Cited to Death (10 page)

"Does this feel like a typical attack for you?"

I nodded. Suzuki turned to the nurse. "Can we get an albuterol nebulizer set up, please?"

"On it." The nurse headed out.

"Had you been feeling short of breath before today?"

I nodded. “Thursday. Funeral. Outdoors. Flowers. Smog. More. Inhaler. Since. Then.” The effort of talking was wearing me out.

"Okay." The nurse arrived with the nebulizer. "Let's get this on you."

As soon as the medication started flowing, I felt my chest easing. Sweet relief. "Better..." breathe... "already."

"Good." Suzuki smiled. "You just hang out and breathe. We'll check your oxygenation again in about 15 minutes."

"Thanks."

Suzuki left; the nurse was cleaning up my arm around the hastily-inserted IV. “Do you need us to call someone?”

“Brother. Card in wallet.”

She handed me my wallet. I pulled Kevin’s card out and handed it to her. “Homicide detective. Wow.”

“Yeah. Scary.” I tried to grin. “Use my phone.”

She dialed, listened, and mouthed “voicemail” at me. “Detective Brodie, this is Carol Braithwaite at UCLA Med Center ER. Your brother is here as a patient and he asked that we call you first. I’ll call his next contact.” She hung up and turned back to me. “Who’s your next contact?”

Damn. I was going to have to call Pete. I found his number in my phone and handed it to the nurse. She dialed; I heard him answer. “Hey.” He thought it was me.

“Um, hi, Mr. Ferguson, this is Carol Braithwaite at UCLA Med Center ER…” She paused. I could hear Pete’s voice, but not his words.

“Yes, he’s going to be fine, but he’s had an asthma attack. He’ll have to be here a bit longer, but he’ll need a ride home eventually. I tried his brother’s cell but he doesn’t answer.” Another pause.

“Will do. Thank you.” Carol hung up. “He said he’ll be right here. Where’s he coming from?”

“Santa Monica.”

“Okay, then it shouldn’t take too long. How are you feeling now?”

“Better.”

“Great. I’m going to go get a couple of things, and I’ll be right back. You just relax.”

Easier said than done, but I was feeling better. Liz came in for a few minutes to drop off my jacket and computer bag. She was still there when Dr. Suzuki came in again and listened to my lungs, then ordered another dose of the nebulizer. He turned to Liz for a minute. “Do you happen to know what brand of cologne caused Jamie’s attack?”

Liz made a face. “It was Drakkar Noir. My uncle used to wear it. I always hated it.”

Suzuki nodded and made a note in my chart. The nurse arrived with the nebulizer, and Liz said goodbye.

I was resting, nebulizer mask on my face, when Pete arrived, looking frantic. “What happened?”

I made a face. "Sales rep. Nasty cologne.”

"Oh, for God's sake. Did he not see the sign on your door?"

I shrugged. "He’s an. Idiot." I relaxed a little, and scrunched up my face at Pete. "Sorry."

He shrugged. "Not your fault. You'd have been fine if not for the salesman, right?" I nodded.

"They won't keep you overnight, will they?"

"Doubt it."

"I've got a 6:45 class. I'll call and get Jane to put a note on the door. Tell them to log into the course website instead. I'll post something on there for them to do." He looked me over. "Your color is not too bad."

I nodded. "Feeling better."

"Thank God." Pete sighed in relief. "Where’s Kev?”

"Didn’t answer. Busy.”

“That shit happens.” He looked at me gravely. “I’m glad you called me.”

I shrugged. “You’re on. Short list.”

He laughed. “Good.”

I had to stay in the ER for nearly five more hours. My own doctor, Dr. Weikal, stopped in at some point to see me. He read over my chart, listened to my lungs, and left instructions to make an appointment to see him within 48 hours.

My phone rang a couple of times. Once it was Kevin; Pete talked to him. The second time was a number I didn’t recognize, so we didn’t answer it, and it went to voice mail. Dr. Suzuki wouldn’t discharge me until my peak flow was back up to 80%, and it took a while. Finally, by 9:00, we were making the short drive to my apartment in Pete’s Jeep with a couple of new prescriptions and an appointment with my primary care doctor for Wednesday.

When we pulled into the parking lot, we saw the fire trucks.

“Oh, shit.” I just knew it was our apartment.

Pete tried to be logical. “It’s not necessarily your place.”

But it was.

A firefighter stopped us as we walked toward the building. I showed him my driver’s license to prove that I lived there, and he allowed us through. I walked into the door of the apartment and stopped so fast that Pete ran into me. The place was completely trashed. Every cabinet door in the kitchen was open, and everything had been pulled out, opened and dumped or broken. Flour, cereal, and fragments of plates and glasses coated the counters and floor. The refrigerator was open, and everything in it had been emptied. Every piece of furniture had been overturned, and those with any padding had been slit open. The TV and stereo were smashed. Kevin stood in the middle of the room, his face white with fury. His partner, Tim Garcia, was talking to him and a firefighter, and a couple of crime scene techs were dusting for fingerprints and sifting through the mess.

But that was nothing compared to the scene in my bedroom.

All of my books, clothes and shoes, and the towels from the bathroom, had been piled on top of my bed and set on fire. The fire was out, but the smell was atrocious, a mix of burning rubber and something else equally noxious. Everything was destroyed, down to the box spring under my mattress. I was in such deep shock that I didn't even notice that my breathing was starting to be affected until Pete leaned in behind me and said, "Hey, we’ve got to get you out of here. You can't be breathing in this crap."

I turned and looked at him. The look on my face must have frightened him. He took my arm and guided me back into the living room. The firefighter spotted us and walked over. “Lt. Evers. I’m an arson investigator. You’re Detective Brodie’s brother?”

“Yes, sir. This is Pete Ferguson.”

Evers shook Pete’s hand. Pete asked, “What happened?”

Evers turned back and looked at the room. "They came in through the sliding glass door in the bedroom. So far we haven't found much in terms of evidence. We know accelerant was used, but we’re not sure what yet, except that it wasn’t gasoline." He turned back to me. "It’s hard to see if anything is missing because of the mess. Kevin hasn’t noticed anything yet. We’ll need you both to take a closer look at some point."

"Sure."

"We'll need to take your fingerprints too, so we can exclude yours from the ones the techs are lifting."

"Sure." That seemed to be all I was capable of saying. I reached for the inhaler in my jacket. The smoke was definitely getting to me now. Pete asked Evers, "Can we go outside for this? We came here from the emergency room. Jamie had a bad asthma attack this morning, and he spent most of the day there. He needs to get out of this smoke."

"Sure, sure. Let's do that." Evers went back to where Tim and Kevin were standing. "Tim, the brother’s here, but he’s getting over an asthma attack and needs to get out of the smoke."

Kevin apparently hadn’t noticed I was there. He whirled around at me. "What are you doing in here?" He grabbed my arm and started hauling me outside.

"Stop dragging me." I yanked my arm out of his grip and kept walking. We made it to the outside stairs, and I turned to face all of them. Kevin paled at the look on my face, and Tim started moving towards the bench at the end of the hall. "Why don't we sit? I need to ask you some questions."

"Sure." Again. I sat on the bench, and sagged. I was exhausted.

Tim pulled out a notebook. "Do you have any idea who might have done this?"

I shook my head. "Not who, no. No idea. But I might know why." I gave him the basics, with Kevin and Pete filling in when I got too short of breath - Dan's death, his letter, the articles, the visit from Oliver, meeting Goldstein at the funeral, the computer attack. "All I've been doing is research into these two articles, and I haven't even turned up anything suspicious in my research. But someone seems to be trying to discourage me from looking."

Tim looked unhappy. "Where was this death?"

"Cedars-Sinai."

"That's Wilshire Division. I'll talk to whoever took the call and see what the status is on the autopsy."

“Don’t bother.” Kevin was leaning against the opposite wall, scowling, his arms folded. “I already did. No sign of foul play.”

“Okay, but I’ll call and get a copy of it for this file.” Tim turned back to me. "The fire was on your bed. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that this was focused on you."

"No." I sighed. "And whoever is behind this either doesn't know about Kevin, or doesn't care, right? Anyone that would willfully incur the wrath of the LAPD must be nuts, right?"

Tim snorted. "That'd be one way to describe it." He tucked his notebook into his pocket. "Let's get you fingerprinted. Then you can get out of here. There's nothing else you can do in there tonight. Tomorrow, after the place has aired out and the crowds are gone, you can go through and see if anything's missing and if anything's salvageable. You gonna bunk with Ferguson tonight?"

What? "Uh - no -"

"Yes, he is." Pete's tone said he would brook no argument.

Kevin chimed in. "Good."

I whirled on him. "Where are you going?"

“To Abby’s sister’s. She’s already there. And no, you can’t come.”

Pete slapped me on the back. It looked hearty, for public consumption, but was gentle. "C'mon. You're dead on your feet. There’s plenty of space for you in the guest room."

I got fingerprinted, and we were released. We headed to the parking lot. I turned in the direction of my assigned slot, then remembered that my VW was still in the shop, getting its tires replaced. I groaned. Pete heard me.

“No worries. We’ll get your car tomorrow. You’re in no shape to drive tonight anyway.”

I wanted to argue with him but couldn’t dredge up the energy. We were silent on the way to Pete’s townhouse. As soon as we were in the door, the full force of the day hit me, and my knees nearly buckled. Pete grabbed my arms and guided me to the sofa. “Take your shoes off. I need to change the sheets on my bed.”

“No.” I waved at him weakly. “Don’t do that. Put me in the guest room.”

“There aren’t any sheets on that bed at all, so it doesn’t matter. Besides, if I’m with you, I’ll notice if you start having trouble with your breathing again. I’m gonna get you a bathrobe, and you can get undressed.”

He disappeared up the stairs. I started pulling off my shoes and socks. I was anxious to get out of my clothes, and I needed a shower. My body was completely drained, but my brain was wired from the side effects of all the meds I’d had over the course of the day. I felt grungy from the hospital, and I smelled like smoke.