THREE TIMES A LADY Page 10

  Dana shuddered, sending a painful wave of goose flesh rippling across her skin beneath her lab coat. Her half-brother had been a reporter once upon a time too; had even had the audacity to write about the murders of her parents under the same name he’d been given by their mother at birth – murders that he himself had committed. And Nathan Stiedowe hadn’t been the kind of reporter who would’ve been fooled this easily. Not even close. He would have sensed Dana’s fear from a mile away, would’ve smelled it.

  Worse, it would have excited him.

  Short as Dana was – five-three even on her best day – each of the orderlies who’d applied for the job of acting as her human shields had been selected on the basis of their own, more impressive heights. No doubt it marked the easiest employment interview process any of them had ever been through:

  Are you taller than any one of The Lollipop Kids from The Wizard of Oz?

  Yep.

  Great. You’re hired.

  Dana heaved a grateful sigh of relief when the group finally reached a white hospital van fifty yards away from the press. Seven of the orderlies immediately peeled off and headed back toward Fairview General’s main entrance, giggling to themselves and to each other like naughty schoolchildren as they passed by the reporters again. Take that, Tom Brokaw. Stick that in your newsreel and smoke it, buddy.

  The job of actually driving Dana home fell to a young man of about twenty-eight or so. Justin McNamara was the oldest son of a surgeon on staff at Fairview General, so Dr Spinks had decided that he’d probably be Dana’s best bet to not kiss and tell – aka go running off to the press with his story. Anything about Dana and her personal life seemed to be a very hot commodity these days, so if any new information leaked out to the press after the Fletch routine the source wouldn’t be hard to trace. Unlike an Agatha Christie novel, the pool of possible suspects here was laughably small.

  Dana and McNamara had made it halfway home to Dana’s apartment complex in Lakewood on the western outskirts of Cleveland when her stomach suddenly lurched. It hadn’t been very long ago that her brother had posed as an orderly to gain access to Dana’s hospital room – less than a week after she’d passed out from the sheer stress of investigating the Cleveland Slasher case. Well, the sheer stress of it washed down by more than just a little Kettle One vodka.

  Dana’s heartbeat pounded against her ribs as she studied McNamara carefully from the corner of her left eye, not wanting to alert him to her suspicions. McNamara didn’t look like a killer to her, but then again neither had her brother. Hell, Nathan Stiedowe had been so devilishly handsome he’d made Ted Bundy look downright homely in comparison; completely obscuring the horrendously ugly person he’d been inside.

  Dana clenched her fists in her lap and breathed in slowly through her nostrils, berating herself for not even considering the possible threat until it was too late. Once again, it seemed, she was a day late and a dollar short – the same mistake she’d consistently made during the Cleveland Slasher investigation.

  Dana shook her head in exasperation. What in the hell was wrong with her these days? Why couldn’t she think straight any more? And if something was up, had Dr Spinks been in on it too?

  Before Dana knew what was happening, her worst fears were suddenly confirmed. Without warning, McNamara slammed down hard on the brake pedal, bringing the van to a screeching halt.

  Dana’s body slammed forward violently against her seat belt. Pain like a knife wound ripped through her right shoulder. A casual smile played across McNamara’s full lips as he turned in his seat to face her.

  Dana jerked back in horror – seeing Nathan Stiedowe’s face dancing in front of her eyes again – and lifted up her arms quickly to protect her own face. It was a natural reaction in all humans, but one that no doubt made her look like a terrified vampire who’d just glimpsed the morning sun streaming over the dew-soaked horizon, who’d just glimpsed his own mortality with frightening certainty for the first time.

  A confused look flooded across the young orderly’s handsome face. ‘Whoa. Take it easy, ma’am. We’re here, that’s all. You’re home. Look.’

  He gestured past Dana’s aching right shoulder and out her window. Dana turned in her seat and blinked hard in confusion. Fifty feet away, her apartment complex loomed up nine stories high into the late-afternoon winter sunshine.

  A wave of relief flooded through Dana’s veins, chasing away the confusion. Without realising it, she’d gotten lost in her thoughts again, had completely lost track of time. Worse, she’d also briefly lost track of the location of her physical body, had absolutely no idea where in the hell she’d been there for a moment. If nothing else, she knew that the FBI shrinks would have a field day with her once they’d finally coaxed her onto the comfortable leather couches scattered around their plush offices down in Quantico.

  Dana felt ridiculous as she lowered her arms and tried to smile at McNamara. ‘So we are,’ she said, trying her best to sound casual about the whole thing but no doubt falling miserably short. ‘Sorry about that. I guess I’m just still feeling a little bit jumpy.’

  The concerned look in McNamara’s eyes let Dana know that even he could see that she’d lost her marbles – and he was just a lowly orderly. Told her he thought that they might as well start fitting Dana for her white coat right now – and not the kind she was currently wearing as part of the elaborate Fletch ruse. The kind of white coat that restricted the free movement of your arms, for both your own safety and the safety of those around you. The kind they passed out right along with the psychotropic meds over in the mental-health wing at the Cleveland Clinic.

  McNamara forced the semblance of a smile onto his lips. ‘No problem, ma’am. Welcome home.’

  Dana exited the van and stood on the curb until McNamara had driven away. The young orderly adjusted his rearview mirror in order to keep her in his line of sight as he swung the van out of the parking lot before disappearing into the traffic streaming down Clifton Avenue. No doubt he wanted to make sure that Dana didn’t slit her wrists right then and there on the snow-covered sidewalk. Truth be told, though, Dana didn’t blame him in the least little bit for his vigilance. She probably would have reacted the exact same way had she been in his shoes.

  Dana shook her head mournfully, knowing the poor kid had no idea just how close he’d come with his silent diagnosis of insanity. The truth of the matter was that Dana did feel like she was starting to go a little bit crazy lately, just a smidge Looney Toons, a textbook case of PTSD if she’d ever seen one.

  Then again, when had crazy people ever been trusted to make their own diagnoses?

  A biting cold delivered by a howling wind sliced effortlessly through Dana’s white lab coat and swirled her recently re-grown short blonde hair wildly around her scalp as she made her way quickly up to the main doors of the apartment complex before fishing out her magnetic key card from her purse and sliding it through the electronic reader. Cleveland in the wintertime had never been an especially pleasant place to be under even the best of weather conditions, but today’s lake-effect winds were making things that much worse, that much more unbearable. It was the kind of cold that hurt you all the way down to the bone. The kind of cold that made you want to curl yourself up into a tight little ball and simply cry yourself to death.

  Dana shook her head to chase away the temptation and stepped inside the building, pausing a moment to shake off the cold and luxuriating in the warmth of the space that went to work on defrosting her frozen cheeks. Taking a breath, she then headed for her landlady’s apartment on the first floor, deliberately ignoring her mailbox located in a honeycomb arrangement in the middle of the lobby. No doubt the damn thing had been crammed full of credit card bills and Publisher’s Clearinghouse letters that breathlessly informed her that she could be the next lucky winner of the million-dollar prize. Pulling open another door at the northeast end of the lobby, Dana made her way down the hall and knocked lightly on her landlady’s door. A moment later, Maggie Carter
fiddled with the chain on the inside and opened up the door. ‘Dana!’ the old woman pronounced happily in her thick Polish accent. ‘Welcome home, honey! We were so worried about you! How are you feeling?’

  Dana smiled – a real smile this time. It was hard not to when you looked at Maggie Carter. Eighty years old if she was a day, she’d escaped her home country and its Nazi persecution during World War II and had subsequently changed her name from Magdalena Abrahamowicz to the more American-sounding Maggie Carter in an effort to fit in better with her new surroundings. The name change had been made to honour her adopted country of the United States, but the simple truth of the matter was that Maggie Carter would have fit in anywhere she went. She possessed a smile that lit up the room like a sunburst every time she showed off her false teeth and – even at her considerably advanced age – still moved around town like an eighteen-year-old girl brimming over with enthusiasm and good cheer. Dana knew that she could probably learn a thing or two from the old gal. Life wasn’t all just gloom and doom and serial killers, after all. There was some good stuff about it, too – however hard that good stuff might be for her to see sometimes.

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Carter,’ Dana said, catching a whiff off freshly baked bread coming from the kitchen that made her stomach growl. ‘Feeling much better. And how are you and Mr Carter doing? How’s his colitis these days?’

  Maggie Carter rolled her eyes halfway around her face and waved a frail arm in front of her painfully thin body, jiggling the loose skin hanging off her right biceps like a rooster’s comb. ‘I’m wonderful, sweetie – thanks so much for asking. And for Mr Carter, well, Bob’s sleeping again, but what’s new, right? His health is fine, though. He might not look like much, but that man’s as healthy as a horse. Eats like one too.’

  The old lady cackled at her own joke, and Dana soon found herself laughing right along. She just couldn’t help herself. Maggie Carter’s laugh was infectious.

  The old woman stepped to one side and motioned for Dana to come inside. ‘Anyway, get the heck out of that cold hallway already and get your pretty little butt in here. You’ll catch your death of pneumonia if you’re not careful. Kind of reminds me of Warsaw in the wintertime.’

  Maggie Carter paused then and shook her head, no doubt in an effort to chase away what must have been extremely unpleasant memories of Warsaw in the wintertime. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I’ve got some hot tea on the stove and I know that there’s somebody here who’s just dying to see you. Oreo’s been doing nothing but crying for his mama all day and all night ever since you’ve been gone – not that I’m complaining, mind you. To tell you the truth, the company’s been kind of nice, what with Bob usually sleeping all the time. I swear to sweet Jesus above, that man could sleep through a hurricane.’

  Dana laughed again and stepped inside the old woman’s apartment, even though what she really felt like doing right now was getting back up to her own apartment and taking a long, hot shower. A chance to scrub the antiseptic smell of the hospital out of her hair and skin and fingernails. A chance for her to be alone for a while.

  Dana stopped herself mid-thought and gave herself a swift mental kick in the butt. Not only was she already looking forward to ending her visit with Maggie Carter, she’d also had the poor taste to show up on the woman’s doorstep empty-handed. She wished like hell she’d thought to bring along a gift for her as thanks for watching Oreo for so long, but it was too late to worry about that now. She’d need to do it later. Dana knew that the old lady was fond of chocolate and cheese, so she made a mental note to stop by Godiva and the deli tomorrow morning. Even with Godiva’s exorbitant prices, it was a small price to pay for the old woman’s kindness. As far as Dana knew, most kennels didn’t offer unlimited pet-sitting services for comatose pet owners who were stuck in the hospital following horrific plane crashes.

  Dana stretched her neck eight inches to the left and finally felt some of the tension residing there loosen up a little bit. Then she paused and looked around the place.

  The Carters’ apartment looked exactly like one might suspect an octogenarian couple’s living quarters to look like. Plastic-covered couches littered the living room. Matching, fabric-covered recliners sat in front of an old, cabinet-style television on the south side of the room. A teetering stack of National Enquirer tabloids was piled three feet high on top of the dining-room table, featuring such news on the covers as that of a two-headed alien being born out in Utah and Elvis Pressley being spotted stuffing his face at a donut shop in Sacramento.

  Maggie Carter lifted the magazines off the table and placed them on an old wooden chair three feet away. ‘Have a seat, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back with the tea in just a minute. Then we’ll go get Oreo for you. He has his own room, you know.’

  The old woman beamed with this revelation, and Dana immediately knew that her cat couldn’t have been left in more capable – or loving – hands.

  Twenty minutes later – their tea finally drunk, pleasantries exchanged and a thorough update on Mr Carter’s colitis condition delivered in graphic detail – Maggie Carter retrieved Oreo from his bedroom and placed the cat down on the floor in the dining room.

  Oreo glanced up briefly at Dana to let her know he didn’t especially care for being abandoned for this long before he finally sauntered over to her and rubbed his portly body against her ankles. After a moment or two, he began to purr. Unlike dogs, Dana had learned, cat’s made you earn their affection. Not that it took all that much. Keep them fat and safe and warm and you had yourself a friend for life.

  ‘I missed you too, buddy,’ Dana said, leaning down to scratch Oreo behind his pointy ears for a few seconds before scooping him up into her arms. ‘Let’s get you home.’

  Thanking Maggie Carter again, Dana exited the old woman’s apartment and headed for the elevator. Punching the button for the fourth floor, she held Oreo close, knowing she’d need him as a security blanket to get through this next part.

  When the elevator reached the fourth floor with a high-pitched ding! a moment later, Dana exited the car and made her way down the hall to apartment D12 on shaking legs, purposely shifting her gaze away from the apartment located directly across the hall.

  D13 had been Eric Carlton’s apartment and Dana still had his spare key stashed underneath the welcome mat in front of her own door to remind her of that fact. Even if moving on wasn’t high on her list of priorities right now, moving definitely was. Dana knew that there was no way in hell she’d be able to continue living here with reminders of Eric constantly staring her in the face just five short feet across the hall. But much like the forgotten gift for Maggie Carter as thanks for watching Oreo, that was something she’d need to worry about later. Right now, she desperately needed a shower. Everything else in the world could wait.

  Slipping her key into the lock, Dana pushed open the front door to her apartment and stepped inside. Stale, unmoving air filled her nostrils. Complete silence filled her ears. No big surprise there, though. The place had been locked up tight months now.

  Dana made her way farther into the apartment and placed Oreo down on the floor at her feet before taking a moment or two to re-acclimate herself with her surroundings. In the living room, a pair of plaid armchairs flanked a matching plaid couch – a bit more up-to-date than those belonging to the Carters since the furnishings had been purchased at Pier One five or six yeas ago as opposed to JC Penney’s sometime back in the late-1960s. A coffee table featuring a thick, cut-glass top served as the centrepiece to the room. An old-fashioned coat rack stood watch over the place in the corner next to the front door, a floppy beach hat hanging from one of the hooks. Above the flat-screen television mounted to the north wall of the living room, an old Sears portrait showcased a four-year-old Dana book-ended by her parents, Sara and James Whitestone. A beautiful moment suspended for ever in time.

  Dana sighed heavily. Even though her mom and dad had been gone for more than thirty years now, she still missed them every single da
y. Missed them more now than ever now that everyone she’d loved since the day they’d died had left her, too.

  Dana was two-thirds of the way home to feeling sorry for herself when the harsh jangling of the phone on her kitchen wall suddenly interrupted her pity-party. The shrill, unexpected noise shot a sharp jolt of panic bolting through her heart.

  Dana shook her head mournfully. Jesus fucking Christ.

  Still shaking her head, she walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone before closing her eyes and placing the receiver to her ear. She half-expected God to be calling to tell her to quit her crying already and just get on with her life, but Sergeant Gary Templeton’s filled her ear instead.

  Dana fought back a wave of surprise inside her chest. The last time she’d spoken with the Cleveland cop had been when she’d been screaming up into his face about how the Cleveland Slasher never left a shred of evidence behind at any one of his many crime scenes. Still, the truth of the matter was that it should have been Templeton screaming at Dana that day – considering the fact that she’d just thrown up her lunch all over a freshly discovered murder scene.

  ‘Dana,’ Templeton said, and for a moment Dana thought she detected a slight note of apprehension in his voice. And why not? Templeton was probably still pissed at her, and if he were, Dana wouldn’t have blamed him one little bit. The way she’d behaved the last time she’d spoken with him had been bush league, at best. At worst, she’d made Amateur Hour at the Apollo look like Barbra Streisand performing at the Grammys.

  ‘I’m so glad I reached you,’ Templeton went on after a brief exchange of ‘how are yous’. ‘I heard you came out of your coma a few days ago. How long have you been home?’

  Dana glanced down at her watch, a silver Rolex that had once belonged to her mother – a first-anniversary gift from her father, who’d worn a matching gold one, saying that he and Sara Whitestone matched so perfectly as husband and wife that the least their jewellery could do was the same. Dana always wore the watch, regardless of her outfit, even though each and every time the battery ran out only reminded her of the horrific bloodbath in which her parents had died. ‘Well, let’s see here,’ she said. ‘About two minutes now. Give or take.’