Chapter 8

So many questions. They kept asking me so many questions. I tried to relegate them to the “do without thinking” part of my brain while I figured out what had just happened. Every few minutes from the secluded corner of the lobby, I verified that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing. “He’s dead?”

Blue Suit—I didn’t remember his name—exchanged looks with Brown Suit, whose name I did remember—Detective Spoon. Maybe Blue Suit’s name was Dish and they would run away together. I needed a fairy tale to come true about now.

Detective Spoon answered. “He’s gone, Ms. Novak. The paramedics did what they could.” Then back to the questions. “Now the ski mask, describe it again.”

“It was black with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth,” I said, biting the nail from an index finger.

“So, from seeing this guy’s nose, you know he was African American?”

“I don’t remember seeing his nose. I said his voice sounded black, maybe. I think.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“He said, ‘You know what this is.’ How many times do I have to answer the same questions?”

Spoon edged forward on the pink-and-brown-striped love seat and said, “A man is dead, Ms. Novak. We owe it to him and his family to do the job right and find the killer. When we’re satisfied, we stop asking. You heard another shot and then what?”

“The window shattered. Glass was everywhere.” I reached into my hair and pulled out a shard, eerily proving my point. Blue Suit allowed me to drop it into his hand. “I thought I was cut, but I wasn’t.”

“You were lucky,” Blue Suit said. “You say his hands were gloved?”

“Black knit gloves, yes.”

“And you’re sure he used his right hand?” Blue Suit again. Detective Spoon looked over his notes.

“Yes, yes. When I close my eyes, that’s what I see. That’s all I see.” But then, I saw Sarah in my mind’s eye and my tears fell. “One shot killed him? He’s dead?” I sniffed. Blue Suit handed me a tissue.

“Thank you. What’s your name again?”

“Detective McKnight. Just call me Mac.”

“Okay, thanks.” Mac’s left jaw was dented, like a piece of bone was missing. I fleetingly wondered why he hadn’t had reconstructive surgery. His eyes were honey-brown, like the Latino waiters in the coffee place in Wheaton.

“It was a stomach wound, close range,” Mac explained.

“Still, the ambulance came so quickly. Was it a large caliber weapon?”

“You know guns?” Spoon asked.

“No, I watch the Discovery Health Channel. With medical interventions being what they are today—I can’t believe he’s dead.”

My weapon of choice was a space heater. I covered my face and bit my lower lip so the inappropriate insane laughter that threatened to gurgle up would stay submerged. I shifted focus. “Were you able to locate his wife? His ex-wife? She lives somewhere in the area. She moved recently…”

“Were you and Mr. Randall having an affair?” Spoon asked.

Had they been looking at me funny just now? I blinked a few times, gathering composure. “Why? What makes you ask something like that?”

“We have to look at all possible angles. Were you?”

“Of course not. Ours was strictly a work relationship. Did you find his ex-wife? Because he has a daughter…”

“Yes, his family has been notified,” Mac said.

“It was probably just a robbery, don’t you think?” I searched Spoon’s white face, and then Mac’s black one. “You think it was personal?”

“We have to look at every possibility,” Spoon repeated.

“My head is pounding and I have to use the bathroom, and I don’t think I have anything else to tell you that you can use. I’m sorry.” I was numb, they had to see it. I was virtually brain—no, I didn’t want to use the word dead. My brain was numb, except it wouldn’t turn off, not the thinking part. If it was personal and Bob had merely interrupted something meant for me, then the nightmare was nowhere near over. Who would want me dead besides Dennis?

No, too much. Too much to think about now. I needed to use the bathroom, find something to take for my headache and rest, maybe sleep, and afterwards I’d regroup. I get a handle on everything eventually. When I was sixteen, a tornado roared over us in church. Other people panicked while I calmly ordered folks under tables. Now, at forty, I was pregnant with the twins of my best friend’s fiancé—just a momentary social glitch. I would figure it out and keep my babies and my friend. My business associate murdered while I waited in his car? Not a problem. Just give me a minute, I’ll absorb this and be back in the game tomorrow.

I stood up. Feeling shaky, I quickly sat back down, pointing to the trashcan. Mac knew instantly what I meant, but Spoon wasn’t as quick. Consequently, I drenched Spoon’s nice brown penny loafers in vomit.

People react to stressful situations by throwing up all the time, pregnant or not. Mac escorted me to the ladies’ room, telling me to take it easy. I detected a slight Jamaican accent for the first time.

Alone inside the bathroom, I gripped the edges of the cold marble sink. That sharp businesswoman I had seen two hours earlier in the mirror had been transformed into a wild-haired mahogany victim of violence. When I emerged, Mac handed me a can of 7–Up and I sipped gratefully.

“You want Advil?” He held up a bottle of it. “Not sure how wise that is on an upset stomach.”

“Yes, no, wait. Tylenol.” I thought pregnant women could take Tylenol for sure. Why didn’t I know these things? I had bought a book about pregnancy, but hadn’t started reading yet. “I hate to ask, but do you think you can get me some Tylenol?”

Spoon walked toward us in response to Mac’s gesture.

He handed me off to Spoon, who walked me toward the elevators. “I’ll see you to your room. One of the patrolmen will stay outside your door tonight.”

My mouth went completely dry in my nervousness. “It really looks like it might have been personal? Not just a random robbery?”

“Ma’am, there were two ATM’s in a three-block radius, both fairly isolated. There was a near-empty strip mall a few feet from the on-ramp. Lots of opportunities for quick cash. So this guy waited outside a very busy hotel to rob someone at gunpoint? We can’t rule anything out yet.”

If I weren’t nauseous, I would be impressed or scared out of my mind. At least this small town took what little crime they had seriously. “You need to catch him, Detective.”

“That’s the plan.”

By the time Mac brought the Tylenol up to my room, I was almost in tears, my head throbbing like a strobe light on coke. I fell into bed groaning.

* * *

In my dream, the small, YMCA-like bedroom depressed me. Maybe it had something to do with the metal bar attached along one wall in the tiny bathroom. Something to hold onto if I needed help. In this case, something to grip if the pain became unbearable.

I settled under a thin cover in my dream. A nurse who looked like Emma carried two clear beakers, each half-filled with a reddish liquid. A mass of tissue floated near the bottom of both. She set them on a ledge. “The doctor will be here soon.”

My babies. My babies were in those tubes.

I woke, my face wet and my body stiff. I gingerly straightened out as I remembered where I was, rubbing my stomach to make sure things were as they should be. The dream reflected Dennis’s objective, not mine—never mine. Shuddering, I struggled to an upright position on my elbows. But, something was still wrong. Then, the horror washed over me like pus from a wound. Bob. Oh God. I collapsed on the pillows again.

I lay in bed, drowning in it, reviewing yesterday’s events. Should I call his ex-wife or his mother? Would either appreciate hearing about his last minutes, or would they somehow blame me?

I hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. I needed food to fuel my brain so I could figure out my next step. After showering, I put on my red suit and applied makeup. No one would know the turmoil raging inside from looking at me.

The patrol officer stood and nodded good morning as I left the room. “Detective McKnight would like you to meet him in the restaurant downstairs, ma’am.”

I thanked him for looking out for me all night, then asked, “Any breaking news?”

“No. No news.”

In the restaurant, I saw plenty of business types sitting at round brown tables with spindle-back chairs, but no Detective McKnight. When the patrolman’s radio crackled behind me, customers looked at me as if I had toilet paper on my shoe. They whispered, “She’s the woman…”

I declined a table in the middle of the room and opted for a booth near a window. I could see the canopy I’d sat under in Bob’s car yesterday. Maybe this wasn’t the table I wanted after all. Thank God, the angle didn’t let me see where his body had fallen. Through the window, I saw Mac put out a cigarette, turn his coat collar up and put his hands in his pockets. He had on the same blue suit. He adjusted his earpiece and headed inside.

A minute later he sat across from me, earpiece gone, looking haggard.

“Have you been up all night interviewing people?” I asked.

“Me, Spoon and a patrolman. Sixty-three rooms, forty-seven of them occupied, seventy-six people to talk to.”

“Where’s Spoon now?”

“At home with his wife, I would imagine.”

“And is your wife home in Jamaica?”

His eyebrows shot up at my question. “My ex-wives are here. Have you ordered yet?”

“No, the waitress is coming now. Here, as in Delaney?”

He turned to the waitress. “We changed our minds.” Mac stretched his hand across the table for mine. I was tempted to whine about how hungry I was when he said, “I know a place with a much better view.”

I hesitated. The coffee smelled so good, but I let him lead me to the lobby. Next to him, I felt protected. His presence warded off stares, contrary to what I might have expected. He pushed the elevator button.

“I’ll get my coat and meet you outside,” I said.

“I’m coming up with you.” On the elevator he looked steadily at me and said, “I meant my ex-wives are here in this country. Since we’re being personal, why aren’t you married?”

“Good question. I always wanted to be.”

“What? And give up your business career? I don’t see you at home chasing little ones.”

Hmm. Was he baiting me? Did he know I was pregnant? Either his almond-colored eyes didn’t miss much or he merely equated having a man with having a family. Was Mac a throwback to another generation where women were more domestic? Well, there were trade-offs, no matter which lifestyle was chosen.

Opening the door to my room I asked, “You have children?”

“Four boys.”

I watched him scan the unmade bed, the dresser, the bathroom. He opened the closet door and took my tan wool coat off the hanger, holding it up for me to slip my arms into the sleeves. I checked the mirror to see how the dark fox fur collar settled around my neck. I looked good under the circumstances. His expression of appreciation told me he thought I did too.

On the way back to the lobby I asked, “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“Everyone is a suspect. Now that some of the shock has worn off, is there anything else you can tell me?”

“No, but I do want to pay my respects to his family today. Where are we going?”

“Mom-and-pop café a few blocks over.”

Although there was no conversation on the way to his car, my thoughts clanged like cymbals in my head. If I told Mac about Dennis, he could determine if he was involved. But then Emma would have to know; or would Mac agree to keep her out of it if I asked him? If Dennis really had tried to kill me, didn’t that mean all bets were off? Surely it must. Any second now I’d be on the phone spilling my guts to Emma, telling her of her fiancé’s murderous intent and asking her not to hate me. Unless, of course, Dennis wasn’t behind this after all.

“Mac, was there physical evidence? Anything to work with in finding this guy? Anybody get a description of his car?” Tell me it wasn’t Dennis, please.

We settled into a Crown Victoria and drove away from the hotel, onto streets quiet except for the distant roar of a snow blower.

“We have multiple car descriptions, actually. We’re checking every lead. We have an approximate height based on the angle of the shot into the Explorer, and we know he used a 9 mm gun.”

“That’s good information.” They had leads. Whoever had done this wouldn’t get away with it. I’d know soon enough if Dennis was behind it. “Everyone’s a suspect, but I’m free to go anytime, right?”

“You wouldn’t want to leave in this weather, would you?”

“The highway will be clear. I plan to leave tomorrow.”

“Sure, you can leave, unless we have a reason to detain you before then. Right now, we’re looking into Randall’s personal life and his business dealings.”

“And when you finish with his business dealings and personal life and you find nothing, where will you look?”

“We’ll look at your life, Ms. Novak, to see what, if anything, shakes lose.”

I swallowed hard. I should tell him now about Dennis and me. Instead I said, “Delaney seems to have a lot of resources for such a small town.”

“Small town, huge tax base. Rich folks leaving the big cities in droves need a place to call home. This is it.”

“How did you end up here?”

“The job. From Jamaica to Florida to New York to here. I like to think there’s a master plan, don’t you?”

“It would be great if there were some final explanation for what we seem to put ourselves through. Where do your sons live?”

“My twins go to the state college ninety minutes down the road.”

“Twins,” I restated, and smiled.

“Yes. Some of my finest work, I must admit, but I didn’t stop there. I have a son in the army and my youngest lives with my parents in Jamaica, but he’ll be here at Christmas.”

“That’s funny. He gets to have a snowy vacation while everyone else is seeking warmth.”

He smiled. “Twenty, eighteen and seven, in case you’re wondering.”

“So you’ve been married three times?”

He looked at me for a long minute, as if trying to understand why I seemed so interested in his personal life. I knew why. I needed a knight in shining armor about now, and McKnight had appeared. Perhaps it was kismet, but more realistically, it was a desperate woman’s longing for safety, a woman not as tough as she liked to pretend.

His ragged jaw line gave his face character and he seemed like a decent man. He’d probably be good for me, but in another time and place. Another life.

“Twice. This last time I couldn’t make it happen. I’d have to pray long and hard about marrying a third time.”

He hadn’t married the mother of his child still in Jamaica. The good detective was fallible. Even better. Maybe he would understand how I’d gotten myself into this pickle. My stomach growled.

“You’re probably starving, Ms. Novak. We’ll have good, filling food where we’re going.”

“After we eat, then what?”

“I’ll take you back to the hotel. Your lawyer will want to see you, I would imagine.”

“I didn’t call a lawyer.”

“Your company probably did.”

“Oh.” I wondered what the home office reaction would be.

In the second restaurant, people still looked at me, or it felt as if they did, but the atmosphere was friendlier. The blonde waitress said she was sorry for my trouble. The thought of grits, ham and eggs sunny-side-up had my fork in my hand before the waitress set my plate before me.

I sopped up the egg yolk with toast. Taking a break from my half-eaten meal, I glanced around. I expected Ward and June Cleaver to walk in any minute—the place had that ultra-white, small-town kind of feel. If I lived in a town like this, I’d have to drive an hour to find somebody to do my hair. Maybe I could tell Mac my woes and he’d leave this Norman Rockwell town and come be my bodyguard in the big city. We’d rescue each other.

I took a deep breath, leaned forward and began to speak. “Mac…” His eyes drifted toward the window. I followed his gaze. Blue and red flashing lights whizzed by.

“We better go,” Mac said.

In his car I learned that the flashing lights had been cars responding to a call reporting a 9 mm gun found under a boxwood bush.