On the ride over to police headquarters, I used my cell phone to make hasty calls to our scheduled patients to let them know that we were closed. The excuse I gave: a burst pipe. It was the first thing that popped into my head and was infinitely better than blurting out what I wanted to – we're closed because someone killed one of our patients. Dr. Dick would have probably handed me my walking papers right on the spot if he didn't get arrested for strangling me first.
My last call was to Marcy Palmer, Dr. Daley's partner. I couldn't reach her but left a detailed voice mail about the murder. As my battery charge wore down and we neared police headquarters, I snapped my phone shut. Dr. Dick glared at me, probably for being so frank with his partner about what had happened, and I turned my head away. After all, Marcy deserved to know the facts. I just hoped she'd access her voice mail before she reached the office and the police stopped her. I was in deep enough trouble with Dr. Daley; I sure didn't need to be on Marcy's bad side. Up until now, she'd been my biggest ally.
Police headquarters wasn't what I expected. I thought it would be dark and dreary and that there'd be bars and criminals all over the place like I'd seen on NYPD Blue or the other cop shows on television. Instead, it was a brightly lit and cheery place, not unlike most big office complexes. The halls were wide and the cleaning staff kept the white linoleum so polished you could almost see your reflection in it.
Ryder led us through a maze of corridors acting like he knew exactly where he was headed. Pretty strange for a CPA. It occurred to me that there was a lot about R.J. Ryder that I didn't know. And it made me want to get to better acquainted. Much better acquainted.
"Okay, if you'll all step in here, I'll tell the Detectives you're here." Ryder stepped aside and showed us into a tiny room with molded plastic chairs, the kind you see in clinics or hospital emergency rooms. The really uncomfortable kind. An industrial-strength carpet covered the floor. At least it was in a soft green hue. The walls were cream-colored and free of any pictures or decorations. It sure didn't appear like "the box" that I'd seen on crime shows - you know, the place where they sweated and coerced confessions from the guilty.
But it was a small windowless room, and I hated confined spaces. I can deal with large, confined spaces or smaller spaces as long as they have windows to the outside world. This room was neither spacious nor had an outside window.
My chest tightened and my breathing grew rapid as beads of sweat popped out on my forehead and upper lip.
I knew if I didn't get some fresh air, and soon, I was going to lose it.
To try to staunch the symptoms of a mini-panic attack, I decided to explore my new surroundings and circled the room.
I found the cameras straight off. They bothered me. Don't get me wrong. I'm not averse to being filmed, but these were surveillance cameras. They were mounted near the ceiling in a couple of corners and seemed to follow my every move. Without reason, I felt guilty and didn't even know why. The other objectionable part of the decor was the wide mirror that covered most of one wall from about waist level almost to the ceiling.
While the others took their seats, I sashayed over to the "mirror." Not for one minute did I believe this piece of glass was there to make the small room appear larger. No question it was a two-way mirror. I pressed my nose up against the wall to see if I could make out anything besides my own reflection, all the while wondering if Detective Tom stood behind the glass watching our every move. Or was someone else videotaping us? Not that we were saying or doing anything. But unless I missed my guess, they were rolling nonetheless. Talk about Big Brother.
"Becca, what in heaven's name are you doing? You have no idea who might have put their germy skin up against that wall. Come over here and sit down." My granddad's voice sliced through my body like that letter-opener must have done to Mr. O'Malley's body.
"Be right there, Granddad."
"Now, Rebecca Ann."
I hated it when he called me by my first and middle names. Even worse, he'd change my middle name to one belonging to some long-deceased ancestor that gave me a clue as to what he was thinking. In this case, Ann was a particularly obnoxious great-aunt who'd been the world's biggest busybody. Okay, Granddad, I got the message.
I joined Dr. Dick and Granddad in one of the plastic chairs arranged in a circle around a sturdy wooden table and Granddad, bless his meddling heart, took my hand in his and patted it. His way of letting me know that he understood that I'd had a bad morning. Yeah, a bad morning. And I had a feeling the rest of the day wasn't going to get much better.
Honestly, all I wanted to do was scream.
Scream and get out of here.
My thoughts, and to some extent my panic, was interrupted by the door opening. I sucked in fresh hallway air like a drug user snorting coke.
Ahhh. Much better, at least for the moment.
Tom stuck his head into the room. "I'm going to take you one at a time to be fingerprinted and interviewed. After that, you're free to go."
At least they weren't planning on keeping us. That was a relief. Not that any of us were guilty, but you never knew when dealing with the authorities.
"Dr. Daley, if you'll follow me, please." The detective held the door open, and he and Dr. Dick disappeared leaving Granddad and me alone in the room.
"Why didn't you tell me that O'Malley had been murdered?" Granddad asked.
I put my fingers up to my lips to indicate that Granddad should be quiet. Either he didn't recognize the signal, or he chose to ignore me. I'm guessing it was the latter.
"Becca, this is serious. The killer could still have been there when you came in this morning." He leveled his grandfatherly gaze on me. I knew he meant well, and I really couldn't be mad at him.
"It's okay, Granddad. Everything is going to be all right."
I held his hand and gave it a squeeze - one he returned. Even though I'd spoken the words, I wasn't sure that I entirely believed them. A strange feeling crept up my spine and a rock formed in the pit of my stomach. I tried to dismiss my stray thoughts, but they lingered in the back of my mind. This murder was going to change everything.
After a bit, Detective Tom reappeared. "Mr. Reynolds, you're next."
Granddad patted my shoulder and then followed Tom out of the room.
I didn't like being left here alone. It occurred to me that whoever was observing me may not entirely believe that I didn't stab Mr. O'Malley. Maybe they were waiting to see if I'd crack under the strain of being the last to get out of the room. Don't be ridiculous, I scolded myself. The stress of the day was finally taking its toll. That and this stupid box of a room without windows.
Feeling brave, I got up and opened the door. Sticking my head out into the corridor, I checked both ways. Empty. Surely they should have posted a uniform cop to guard us and make sure we didn't leave.
Well, hmmm. This was pretty cool. I could get out of the room and stretch my legs. Maybe even find the restroom. Yeah, that was a plan.
Tiptoeing without knowing why, I looked down the hall in the direction we'd come and decided to head the other way. I crept past closed doors until I reached the end of the corridor. Left or right? Decisions, decisions. I picked right for no good reason other than it looked promising.
And at the first doorway, I ran smack into a policeman and another man.
I started to lose my balance, but a pair of strong arms reached out to steady me. When I looked up, I found the softest pair of brown eyes staring down at me.
"Are you okay?" His accent was clearly foreign. Russian, I decided.
I nodded and chalked up a new record on losing the ability to speak in a single day.
"Good." He offered a smile that was both genuine and calming.
"Come on, Chernov, you can make time with the ladies after you're released." The uniformed cop tugged on the man's arm and did a push-pull action.
The man called Chernov flashed another smile in my direction and shrugged as if to say if it were up to him he would not have been so quick to leave. I smiled back at him.
The cop continued to push Chernov down the hall toward a room on the opposite side. Looking back over his shoulder the cop said to me, "What are you doing back here?"
I swallowed hard, sure that both men had heard me. "I'm here to be fingerprinted and give a statement." At this point, the truth was my only salvation.
"Over here then." He pointed to where he stood with Chernov.
"They shouldn't have left you to find it on your own," the cop growled.
I hesitated and he shot me a look that I interpreted to mean, get my butt over to where he stood this minute.
"Lady, I don't have all day. C'mon."
Dropping my head and wondering how I'd explain this to Detective Tom, I obeyed the uniformed officer.
He shoved Chernov into the room and pushed on his shoulder until the Russian took a seat. The cop nodded for me to sit, as well.
Since Chernov, and not the cop, had been a gentleman when I'd bumped into them and had tried to save me from falling on my face, I decided he couldn't be that bad. So I took the seat next to him.
"Your first time?" Chernov asked softly.
"First time?" I replied dumbly.
"Getting prints taken."
"Yes, oh my, yes. I've never been in any trouble before. Not that I'm in trouble now. I saw something and touched something and now they need my prints and a statement about what I witnessed. I'm not a criminal. No, I'm definitely a law-abiding citizen." Suddenly realizing what I was implying, I rushed to add, "Not that I think you're a crook. I so did not mean to imply that. It's just been a really bad day. I'm not usually like this at all. Okay, I may be a tad scattered some days, like today, for instance, but—"
"It's all right. I completely understand. You're nervous," he said almost in a whisper, the most charming smile playing about his lips.
In an effort not to miss a word, I leaned my head a bit closer to his, fascinated by his accent and pulled in by those soulful, dark chocolate eyes.
"You must think I'm an idiot." I looked down at my hands folded primly in my lap.
His index finger took a stroll along my spine and I jerked up straight, as though I'd been touched with a live wire. "Shoulders back, head high, no matter what. Understand? Never look like you are defeated." His words were strong, but his voice remained kind and calm.
For some reason, the intimacy didn't freak me out. Instead, it drew me to him all the more. Quite simply, I was mesmerized by this man. Finally remembering my good manners, I held out my hand. "Becca Reynolds."
He took my hand lightly in his.
"Max Chernov, my-ah sladkaya."
I didn't know what my-ah sladkaya meant, but for some reason the lyrical words caused heat to infuse my face and neck like I'd bitten into a hot chili pepper. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Chernov." How lame could I get?
"Max. Please, call me Max."
This guy was hot. Who knew a good place to meet guys would be at Police Headquarters? And then it hit me. Was he here because he'd seen something that the police needed to question him about, or was he actually a criminal? Just my luck to meet a good-looking, gallant foreigner and he'd turn out to be a Jack the Ripper. Or worse.
My face must have betrayed my thoughts.
"You are right to be careful, Becca. You don't know who I am. I can tell you this. I am a friend, not an enemy. Trust your first instincts."
"Chernov, over here," the uniformed cop called out.
"Now I must leave you, Becca."
Max stood and reached into his pocket, pulled out a silver business card case and extracted a card. "Should you ever need a friend…."
I took the card, and he smiled and followed the uniformed officer into a cubicle.
The card was plain but expensive looking. It listed his name and two phone numbers. I opened my purse and tucked it safely inside my wallet. You never knew when you were going to need a friend, especially a handsome Russian one.
"Becca, what are you doing here?" Granddad's voice made me jump.
"I decided to save Tom a trip back to get me."
Granddad looked confused and then his eyes narrowed to slits. He knew I was up to something. Before he could say more, Tom came up behind him.
"Okay, Mr. Reynolds. You're free to go." When Tom spotted me sitting in the chair, he did a double-take. "How did you get here, Miss Reynolds?"
I settled for the truth, just not the whole truth and nothing but the truth. "A uniformed officer told me to come in here."
Tom looked around and seeing no one, in particular, seemed to act like I must be telling the truth. I suspect he really thought I wasn't smart enough to find the room on my own. Probably right.
"Okay, let's get you fingerprinted and take that statement." Tom pointed toward the cubicles on the far side of the room, the same way Chernov had gone. My heart kicked up a notch at the thought of seeing the sexy Russian again. And then just as quickly it settled back into its normal rhythm when I remembered why I was here -- to talk about a murder.
"See you later, Granddad." I waved half-heartedly and followed Tom.
We passed several cubicles and without thinking I peered into each one. Damn. I did want to see Chernov again. Well, who could blame me? Shoulder-length dark brown hair that perfectly complimented his eyes. Strong Slavic cheekbones, even white teeth, a killer smile. Oops, there it was again. That measure of doubt. What was he doing here?
Tom ushered me into the fourth cubicle. "Wait here. I'll go see if the fingerprint area is free." He disappeared, and I took the opportunity to survey my new surroundings. The nameplate on the desk read Tom Donovan.
So now I knew Detective Tom's last name.
There were no papers on the desk to speak of. A double tray held loose sheets of paper. A computer terminal and keyboard rested on the far side of the work surface.
The only other item on the desk was a telephone. A bulletin board hung from the cubicle wall displaying several official-looking notices pinned up in random order. I had an overwhelming desire to align them and tidy them up, but I didn't think Tom Donovan would appreciate my help.
"Okay, they're ready for you. Let's get you over there and move this along."
Rising, I followed him.
As I entered the other room, I saw Max Chernov wiping his fingers with a cloth. He winked at me. I couldn't help it; I blushed. This guy did something to me. My insides felt like jelly just being around him.
And I'd thought Ryder was something. What a toss-up. Here I'd gone through a severe dry spell and now two guys could dissolve me into putty with just a look. Maybe my love life was looking up.
"Miss Reynolds, over here."
Tom's voice brought me back to the real world. The uniformed cop nudged Chernov along.
As Max passed me, he said in a tone barely audible, "Until next time, my-ah sladkaya."
My heart did a weird staccato beat. Before I could say anything, he was gone. I turned and watched him retreat. Just as good from the back as the front. I sighed.
Probably a bit too loud.