the banister in between steps. The bottle of painkillers was near the sink. I took one with a glass of apple juice, then put Zoë's soup pot on low.

While I waited for the soup to warm up, I went through my “are you okay” voice mails and e-mails. Wes had left three messages. The first one wanted details of my attack, including pictures of my bruises. I shook my head at Wes's moxie. His second message came at eleven last night. He told me that the police had already located the sales record for the phone Phillippe LaBlanc had used to call me. It was another disposable, this one purchased from a big-box store in Rocky Point by a white man last week for cash. The store's security cameras showed a tall man wearing a Red Sox baseball cap and big sunglasses. I downloaded the photo. The man's chin was tucked in close to his chest, his head angled down. I couldn't see any distinguishing marks. He was of normal weight. It could be anyone. Wes's last call delivered what he described as an info bomb: Ellis got the information he sought from Jason's executor. Jason had died a wealthy man. In addition to various trusts and real estate worth more than $10 million, he had $554,318 in his checking account.

“What?”

How can that be?
It didn't make any sense. If Jason didn't need the money, he didn't get a loan from McArthur. Jason didn't hire Ralph Kovak. Which meant Kovak's identification of Jason was wrong.

I e-mailed Wes thanking him for the update, telling him I would not be sending him photos of my bruises, and confessing that I was mystified.

I had two bowls of soup, thinking about why someone would attack me. My father once said that when you face a problem that seems to have no solution, do more research. When you can't think of anything else to research, make a decision. To stay in limbo was always counterproductive. To delay making a decision was, in fact, a decision by default, and usually a bad one. Once your research was done—act. I tried to think of something to research. I couldn't, but neither was I ready to act.
Tomorrow,
I thought. Thinking productively was beyond my current capabilities.

Ty came down about six thirty, yawning for coffee, offering to scramble eggs. I accepted. Zoë's soup was delicious but not enough.

“I don't know why that man attacked me,” I said, watching Ty wield the whisk.

“You know something. Or he thinks you do.”

“I can't imagine what.”

“Something no one else knows or something you don't know you know.”

“Or something only I know the significance of, even though I don't realize it.”

Ty paused and looked at me, his intelligence radiating from his dark eyes. “So what do you know?”

I shook my head. “I have no idea.”

“Don't think about it now. It will come to you later.”

“I feel pretty punky.”

“You should. You got beat up.”

I grinned. “I bet he feels worse than me.”

Ty added diced honey-baked ham and shredded Emmentaler into the eggs. He stirred constantly, adjusting the heat periodically, a little lower, then higher, then lower again.

He toasted hearty white bread and sprinkled it with cinnamon sugar, then spread some of the blueberry preserves Zoë had put up last summer.

I ate it all. “This is maybe the best breakfast ever.”

“You're forgetting Zoë's French toast.”

“True. This is one of the best breakfasts ever.”

“Is this enough? I can make you something else or more of this.”

“This is perfect. I need a bath and more rest. Then I'll be good as new.”

“In other words, the painkiller has kicked in.”

I smiled and faux-primped my hair, giving little pushes against my scalp. “I'm going on TV later today. I need to get my beauty rest so I'm ready for my close-up.”

“You're beautiful, Josie. Rest or no rest. You're always ready for a close-up.”

“Wow. That's nice.”

“Let me get you upstairs.”

“I can do it. Don't you have to go to work?”

“No. I can stay for as long as I need to.”

“Did you straighten out those training glitches?”

“It's a process.”

“In other words, no.”

“In other words, it's a process.”

I limped over to him. I touched his chin, drawing my finger along his jawline. “I love you with all my heart.”

He leaned down and kissed me, and I kissed him back.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Officer Meade knocked on my door around ten, shortly after I came downstairs again. Ty had left at seven. Yes, he could stay, but I assured him there was no need to do so, not with Ellis's promise of police protection, and after a little pull and tug, he went to work.

“You doing all right?” she asked.

“Better than I expected.” I raised my arms above my head, elbows out, and arched my back. “Bruised but not stiff.”

“Glad to hear it. I've just come on duty. The overnight officer said all was quiet. Do you know your plans for the day?”

I told her about my participation in Timothy's TV pilot. “I can drive myself, with you following if you think you should, but you don't need to stay.”

“I'm fine with staying.”

I felt myself blush. “To tell you the truth, I'd feel pretty awkward with you there.”

“How come?”

I laughed, embarrassed. “I don't like to be the center of attention. I freeze and get all stupid. With you there, everyone will wonder what's going on and I'll feel even more conspicuous.”

She smiled. “They'll think you're important.”

“They'll think I'm pretentious.”

“We can't risk your being on your own.”

“What risk? The place is crawling with people, including an armed guard.”

“Why do you want your own car?”

“If I get bored waiting, I can use it like an office. I do it all the time.”

She tilted her head and scanned my face, trying to decide if she believed me. “You don't have plans to ditch us, do you?”

I laughed, a real one. “No way.”

“I'll check.” She stepped into an oblong of yellow sunshine on the porch and made a phone call. Two minutes later she came back inside. “Chief Hunter said okay on one condition. I follow you there, and when you're ready to leave, you call and let one of us follow you to your next stop.”

“Perfect. Thanks.”

“I'll be outside in my car if you need anything.”

*   *   *

I got into work before eleven and spent the rest of the morning working with Fred researching Mrs. Albert's umbrella cane. While he tested the materials, I researched umbrella canes.

I contacted a New Orleans–based antiques dealer, one of the world's leading experts on system canes, the formal name for gadget canes. His name was Bo Givens and he e-mailed me photos of two canes he thought might be similar to ours. One was an umbrella cane from 1805 that looked nothing like ours; the other, a painter's walking stick from 1815 that could have been a twin.

“Look at that,” I said aloud.

The painter's walking stick was thicker than many nongadget canes, but not conspicuously so. It contained everything a plein air artist needed to work outside: brushes, paints, rags, water canisters, and pencils. According to Mr. Givens, the shaft of the walking stick converted into a portable easel.

I called Fred. “You need to talk to Bo Givens.” I explained why. “Even without the cane's contents, I think we're looking at twenty thousand dollars.” I smiled, thinking how happy Walter Albert would be knowing his $440 investment had paid off big-time.

*   *   *

“We're not going to be able to film me walking up the driveway this time,” I said to Timothy. “I got pretty bruised up the other day. When I walk, I wobble.”

“You poor thing,” he said, sounding truly concerned. “Are you all right to be here?”

“It's better to move around,” I said. “Otherwise, I'll stiffen up.”

“We'll figure it out, then. What happened?”

“It's a long story—one you can read about in the paper.”