Ten Times Guilty (3 page)

“That’s enough,” Tracy said, rising from her chair. “If that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’m going home.” 

“The new security guard started this afternoon.”

“What security guard?” Tracy donned her windbreaker hanging on the rack by the back door.

“Remember the vandalism last week? Well, Mr. Madden had a security outfit send someone over to keep an eye on things. He’s here, even has a gun and a nightstick. All kinds of gizmos on his belt. His name’s Karr and he wants to meet you.”

“Well, I don’t want to meet him.”

“Hmmm.” Rita studied the ceiling. “He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Tracy spun around. “You didn’t! I’m getting out of here.”

“Wait, what’s your hurry? Don’t leave, give the guy a chance, you might like—”

Just as Tracy’s hand closed on the doorknob, a male voice spoke behind her.

“You must be Tracy.”

Tracy froze. Why hadn’t she left when she had the chance? Now she’d have to be polite to someone she had no interest in meeting, all because Rita wanted to play matchmaker.

Slowly, she turned around.

At six feet he towered over her and his stocky build looked solid. But the curious thing was his eyes, which had a distinct Asian tilt. Dark in color, almost black, they leveled on her as something, almost hidden flashed briefly, leaving her mouth dry.

“Karr, meet Tracy.” Rita beamed.

Tracy wanted to slap her.

Karr offered his hand. “Glad to meet you. I’m Karlton Wolfe. Call me Karr.”

Now he looked perfectly normal. Must have been her imagination. Her eyes were drawn to his utility belt and the huge gun resting on his hip.

“It’s a Colt forty-five automatic,” he told her. “A damn good persuader. Here, want to see?” Unsnapping the holster, he presented it to her. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Tracy stared at the gun. It looked like a cannon, and it looked deadly. She glanced at the door. “I have to go.”

“Don’t leave yet.” Karr grabbed her hand. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you.”

She tried to free her hand, but he wouldn’t release her. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks.

“I have to, my son...” She pulled her hand free.

The phone rang and Rita ran to get it.

Karr leaned close to Tracy and whispered, “Hows about you and me going for a couple of drinks some night? We could lock up and slip across the street for a fast brew. No one would have to know.” He winked and rocked back on his heels, resting his hands on his belt.

Tracy suddenly wanted to shower. “I’m sorry, I don’t go out with anyone right now. Thank you anyway.”
Thank you anyway?
  God.

“Yes, I’ll tell her,” Rita spoke on the phone. “It’s your babysitter,” she said to Tracy. “Says you got a package from some school.”

“Tell her I’ll be right there. Sorry,” Tracy mumbled to Karr.

“Wait!” He stepped forward. “I been looking forward to talking to you. Can’t you spare me five minutes?”

Although he smiled, Tracy got the feeling that something, an underlying anger or resentment, perhaps, simmered just beneath the friendly expression. He continued to stare with an unblinking gaze and Tracy felt caught, lost momentarily in the old feelings of helplessness and panic. Her stomach tightened and her mouth went dry.

“Sorry,” she said, wanting only to escape. “I have to go.” 

On the way home, she realized she had been abrupt, even rude, and she felt ashamed. She usually treated people with courtesy. She would be nicer the next time she saw Karr.

But something about him made her uncomfortable. And defensive. What was it? He was nice looking, and he really hadn’t done anything wrong, just tried to hold her hand. What was the harm of that? Had she shut herself off so completely that handholding made her nervous?

Or was it his uniform? Growing up with Jim as a parent, she had never been allowed to speak to figures of authority, a deference, deserved or not, she had not managed to overcome.

Since leaving home, she had worked hard on her feelings of self-worth, and she had hoped she could hold her own with anyone.

Karr proved her wrong.

Chapter Four

Denver County General Hospital sprawled over three city blocks. Day and night, seven days a week people came and went—on foot, in cars, by ambulance, and by the emergency helicopter, Flight for Life.

Sergeant Reese Sanders, Denver PD, circled the lot in front of the emergency entrance. Not a spot to be had at six in the evening, prime time. A motorcycle stood in the loading zone he’d snagged last time.

“Thoughtless bastard, oughta give him a ticket.” Reese checked his impulse to ram the cycle out of the way and circled again. The only other spot was a narrow space reserved as a pedestrian walkway.

“Shit,” he muttered, easing his dented gray Wagoneer into the yellow striped area. Digging his police I.D. out of the glove compartment, he stuck it on the dash and squeezed his bulk of six feet and two-hundred-thirty pounds through the small space between two cars.

Even though he hadn’t exercised in over a year, he sprinted the fifty feet to the hospital entrance. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the break he’d been looking for. Maybe this time he would get what he needed to hunt the bastard down and haul his ass to jail.

If the sonofabitch lived that long.

The glass doors slid open. Puffing, Reese nodded to the ER clerk and turned left into Trauma One. The double-doors slid apart with a whoosh and he stepped over the electronic threshold. The nurse’s station stood in the center of the room, surrounded by twenty-one curtained cubicles. Alicia Ramirez, her flowered pink smock crisp and spotless, looked up from a chart, saw him and raised an eyebrow.

“Why hello, stranger. Heard you were back.”

Reese started to reply when the acrid odor of alcohol, antiseptic, and something else, a sour, bloody smell hit him. His guts constricted to a hard knot and he broke out in a cold sweat. Christ, not again. Afraid he’d puke in front of everyone, he made a dash for the men’s room.

Inside, he threw the bolt, dropped to his knees in front of the bowl and lost his last two meals. When nothing but dry heaves came up, he tore off some paper and wiped his mouth. He rose and stepped over to the porcelain sink, hanging on with both hands until he was sure his trembling legs would support him.

He thought he had it conquered. He thought he could return to work, do his job, even come back to this hospital.

But he had forgotten the smell.

Images he’d tried to drown flared in his brain. He saw again the small, pale figure lying on the gurney, saw all that blood that coated her arms and matted her dark hair. It soaked the bandages wrapped around both wrists. How could anyone live with all that spilled blood?

But her eyes were worse, staring at him, silently accusing, even when he gripped her hand, trying to force her to live. In the end, all he could do was watch helplessly as she died.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, hating his weakness, hating himself for the way he had allowed that tragedy to happen.

Someone tapped on the door.

“Be right out.” Reese unbuttoned his rumpled white shirt and splashed cold water on his face and thick neck. He had work to do, even though every nerve in his body screamed for a shot of bourbon.

At the nurse’s station an aide bustled past, her blue tunic stained with God knew what. Her shoes made a light squeak against the polished tile floor. When she threw a glance at him, Reese locked his knees and straightened. In the background, electronic beeps kept an ongoing cadence.

Nurse Ramirez closed a chart and dropped it in a slot along with several others in a tray attached to the wall. About forty and just starting to gray, she eyed Reese.

“You okay?”

“Where is she?”

“Where’s who?”

“Harris, the assault vic.” He ignored the sweat on his forehead and pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. “Cynthia Harris. Is she breathing?”

“She’s in Three and the team’s with her. Don’t try to go in there, though. Dr. Prescott’s been on eighteen hours and is in no mood to argue. They’re stabilizing her, getting some blood work, x-rays, the usual. They’ll do the rape kit after the CT scan.”

“How bad is she?”

“You have to wait, I have orders.”

A slim, dark-haired young woman passed through the door and walked toward them. Officer Sondra Cooper, Sexual Assaults Unit.

Ramirez acknowledged her with a nod. “I know why you’re here, but him? A homicide cop? No one has knocked off anyone else all day.”

“Be happy to rustle up some business for you,” Reese offered. “Start a fight or something.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” Ramirez called to a young aide walking by and, chart in hand, hurried over to her.

Reese turned to Officer Cooper. “Tell me about Harris.”

“How the hell did you get here first?” Cooper asked. “Smoke signals?”

Reese shrugged. He’d never mention the phone alert; instead, he encouraged the notion that his American Indian heritage, obvious only by his high cheekbones, gave him mysterious power.

“I can’t get anything from Ramirez,” he said. “What’ve you got?”

“According to First Officer Wadell, a neighbor found her,” she told him. “Kept hearing what he thought was an abandoned kitten next door. The house was vacant, up for sale. He finally investigated, found her and called nine-one-one.” Her gaze raked the cop. “You’re a mess. Better lay off the cigarettes. Some exercise wouldn’t hurt, either.”

“Thanks. I needed your input on that.”

Cooper turned and headed for the coffee urn on a medicine cart next to the wall.

Tall, slim, and auburn-haired, she resembled a young Audrey Hepburn, but Reese thought the resemblance ended there. Cooper’s manner was cool and reserved. Most of her fellow officers avoided her, especially the females, who thought she was cold, not suited to sexual assault victims. She hadn’t been that way in the beginning. Christ, none of them were.

Cooper poured a cup and brought it back to Reese.

He sipped and made a face. “No cream or sugar?”

“Screw you.” Cooper spun around, strode to the orange chair and buried her nose in a torn magazine.

He meandered over to her and stood sipping. His hands shook. “Christ, how long’s this going to take?”

“Reese, you need a keeper.”

“You volunteering?”

“Good God no. I’m not that stupid.”

Reese grinned and took another sip. Too restless to sit, he paced back and forth in front of the desk, dodging the hustling emergency personnel. He finished the last of his coffee, then headed out the corridor to the waiting room.

About thirty people were waiting, some with children. The ones who had been through the routine before were easy to spot; they wore an air of helpless resignation. At least in his profession he could actually do something, take some kind of action.

Until, his conscience nagged, the time he was truly needed. Reese’s stomach rolled. Would he ever be able to put the guilt behind him? Captain Tate had questioned that very thing last month when Reese asked to return to work.

“I don’t think you’re ready,” Tate had said. “And especially not on Special Services.”

“Yes, Captain, I am. I have to.”

“You’re not going for any of that vigilante crap, are you?”

“Me? After a year on the sauce, I’m lucky to find my way to the can.”

“I can’t have my best man traipsing off on a personal vendetta.” Captain Tate eyed Reese. “All right, here’s the deal:  I’ll see you’re told about every sexual assault in our jurisdiction. You do a little here, a little there, ease back into the job. But later, I want you back in homicide. Best I can do.”

“How about out of our jurisdiction? You said, ‘every sexual assault in our jurisdiction’. How about other districts?”

“Jesus Christ, man.” 

Reese said nothing.

The silence stretched. Captain Tate tapped his fingers to some internal rhythm. “Done.”

Reese nodded and rose from his chair.

“Cooper’s a good cop,” Tate went on, “a little headstrong, but she gets the job done. You can learn from her. But I’m warning you. Get that hair outta your ass and do your job. Nothing else. Got that? Nothing else, or I’ll yank you so fast—””

Now, in the hospital, Reese headed back to ER. Cooper still waited, the curtain covering Three still closed.

Reese fought the urge to barge in and demand answers. Every minute wasted was more time for the perp to disappear.

Like last time.

Ramirez was jotting notes on a chart.

“What about Harris?” Reese asked her. “At least tell me if she’s critical.”

“She’s stable.”

“Stable? Come on, I haven’t been gone that long.”

Ramirez shrugged. “The doctor will tell you more. I have orders.”

Reese leaned in close and whispered, “How would your daughter like to know her saintly mother had her boyfriend checked out last year?”