The next morning I called Claire’s hospital room—again.
Edmund had been keeping me up-to-date on her condition through texts, and I’d sent messages to her through various nurses, who’d passed them on. But Claire hadn’t called, and all that I could learn from Edmund was that she was healing from the surgery, walking a little more every day.
I missed her and wanted very much to get my own sense of how she was feeling. I wanted to hear in her own voice how she felt, and I had a couple of tales to tell her.
I called her as I dressed for work—and she actually answered the phone.
There was a moment of stunned silence before I said, “Claire?”
“Who were you expecting?”
“You’re awfully fresh. I’ve been worried out of my mind.”
She laughed, and that cheered me up, but I was still feeling both worried and in need of a one-on-one conversation.
“When are they sending you home?”
“I guess that’s up to the parole board.”
“Yer a riot, Butterfly. Are you free for lunch?”
“You bet I am. I’ve watched as much Rachael Ray and CNN as I can stand. I need Boxer news.”
“Well, I’ve got some.”
“Bring it,” she said. “Noontime is good.”
I left Julie in her booster seat next to Joe at the breakfast table. I kissed them and Martha good-bye, and once inside my Explorer, I headed toward the Hall. My spirits had transformed overnight. My skin was pleasantly whisker burned, and I had a lunch date with Claire. She hadn’t seen my face, and she was going to give me the business. I thought about picking up something she might like. Perfume. A nightie?
My wandering mind was jolted back to the present by my phone buzzing. It was the same buzz as always, but I knew, just knew, that it was Brady.
He said, “There’s been another shooting. Actually, a threesome.”
I said, “For Christ’s sake. A triple homicide—” but he talked over me.
“Outside the jazz center. Northern Station got the call, but you’ve gotta be there.”
I changed course toward that large glass-and-steel building on the corner of Franklin and Fell. I ran my tongue over the chip in my tooth and turned up the scanner. It began crackling like a forest fire with codes that were becoming commonplace: Ambulance requested. CSI. Medical Examiner.
The jazz center is a beautiful building, but today all anyone would notice was the jam-packed area around the base of the building. There were squad cars, unmarked cars, paramedics schmoozing outside their vehicles, the CSI van, and the ME’s van just arriving, and they were in the process of closing off the immediate area.
And there was something else, or rather someone else, only I would notice.
My good bud, still mad at me, was startled when I pulled the car up to where she stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change. I lightly honked my horn. Spinning around, she recognized my vehicle, then turned her eyes to me.
She came toward the window.
“Oh, man,” she said. “Rich said you got punched. I hope your lip doesn’t scar.”
“Did he tell you I punched back?”
I showed her the cuts on my knuckles and the artistic bruise changing color as it rose up my hand to the wrist.
“Impressive,” she said, turning to leave. “Anyway, I gotta go, Linds.”
I said, “Wait. Cindy. Do you know anything about the victims?”
She didn’t answer.
“Cindy, have you heard any victim names?”
She gave me a hard look that said, You must have mistaken me for someone who gives tips to cops.
I sat in the car for a long moment, watching her walk ahead, thinking that this situation totally sucked. Maybe she was in the right. Or maybe she just refused to understand that I couldn’t give her unsubstantiated information on an investigation in progress.
Maybe Brady would cut her a break.
I grabbed my phone and I called him.
He didn’t wait for me to say hello.
“There were two more hits,” he said. “Both in Baltimore. Where are you, Boxer? Clapper is looking for you.”