Plateful of Murder (15 page)

He was upset, but I certainly wasn’t looking for an argument. “Michael, sorry, another call’s coming in.” There wasn’t one, but I didn’t need another lecture. It was already hard enough keeping myself from hiding under my bed with the dust bunnies until this whole thing blew over.

I’d gotten to my office early, but it was now 8:15 and still no sign of Ed. I waited, tapping a pen against my keyboard. For a man who was always on time, this didn’t seem right. Then came some grunts and several loud thumps outside my door. I shoved my phone in my pocket and zoomed out of my office. Just in time to witness Ed’s last roll down the stairs.

I
gasped. His legs were twisted at the wrong angles. Blood covered his white shirt, probably from the huge gash on his forehead. His eyes were closed; his chin jutted out and rested on the last step. I raced down the stairs and almost tripped before reaching him, catching a glimpse of someone’s back as they fled. With only the streetlamp to help me, I couldn’t get a good look at Ed’s attacker.

Ed’s labored breathing meant he was alive. Badly hurt, but alive. My hands were slippery either from blood or my own nervous perspiration because I dropped my phone, picked it up again and dialed 911. As we waited for the ambulance, I reassured Ed he’d be fine. He’d passed out by then, so the comforting was for me.

By the time the ambulance arrived, my legs were stiff from kneeling beside Ed and I was near hysteria. The EMTs worked efficiently and loaded Ed up to go to the hospital. It was then a crumpled piece of cardstock paper came into view. It must have fallen from Ed’s hand and then he tumbled on top of it. I stooped and picked it up. Too bad the top part had been ripped off; it was indecipherable.

As if by magic, Corrigan appeared and, donning gloves, whisked the note away from my fingers and handily dropped it into an evidence bag. I opened my mouth to protest, but realized it’d do no good. He pocketed the bag without examining it and asked, “Are you okay, Claire?”

I wiped a tear away with the back of my hand. “What do you think?”

“That you need some time away from this office and this case.” He paused a moment. “Are you up to answering some questions?”

The hallway and downstairs crawled with police. “Yes, but not here. You’ll have to ask me at the hospital. I’ve got to be sure Ed’s all right. It’s my fault…whatever happened to him is entirely my fault.” My chest felt tight realizing it had been easy enough for me to put Ed’s life in danger. Yet I hadn’t even bothered learning anything about that life.

Corrigan nodded. “Go ahead and lock up your office. I’ll take you to the hospital. If he regains consciousness, I’ll need to speak with him.” He took out his notepad again. “Do you know his next of kin? Or someone else to notify?”

I shook my head, feeling too ashamed to speak.

Corrigan employed his siren, and we arrived at the hospital before I’d have been able to pull out of my parking space. He opened my door to help me out, but my legs felt weak and were as useless as a unicycle in the Tour de France bike race.

“Don’t know if I can even stand.”

He leaned in. “Then slide out and hold on to me.”

For just a moment I draped myself on to him like an expensive coat. Feeling uneasy though, I gamely stood on my own. Although still a bit wobbly, my legs managed to hold me.

Inside the hospital, Corrigan took charge and flashed his credentials. Dr. Gupta, the ER physician visited us in the waiting room. He shook his head and looked solemn. “Mr. Horwath is still unconscious. He has three broken ribs, a fractured leg, a ruptured spleen, and numerous lacerations. Our biggest concern, though, is his skull fracture. There’s been some hemorrhaging. He’s in surgery right now.” He assured us someone would be back to give us an update after the operation and excused himself.

I held it together until Dr. Gupta left. Then the only way to stop from whimpering was to stuff my hand in my mouth. “My fault. All my fault.” I fell back into a chair and dropped my head into my hands. Guilt, regret, and fear all passed through me, each boring a separate hole in my spirit.

Corrigan pulled a chair next to me and handed me his handkerchief. After gaining some self-control, I sat up and looked at the lipstick and mascara-stained piece of cloth, wondering if he’d even want it back.

It took me a moment before trusting myself to speak. “Ed told me he’d found something important about Constance’s murder. He wanted to show it to me. But then…” A tear rolled down my cheek and I dabbed at it with the crumpled handkerchief. “Someone attacked him.” Another tear followed.

Corrigan covered my icy hand with his warm one. “I realize this is hard for you, but it isn’t your fault. It’s the fault of the scumbag who attacked him.” He watched me, waiting for that idea to sink in. Then, “Can you handle a few more questions?”

My head bobbed once in reply.

“You stated you saw someone running away. Can you describe that person at all?”

“It was too dark and I was focusing on Ed. Sorry I’m not a better witness.”

“You’re doing fine. Something else may come to you later.” Corrigan reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic bag with the paper Ed had dropped. He held it up to me. “There’s not much left of it, but do you have any idea what this says or why it’s important?”

I tilted my head until my nose was practically against the bag. “Looks like a piece of a business card, although it’s hard to tell what it used to say. Sorry.” My fingertips pressed against my lips. “Sorry, I keep saying sorry.”

We’d sat there for thirty minutes more, with Corrigan asking questions, most of which I couldn’t answer. When a uniformed policeman approached us, Corrigan motioned for the cop to meet him outside the waiting room. They spoke too softly for me to hear. After a brief conversation between the men, Corrigan handed the plastic evidence bag to the officer.

He returned and, without my asking, explained, “Officer Joblonsky is taking the evidence to the lab. They may at least be able to lift some fingerprints. That’ll give us a place to start.”

A phone rang and I jumped a bit, like someone had laid one of those trick hand buzzers under my rear. It reminded me. “What about Ed’s phone? Maybe we can find out who he talked to before he got attacked.”

“Way ahead of you, Claire. We checked. No phone on him. And what do you mean by ‘we’? You’re out of this, especially now.”

“Ed’s in here because of me.” I poked myself in the chest. “I’m responsible for this and now I have to see it through.”

Corrigan ran his fingers through his hair. Through gritted teeth he said, “Then there’s no guaranteeing your safety. God knows, though, I don’t want you to be the next one on a gurney.”

Adrenalin gone, I slumped in my chair. “Me either, but quitting would mean letting Michael and now Ed down. Please understand that.”

His jaw muscles worked and I expected him to reprimand me and maybe even arrest me like he’d threatened. Instead he nodded. “Yeah, I understand, but think about it. Two murders, threats, and one assault. Do you really think you’d be able to handle this guy if you found him?”

I wrung my hands, afraid of the truth. A gun might change the answer. Promising myself to get one tomorrow, I said, “Yes.” Then shut up, before my brainless tongue added, ‘I hope.’ 

He straightened the lapels on his suit. It was that or throttle me. Once in control of his temper he said, “At least move to a different office.” He stood, preparing to walk away.

Instead of a snappy comeback, “You’re not leaving me, are you?” leapt out of my mouth. I bit my tongue to punish it.

He turned around. “Just to stretch my legs.” A smile crept onto his face, but he squelched it right away. “You want me to stay here with you?”

“Well…yes….” It was late and obviously my mouth, instead of my brain, had taken on the night shift. He cocked his head while I stared at the floor, trying to compose a response slippery enough to avoid admitting I needed his company.

A nurse approached us, rescuing me. “Mr. Horwath is out of surgery, but he’s still unconscious and in critical condition.”

Corrigan shot an empathetic glance my way, then turned back to the nurse and said, “Thank you. An officer will be posted outside his room. He can let us know when Mr. Horwath is awake.”

With the nurse gone, Corrigan volunteered to take me home. “You could use some rest.”

I must’ve given him a look like Ichabod Crane facing the Headless Horseman because he added, “I could sleep on your couch until the morning if you’d feel safer that way. We can pick your car up from the office tomorrow. You probably shouldn’t drive tonight.”

My first reaction was to decline, visualizing how messy my apartment was. Rational thought finally broke through. Without someone around tonight, I’d never get any rest. Barging in on Michael so late would be inexcusable. I bit my lower lip, and issued my warning. “You could sleep on my couch, but it’s not real comfortable. And there’s no coffee to drink in the morning.”

He suppressed a smirk. “On the force, you learn to sleep anywhere. Don’t worry about the coffee.”

I stood too fast and felt all the blood rush to my feet. To keep from passing out, I dropped my head down and shut my eyes.

Corrigan put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

I looked up and realized he had a nice nose, masculine and sort of regal. Funny what you notice during a murder investigation. “Yes.”

He dropped his hands. “Good. Shall we go?” He offered me his arm. “Might be a good idea to lean on me.”

We parked at my apartment, and Corrigan pulled out his gun. “Don’t get out until I say so, okay?” He scanned the parking area. Once he determined it was safe, he helped me out of the car.

After making sure my apartment was all clear, he settled in, and I excused myself to my own bed. Since taking on this case, two different men had spent the night with me. Of course, they’d been asleep in other rooms. I’d have found that humorous if terror of being the next victim or guilt over Ed didn’t use up all my emotion.

Once in bed, I flopped from side to side but couldn’t find a comfortable spot. Deciding a drink of water would help me sleep I cracked my bedroom door and stuck my head out. No Corrigan, not on the sofa or anywhere else in the room. “Brian?”

I sucked in air as my heart rose into my throat and threatened to choke me. Wild, irrational thoughts raced through my mind. The killer got Corrigan and I was next.

Fighting the urge to crawl out my bedroom window, I tiptoed into the living room and grabbed a paperweight from the hall table to throw at the killer. I hadn’t dazzled anyone as the girls’ junior league third baseman but maybe raw terror would improve my throw. Dismissing my worst-case-scenario thoughts, I crept a few steps forward and heard water running in the kitchen. My arm dropped and I blew out a shaky breath, realizing how ridiculous my reaction had been. There’d been no assault. Corrigan had been thirsty and went into the kitchen for something to drink.

I backed away, not wanting him to see me standing there in my white cotton nightgown covered with smiling pink alligators, ready to throw what was no more effective than a rock.

Two steps closer to my room, my phone rang.

Every other noise stopped and the phone’s ring resounded, like an old grandfather clock in a haunted mansion. My face felt hot. It was probably the same color as the alligators on my nightgown.

Corrigan rushed out of the kitchen and picked up my phone. He handed it to me, the muscles in his jaw tightening. I frantically shook my head as if he’d asked me to hold a cobra. He hit the speaker button and pushed the phone in my face, giving me no choice.

The throaty hushed voice didn’t sound like mine. “Hello?”

A woman on the other end slurred her words, like maybe a few drinks guided her number-pressing finger. “Is Kenneth there?”

Corrigan moved his hand across his throat. Either he meant for me to end the call or he wanted me to slice him up. I went with the first. “No. Wrong number.”

She giggled. “So sorry.”

I ended the call and pitched the phone onto the sofa next to me. Twisting, I fell back, right on top of it.
Smooth move
. I dug the phone out from under my behind.

Corrigan sat down next to me. “Too bad it wasn’t the killer.”

I sat up straight. “What d’ya mean, too bad?”

“Don’t get upset. Just meant I’d have been able to listen in. Maybe pick up on something you’ve missed.”

“Oh, that’s right. While I’m a mess of nerves, you, Detective Cool-As-An-Ice-Cube with your mighty skills, could figure out who the murderer is by merely listening to his voice.” I crossed my arms and became aware that my only piece of clothing was a thin cotton alligator-covered nightgown. The heat of embarrassment rose up though me, like being a chicken on a rotisserie. God and everybody could see through to my everything. I tightened my arms around my body and stood up.

“Excuse me.” His eyes followed me as I marched into my bedroom and replaced the nightgown with jeans and a huge flannel shirt.

Corrigan cleared his throat when I returned. I could’ve sworn it was to cover up a chuckle. His voice turned serious, concerned. “Did you want me? Before the call. I mean, were you looking for me?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” I yawned and stretched. “Maybe if we watch some TV it’ll help relax me.” I picked up the remote and sat down. Corrigan joined me, and we flipped through channels until coming to an old
I Love Lucy
episode.

***

When morning came, my head was on Corrigan’s shoulder and his was on top of mine. He was still snoring softly. Cozy, except he was the cop and I was potentially the future victim. Besides, the bathroom called to me. Holding my breath, I eased my head out from under his. He stirred a bit, but his head flopped backwards onto the top of the sofa and he resumed snoring.

I showered, threw on an old fleece robe hanging in the bathroom, and stepped out to see if Corrigan was still under the Sandman’s influence. He was awake, sitting up and rubbing his neck.

“Would you like something for your stiff neck, Detective?”