Murder Can Ruin Your Looks (10 page)

‘‘Don’t worry, Desiree, I take your point. Now I have a question for you.’’

‘‘Okay, go on.’’

‘‘Did Fielding by any chance happen to mention what kind of injury she has? The woman in St. Catherine’s, I mean.’’

I wasn’t about to go back on my promise to Tim. Not

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just yet, at any rate. ‘‘No he didn’t,’’ I answered. ‘‘But I’m sure he will if I can come up with the evidence to help us identify her. Any special reason you’re asking?’’

‘‘It’s only that I’d like to know all there is to know about her condition. And everyone’s being so damned secretive about it.’’

He’d barely said the words when the waiter returned with our food, and for a while both Peter and I tried to forget the reason we were having dinner together that eve

ning. Over our entreés (in deference to Peter’s time con

cerns I’d skipped the appetizer), we talked about our lives and our work and even told each other some funny anec

dotes. Dessert, however, was cappucino, cheesecake, and questions.

‘‘Can you give me the names of some of the twins’

friends?’’ I asked. ‘‘Anyone you can think of. And I also need to know how I can get in touch with the brother.’’

‘‘Well, Eric’s staying at the Grand Hyatt on East Fortysecond Street. Fielding asked me about their friends, too, by the way—just last night, in fact. And I managed to come up with four. Meredith may have had other friends I’m not aware of, but I think those are the people they were closest to.’’

He ticked off the four names, and I jotted three of them down in my notebook. I didn’t bother with the fourth; it was Chuck Springer.

‘‘I don’t have any of the phone numbers,’’ Peter apolo

gized, ‘‘but they all live in Manhattan, and I’m sure they’re in the book. Anyway, I hope so.’’

‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll get the numbers.’’

When we left the restaurant about five minutes later, the

wind seemed to be biting even harder than before, and I couldn’t wait to get indoors again. But on the way back to St. Catherine’s, we passed one of those little fruit and vege

table stands—you know, the kind that carry a million and one other things, too—and Peter suddenly stopped. ‘‘Wait here,’’ he ordered. ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’

I stood there obediently, shivering like crazy, while he ran inside. He returned in a couple of minutes with two little bouquets of roses: one pink and the other yellow. ‘‘I meant to get to a florist this morning and pick up some flowers to take to the hospital,’’ he said. ‘‘But you know me; I forgot all about it. They didn’t have much of a selec

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tion left in this place, but anyway, here.’’ He held out the pink flowers. ‘‘These are for you,’’ he told me. ‘‘Happy Valentine’s Day.’’

I don’t suppose I even have to mention that, right then, it was all I could do to keep from bawling like a baby. St. Catherine’s emergency occupies its own building. When I walked in, the entrance room was practically empty. There was a guard over to my left, but fortunately he had his hands full at the moment. A very large middleaged woman was standing practically nose-to-nose with him, yelling unpleasant things (I’m sure) in Spanish, a sob

bing little girl in tow.

I marched straight ahead and through the double doors marked NO ADMITTANCE, PATIENTS ONLY. I stopped for a second to slip off my coat and drape it over my arm to conceal the roses in my hand. (There’s something just a little unprofessional, I think, about conducting an investiga

tion while you’re standing there clutching a bunch of flow

ers to your bosom.) Then I hurried to the end of the short corridor, where I came to another set of doors that I also had no business going through. So I pushed them open—

and found myself in the heart of the bustling emergency room.

Just on the other side of the doors were two patients on stretchers, one of them moaning pitifully. Over to my right were the small, curtained-off sections where doctors and nurses provided whatever immediate relief was possible for an almost infinite variety of illnesses and injuries. Behind one of the curtains, a woman was screaming intermittently, and in the spaces between her screams I could hear some

one else crying softly. Five or six hospital personnel were rushing around, scurrying in and out of the curtained areas, one of them shouting instructions. They were all too fraz

zled to give a damn—or even notice—that I was there. I spotted a large nurse’s desk off to my left. Three women were seated at the desk, two of them talking on the phone. I approached the third member of the trio, a buxom blond Hispanic-looking woman who was poring in

tently over a ledger. ‘‘Excuse me,’’ I said. My license was already in the palm of my hand in its little leather case, and when the woman looked up, I opened the case and passed it quickly in front of her. Then I started to stuff it

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back in my handbag. ‘‘I just have a few questions; it won’t take—’’

‘‘Hold it a minute there, kiddo. Let me see that thing again.’’

I gave her the license.

‘‘Private eye,’’ she sniffed. ‘‘You’re not supposed to be in here, you know. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.’’

‘‘Listen, this is very important,’’ I said. ‘‘And it won’t take long.’’

‘‘It’s against hospital policy. You have to get permission to come back here.’’

‘‘Can’t you even spare me a minute or two?’’ I coaxed. She didn’t respond one way or the other, but I noticed that some strange things were happening with her eyes. I turned around to see what was going on. It only took a split second for it to register that the woman was attempting to signal this guard across the room, a skinny, mean-looking creep who was standing there scowling, arms folded across his chest. He got her message almost immediately. Drop

ping his arms to his sides, he began striding purposefully toward us.

I talked fast. ‘‘It has to do with the Foster twins,’’ I told her, ‘‘those poor girls who were shot in the face Monday night.’’

‘‘Problem, Carmen?’’ asked a thin, raspy voice behind me.

Looking around, I saw the guard glaring down at me with an expression that most people reserve for multilegged little crawling creatures.

I quickly turned back to Carmen. ‘‘I’m trying to get some information on those twins; it’s really vital.’’

She hesitated. ‘‘Well . . .’’ And then, while I held my breath: ‘‘It’s okay, Mike.’’

‘‘You sure?’’

‘‘Yeah.’’

As soon as the guard made his reluctant departure, I said, ‘‘I’d like to speak to the nurse who took care of the twins that night.’’

‘‘What do you want to talk to me about?’’

‘‘You’re her?’’

‘‘Yeah. One of the ‘hers,’ anyway. But I’m too busy for any chitchat right now. Look, you go have a seat around

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the corner out of the way,’’ she ordered, indicating with a toss of her head the general direction of the area to which she was exiling me. ‘‘I’ll get to you as soon as I can.’’

I followed the head toss to a short, walk-through aisle lined on either side with a row of uncomfortable-looking black and chrome chairs. Taking a seat in the middle of the row, I placed the roses on the chair to my right, care

fully adjusting my coat on the back of the chair so it would cover the flowers without crushing them. I’d been sitting there for only two or three seconds when this heavy hospi

tal cart came zigzagging down the narrow aisle, headed straight for my feet. I pulled my legs back just in time to avoid having all my toes squashed. The attendant maneu

vering the cart thoughtfully alerted me to the danger.

‘‘Coming through! Watch those feet!’’ he yelled. But not until he’d already flown past.

You take your life in your hands coming to a place like this, I decided.

I glanced idly over at the only other person around, a man or a woman seated diagonally across the aisle from me. I have no idea of the gender because this person was wearing pants and lace-up shoes, and all the time I was sitting there his/her head was buried in his/her hands. The only thing I could see was the top of a dark brown head of hair.

Just to give myself something to do, I decided to prepare a shopping list for Sunday night’s dinner with Ellen and her maybe future husband. I’d already made out a list in my office that morning; in fact, it was in my handbag at that very moment. Still, I usually manage to forget
something,
so it wouldn’t hurt to write out another one and double-check myself. Besides, it beat staring across the way at his/her dandruff.

I was almost through with my little chore when someone

sat down heavily alongside me. I looked up, surprised to see Carmen.

‘‘I didn’t expect you to be able to get to me this soon,’’

I told her.

‘‘Well, there’s nothing crucial waiting for me at the mo

ment. But I don’t have much time; I
am
busy. So let’s get down to it.’’

I got down to it. ‘‘What happened to the clothes the

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Foster twins were wearing when they were brought in here?’’

There was a moment’s hesitation before the nurse re

sponded. ‘‘We
did
try to follow procedure,’’ she informed me, sounding defensive. ‘‘But it was like a zoo in this place that night—I’m talking even worse than usual—and—’’

‘‘Procedure?’’ I cut in.

She eyed me suspiciously. ‘‘You
do
know what the proce

dure is in a case of violence like this, don’t you?’’

‘‘Of course; the word
procedure
threw me for a second, that’s all,’’ I retorted indignantly, not having the slightest idea what she was talking about and not having any inten

tion of betraying my ignorance, either. After all, was it my fault none of the straying spouse types I usually investigate ever got blasted for their sins? ‘‘So just what happened this time?’’ I asked, hoping things would become clearer to me as we went along.

‘‘Well . . .’’ Carmen replied carefully, ‘‘I told you how hectic it was here Monday night. There was a bus acci

dent—a really bad one—at eighty-thirty or so, and we all had our hands full; we were running around like cock

roaches. And when things are that frantic, you gotta realize it’s possible to make a mistake.’’ She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly before going on. ‘‘Anyhow, there were these two young cops hanging around over by the desk waiting for the clothes—’’

‘‘The police have the clothes, then?’’ So much for the smarts Peter had so kindly credited me with. Checking the victim’s effects was
standard
police
policy,
for God’s sake!

‘‘No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you,’’ Carmen groused, looking none too happy. ‘‘In all the excitement, we wound up giving them
someone
else’s
property. By the time the cops realized it and came back a couple of hours later, it was too late. We’d already tossed the twins’ stuff—

or what was left of it, anyway. We had to cut their clothes away so’s we’d be able to work on them,’’ she explained,

‘‘and everything was in shreds, so . . .’’ Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged her shoulders.

Fielding
was
right.
I
mean,
talk
about
Murphy’s
law!

‘‘You didn’t by chance notice what either of the girls had on?’’

‘‘You gotta be outta your
bird
! They were a real mess, the two of them, all covered with blood. Besides, who had

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time to look? We had to get them out of those clothes fast.’’

‘‘There’s a good chance one of them was wearing a yel

low cashmere sweater,’’ I said in a forlorn attempt to prod her memory.

‘‘Look, kiddo, I keep telling you it was mayhem here; I wasn’t paying any attention to fashion. The only thing I was interested in—the only thing we were
all
interested in—was getting to as many people as we could in as short a time as possible.’’ She eyed me curiously then. ‘‘What’s with this yellow cashmere, anyhow?’’

‘‘Well, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but one of the twins died on the operating table and the other one’s still in a coma.’’