Peggy Sue Got Murdered Page 7

  "I just came on duty. Let me check the reports." The clerk turned to the in-box, rifled through the stack of newly delivered lab slips. "There's no tox screen here for a Biagi."

  "How is he doing?"

  "You'll have to talk to one of the nurses. Which bed is he in?"

  "Bed thirteen."

  "Thirteen?" The clerk looked at the Cardex file and frowned. "There's no one in bed thirteen."

  "That's his bed number, I'm sure of it." M. J. glanced at the oscilloscope, where every patient's heart rhythm wriggled across the screen. Number thirteen was blank.

  A nurse walked past the desk, carrying an armful of charts. "Excuse me, Lori?" called the ward clerk. "There was a Mr. Biagi in bed thirteen. Do you know if he's been moved?"

  Lori stopped, turned to look at the trio of visitors. "Are you friends or relatives?"

  "Neither," said M. J. "I'm from the ME's office."

  "Oh." The look of caution eased from the nurse's face. "Then I guess it's okay to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  "Mr. Biagi died. Two hours ago."

  6

  Jane Doe. Xenia Vargas. Nicos Biagi. They were all dead.

  How many more would die?

  M. J. sat in the back seat of Isabel's Mercedes and stared out at the midnight scenery of South Lexington. She'd forgotten about her bruises, her empty stomach, the throbbing of her freshly sutured neck. She was numb now, shaken by the new addition to the death toll. Three in two days. It was lethal, this drug. It sucked the life out of its victims as surely as a dose of strychnine. Unless the word got out on the streets, there'd be more Jane Does checking into private drawers in the morgue. She only hoped Wheelock had stressed the urgency in his press conference. Had there been a press conference? She'd missed the evening news…

  Exhausted, she sank back into the luxury of soft, buttery leather. She'd never been in such a clean car.

  She'd never been in the back seat of a Mercedes, either. This she could learn to like. She could also learn to like the smooth ride, the sense of insulated safety. Maybe there was something to be said for money.

  She focused on the view through the window and tried mightily not to notice the billing and cooing coming from the front seat. Isabel had stopped at a red light, and she brushed back Adam's hair with her manicured fingers. "You poor thing! Look at those bruises! I'll have to get you all cleaned up when we get home."

  "I'm perfectly fine, Isabel," Adam said with a sigh.

  "What happened to your overcoat?"

  "They took it. Along with my wallet."

  "Oh! And you got hurt trying to fight them off?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, I got hurt trying to get away."

  "Don't say things like that, Adam. I know perfectly well you're not a coward."

  So do I, thought M. J.

  Adam merely shrugged. "Keep your illusions, then. I'll try not to shatter them."

  The red light changed to green. Isabel drove up the freeway on-ramp. "We missed you at supper, you know," she said. "We all had a lovely meal, even if we were minus our host."

  Adam looked out the window. "Hope you left some wine in my cellar."

  "Enough for a nightcap."

  "I'm really pretty tired. I think I'll probably go straight to sleep."

  There was a silence. "Oh," said Isabel. "Well, there's still tomorrow night. You are up for that, aren't you?"

  "What's tomorrow night?"

  "The mayor's dinner. Adam, how could you forget?"

  "I just did."

  Isabel gave a laugh. "You'll be a hit, you know. All those lovely bruises. Like some macho badge of honor."

  "More like a badge of stupidity," said Adam.

  "What is the matter with you?"

  "Get off here," said Adam. "Bellemeade exit."

  "Why would I want to go to Bellemeade?"

  "It's where I live," said M. J. from the back seat. Had Isabel forgotten she was there?

  "Oh, of course." Isabel took the exit. "Bellemeade. That's a nice neighborhood."

  "It's close to town," said M. J., a neutral response that could be taken in many different ways.

  After a few blocks and a few turns, they pulled up in front of M. J.'s house. She was proud of that house. It had three bedrooms, a charming front porch, and a lawn that wasn't loaded with chemicals. It wasn't Surry Heights, but she was happy here. So why did she feel the sudden urge to apologize?

  Adam got out and opened her door. To her surprise, he also offered his hand. She stepped out onto the sidewalk beside him. The streetlamp spilled light across his golden hair.

  "Can you get into the house?" he asked.

  "I keep an extra key under the flowerpot."

  "You don't have a car."

  "I'll catch the bus to work."

  "That's crazy. I'll arrange something."

  "I'm really okay, Adam. I've gone without wheels before."

  "Still, I feel responsible. You got into this mess because of me. So let me take care of it. A taxi to work, at least."

  She looked up at him, sensed how very much he wanted her to accept his help. "Okay," she said. "Just for a day or two. Until I come up with a new car."

  He smiled. "Thanks. You just gave me a warm fuzzy."

  Laughing, she headed up the walkway to her front porch. Then she glanced back.

  He was still watching, waiting for her to go inside.

  Only when she'd entered the house and turned on the hallway light did he get back in the car. She looked out the front window and saw the Mercedes drive away.

  Back to Surry Heights, she thought. Back to his world.

  And Isabel's.

  She locked the front door and wearily climbed the stairs to bed.

  After he'd sent Isabel home, Adam holed up in his study and nursed a much-needed glass of brandy. His head ached, his eyes were bleary, and his ribs hurt like hell when he took a deep breath, but he couldn't quite drag himself off to bed yet.

  He kept playing and replaying that terrifying image from tonight: M. J. Novak, down on her knees, her hair yanked back, her throat bared. And the switchblade, pressing against her flesh. He closed his eyes and tried to shut it out, but couldn't. At the instant he'd seen it, he'd lost all fear for himself, had stopped caring what would happen to him. All he knew was that they were going to kill her, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, not a single damn thing.

  He clutched the brandy glass and drained it in one neat gulp. She came through it better than I did, he thought.

  But then, M. J. Novak was something extraordinary, not like any woman he'd ever met. A true survivor who would land on her feet every time. Considering her roots, she had to be a survivor.

  Mariana Josefina Ortiz.

  A Spanish name, yet she didn't look it. The hair was right, a lush, raven's-wing black, but not those green eyes. They could see right through you, straight to a man's soul.

  He wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

  He wasn't sure he really wanted to know.

  Finally he set down the brandy glass and hauled himself out of the chair. On the way out of the room, he passed the photo of Maeve. It sat on the end table, a quiet portrait of his smiling stepdaughter. Was Maeve smiling much these days?

  He should have known. He should have seen it coming.

  He had no excuses, except that he'd felt overwhelmed, by his work, by single fatherhood, by a daughter who was so traumatized by her mother's death that she slipped into an eternally sullen adolescence. He couldn't talk to her; after a while he'd given up trying and had resorted to a father's tactic of last resort: asserting his authority. That hadn't worked, either.

  By the time he'd realized Maeve was in trouble, it was too late. She was on a constant high-booze, pills, everything, anything.

  Like Georgina.

  Maybe it was in their genes, some cruel twist in their DNA that preordained their addictions. Maybe it was simply that they couldn't cope with life or stress.

  Or was
it him?

  He turned away from the photograph and climbed the stairs. Once again, alone to bed. It didn't have to be this way. It had been clear tonight that Isabel was ready and willing-and frustrated by his lack of interest. They'd known each other for years, had been seeing each other on a regular basis for months. Shouldn't he be making some kind of move?

  But tonight, when she'd driven him to his door, he'd taken a good look at her. She was perfect, of course-her hair, her dress, her smile, perfect in every way. And yet he felt no interest whatsoever in taking her to bed. He'd looked at her, and all he could see was M. J. Novak, her face as bruised as a prizefighter's, grinning at him by the light of that Bellemeade streetlamp.

  Wonderful , he thought. After all these years I finally admit to the possibility of romance, and look who inspires it. A woman who almost gets me killed over some beat-up Subaru.

  Not at all a promising match.

  He should give it time, perspective. In a week, a month, he'd forget what the woman even looked like.

  No, who was he kidding? He could give it all the time and perspective in the world, but he had the disturbing suspicion that, if anyone was unforgettable, it was M. J. Novak.

  M. J. woke up with every muscle in her body aching. It took a massive infusion of willpower just to roll out of bed. She went into the bathroom and saw, in the mirror, the evidence of last night's brawl: three neat stitches on her neck and the bruises and scrapes on her face. So it hadn't been a nightmare after all.

  She managed to wash around that painful minefield of facial cuts and sweep her hair back in a ponytail. Forget the makeup; she'd wear her bruises to work instead.

  Downstairs, fueled by a cup of extra-strength Yuban, she started in on the tasks at hand: canceling her credit cards and her bank card, replacing her driver's license. When the punks had grabbed her purse, they'd made off with most of her financial identity. At least she still had her checkbook-that she'd left safely at home last night. She made one last call, begging a locksmith to come change her locks ASAP. Then she got up and poured herself another cup of coffee.The caffeine was having its blessed effect-she was feeling human again. And ornery. Getting beaten up and robbed wasn't good for her disposition.

  So when she heard the footsteps on her front porch, she was expecting the worst. Were the punks there already to try out her house keys?

  She scurried into the living room, grabbed the baseball bat out of the front closet, and stood poised by the front door. When she heard the clink of keys, she raised the bat, expecting the door to swing open any second.

  Instead, the mail slot squealed open, and a set of car keys slid through and clattered to the wood floor. M. J. stared at them. What the hell?

  Whoever had dropped them off was now walking away. She yanked open the door and saw Adam Quantrell's butler climb into a car driven by another man.

  "Hey!" M. J. yelled, waving the keys. "What's this?"

  The butler waved back and called,"Compliments of Mr. Quantrell!"

  Bewildered, M. J. watched them drive off. Then her gaze shifted to her driveway.

  A lemon yellow Mercedes was parked there.

  She looked down at the keys she was holding. Then she went to the driveway and slowly circled the car. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Regis Luxury Rentals, said the license plate frame. She peered in the window- leather seats. Clean. She opened the door, climbed in behind the wheel, and just sat there for a moment. There was a note taped to the dashboard, addressed to Dr. Novak. She unfolded the slip of paper and read it.

  Hope this will do. A.Q.

  She sat back. "Well, I just don't know, Mr. Quantrell," she said aloud. "Lemon yellow isn't quite my color. But I suppose it will have to do." Then she threw her head back and laughed.

  At work, she stopped laughing.

  Davis Wheelock told her the mayor had canned the idea of any press conference.

  "You can't be serious," said M. J.

  Wheelock looked genuinely apologetic. "I explained the situation to the mayor and his staff. I told them we'd had two deaths-"

  "Three, Davis. Nicos Biagi died. I've had it classified an ME case."

  "All right, three. I told them the trend was not good. But they felt a press conference was premature."

  "At what point does this crisis become mature?"

  Wheelock shook his head. "It's not in my power to go around them. The line of authority's clear. When it comes to press releases, the mayor has final say."

  "Maybe you weren't persuasive enough."

  "Maybe we should ride this out a bit. See what develops."

  "I can tell you what'll develop. And it won't be good press." She leaned across Wheelock's desk. "Davis, we're going to come out of this looking incompetent. When all hell breaks loose, do you think the mayor's going to take the rap? Hell, no. We will. You will."

  Wheelock was looking more and more unhappy.

  "Let me talk to them," said M. J. "I'll bring in Dr. Dietz from Hancock General as my authority. This news has to get out, and soon. Before South Lexington turns into a graveyard."

  For a moment, Wheelock said nothing. Then he nodded. "All right. You take care of it. But don't be surprised if they slap you down."

  "Thanks, Davis."

  Back in her office, the first call she made was to the mayor's secretary. She learned that His Honor had a hole in his appointment book at one o'clock and she might be able to slip in then, but there were no guarantees.

  The second call she made was to Hancock General. Unfortunately, Dr. Michael Dietz was not on duty in the ER.

  "Is there any way I can reach him?" asked M. J. "This is urgent. I've booked us into the mayor's office at one o'clock."

  "I'm afraid that's impossible," said the ER clerk.

  "Why?"

  "Dr. Dietz has left town. He resigned from the staff. Effective yesterday evening."

  During his three and a half years in office, Mayor Sampson had presided over the worst economic slide in Albion's history. To be fair, it wasn't entirely his fault-across the country, cities were reeling from the recession. But with three major plant closings, a host of business bankruptcies, and an inner city rotting at its core, Albion had suffered worse than most. So it struck M. J. as more than a little ironic that the bicentennial poster displayed behind the receptionist's desk showed a slick couple in evening dress, dancing before a view of the night skyline.

  Albion -a city for all reasons.

  Nolan Sampson, Mayor.

  It was, of course, just your typical election year hype. How convenient for His Honor that the city bicentennial just happened to coincide with the kickoff for his reelection campaign.

  She approached the receptionist. "I'm Dr. Novak, ME's office. Is there a chance I could get in to see Mayor Sampson?"

  "I'll check." The receptionist pressed the intercom. "Mayor Sampson? There's a doctor here from the ME's office. Are you free?"

  "Uh, yeah. We just finished lunch. Send him in," M. J. heard from the speaker.

  Him? He must think I'm Wheelock , she thought. She opened the door and masculine laughter spilled out. Just inside the office, she halted.

  The mayor was behind his desk, puffing on a cigar. In a nearby chair sat the acting district attorney-M. J.'s ex-husband.

  "Hello, Ed," said M. J. stiffly. "Mayor Sampson."

  Both men looked surprised. "It's you," Ed said, for want of anything else to say. She noticed he'd spiffed up his wardrobe since their divorce. He had a new suit, Italian shoes, a shirt that looked like a hundred percent linen. Just think of all those wrinkles. I wonder who he's got ironing his shirts these days.

  "Is this… official business?" asked the mayor, looking bewildered.

  "Yes," said M. J. "Davis Wheelock spoke to you yesterday. About that press conference."

  "What? Oh." Sampson waved his hand in dismissal. "You mean the junkies. Yeah, we talked about it."

  "I think it's time to go to the press, sir," said M. J. "We've had three deaths." />
  "I thought it was two."

  "Another OD died last night. At Hancock General."

  "Have you confirmed it's the same drug?"

  "Let's just say my suspicions are running high."

  "Ah." Sampson sat back, suddenly at ease. "So you don't have confirmation."

  "Toxicology screens take time. Especially when the drug's an unknown. By the time we get a positive ID, we could have a full-blown crisis in South Lexington."

  Ed laughed. "South Lexington is a crisis."

  M. J. ignored him. "All I'm asking for is a statement to the press. Call in the local news stations. Tell them we've got some bad stuff on the streets. Junkies are dying."

  The mayor glanced at Ed with an amused look. "Some would say that's progress."

  "Sir," said M. J., trying to stay calm,"you have to let people know."

  "Now therein lies our problem," said Mayor Sampson, shifting forward in his chair. "Dr. Novak, in case you're not aware of it, we have a bicentennial celebration coming up. Parade, marching bands, the whole nine yards. We have the heads of eight major corporations coming to town to join in the fun. And to look us over, see if they like us. We're talking jobs they could bring to Albion. But they won't bring a thing to town if they start seeing headlines like 'Junkie epidemic' or 'Grim reaper stalks city.' They'll just move their companies to Boston or Providence instead."

  "So what do you suggest?" asked M. J. "We sweep it under the rug?"

  "Not exactly. We just… wait a while."

  "How long?"

  "Until you've got more information. Next week, say."

  "A lot of people can die in a week."

  "Lighten up, M. J.," Ed cut in. "These aren't the pillars of society we're talking about. These are the same folks who mug old ladies and hold up gas stations. The same folks I'm already sticking in jail." He paused. "The same folks who ripped off your car."

  "How did you hear about that?" M. J. snapped,

  Ed grinned. "We hear a lot of things at the office. Like who's been filing stolen car reports."

  "Forget my car. I want to know when we can see some action on this."

  "I think I answered that question, Dr. Novak," said Mayor Sampson.