After Midnight (2 page)

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whispered over and over.

Sam fought the waves of
unconsciousness
that tugged at him. He managed to lift his head enough to look around at the bloody scene. Both Larry and the pimp lay dead, only inches away from each other on the sidewalk, their blood oozing out and meeting to form a shiny dark red puddle. The ride-along was crouched behind the open door of the patrol car with his arms braced on the sill of the open window, Sam’s pistol grasped between both of his hands.

In the shocked silence, Sam became aware of the sound of sirens approaching. He blinked through the veil of blood that was flowing into his eyes and looked back at the woman. But she had vanished. Had he only imagined her gentle touch and soft voice?

A half dozen patrol cars slid to a stop, their flashing red, white, and blue lights joining the dizzying whirl, then everything went black as Sam lost his precarious hold on consciousness and slid into darkness.

Kate leaned against the closed door of her apartment, then whirled around and scrambled to lock all three locks. Her fingers were trembling so violently, it took several seconds to get the safety chain into its small round hole. Her first impulse was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, curl into a ball, and not move for at least a week. If she was lucky, this would all be an awful nightmare, and at any moment, she would wake up and everything would be just as it had been several hours ago. Back to the worries about coming up with the rent, getting a good long-term job, having enough extra money to get the brakes on her car fixed and maybe even being able to afford a new pair of shoes.

But tonight Kate wasn’t so lucky.

She glanced down at her hands and realized they were splattered with dried brownish-red spots. Blood. She pressed her lips together and struggled to swallow the rush of bile that suddenly filled her throat. With increasing panic, she saw there were more dark red splotches all over the front of her tube top and skirt and even on the bare skin of her shoulders and chest.

Oh God, she had to get them off. Frantically, she clawed at the fastener of the skirt and yanked it off. She peeled off the tube top and dropped it on top of the skirt and added her shoes to the pile. Finally, she pulled off the long blond wig and tossed it on a chair.

Wearing only black bikini panties and a black strapless bra, she hugged herself, trying to stop the shivering that had wracked her ever since the first shots were fired. Her jaws ached from being clenched for so long. She needed a shower—a long, hot shower to wash away the blood and the horror and the death.

Kate crossed the room that served as a combination living/dining room with a kitchenette blocked off in one corner by a folding screen. Small, run-down, yet barely affordable, her apartment had, nevertheless, been her cozy hideaway…until now. Even with all the blinds closed, her drapes pulled, and the door locked, she still felt vulnerable and alone. At any second there could be a knock on the door from the police. She wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Kate knew she shouldn’t have run away. It wasn’t even a conscious thought as much as an instinctive reaction to flee. When she heard the sirens, she knew help was near, and there was nothing she could do for any of the men lying on the sidewalk. She melted into the growing ring of curious bystanders and watched the emergency activity. As more and more people arrived, she had slid farther into the background until she just stepped away and disappeared into the night. Sooner or later she would have to talk to the police. Later seemed to be the better plan.

She entered the bathroom and turned on the shower. It would take at least five minutes for the hot water to reach her second-floor pipes, so she finished undressing while it ran. Her fingers fumbled as she took off her left earring, then reached for the right one. Touching the empty lobe of her ear, she sighed. Damn! The sparkling crystal hoops had been her favorite pair. She stepped out of her panties, then unhooked her bra. As she tossed it on the bed, a hundred-dollar bill fluttered to the floor.

She blinked and stared at the crumpled bill for a few seconds without moving. Jameel had given it to her earlier in the evening, and because she hadn’t brought a purse, she’d tucked it into the cup of her bra. In all the excitement, she’d completely forgotten about it. Stepping over it as if it were a poisonous snake, she entered the shower and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

As expected, the water was barely lukewarm, but it still felt good, pouring over her, washing away all the physical reminders of the night. She scrubbed her face and body with a soapy washcloth until her skin felt raw. Even after the water ran cold, she lingered in the protective cell of the tiled shower until she started shivering again. Reluctantly, she turned off the faucets and picked up a towel.

She made a halfhearted attempt to blow-dry her hair, then wrapped a fluffy robe around her naked body. Suddenly overwhelmed by a debilitating exhaustion, she succumbed to her earlier instinct and crawled into bed. With all her lights blazing and her ruined clothes littering the floor, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep. As much as she hated to think about it, she knew nothing would change before morning. Sooner or later, she’d have to deal with it all…but for the few hours left until dawn, she would try to find peace in the depths of sleep.

It was almost four a.m. when Brian reached the newsroom. In spite of the early hour, there were already a couple of other reporters at their desks, working desperately on their latest tips, trying to develop them into stories that would make it to press.

He smiled as his fingers closed around the cell phone in his pocket. Let them scramble. Yesterday, he’d been one of them. But this morning, everything had changed. What might have been a back-page filler had suddenly become a front-page headline.

Somewhere between the shootings and the arrival of the coroner, he’d called his editor, who had promised him two inches on the front page in today’s edition, plus a half page in tomorrow’s and a full spread on the website. All with his byline.

For eight years he’d been working at this paper, doing every crap job there was just to stay on the payroll. Denver was a great city if you liked football or skiing. Brian liked neither. His pallor was well earned by spending hours inside homes or bars or malls or whatever crazy location might produce an interesting story. He couldn’t get the big assignments until he’d proven himself. But he couldn’t prove himself until he found a big story. That vicious cycle had generated such fascinating assignments as the man who had painted his house, lawn, and even the dog Bronco orange and blue, or the woman who trimmed one of her hedges in the image of Barack Obama during the 2008 Democratic National Convention.

No matter how small and unimportant each story was, he’d struggled to keep it fresh and give it his whole heart, knowing that one day he’d get his shot at the big time. One day someone would notice the beautiful prose and the brilliant insight that he put into each and every piece.

And that one day was today. He’d already called in the brief report that had barely made it into the morning edition. He had all day to write the more detailed story that would appear in tomorrow’s edition. He wasn’t scheduled to be in the office until noon, but he was too energized to sleep. He could still remember the weight of the cop’s Glock in his hand and the kick when he pulled the trigger. Even hours later, the rancid smell of gunpowder and blood still filled his nostrils. The adrenaline continued to pump through his veins, making his heart pound wildly in his chest.

Brian’s fingers danced across the keyboard as the words detailed the events of the night. This story was big enough and had a high enough profile to break him through that ink-stained barrier. And, best of all, this story was all his.

His eyelids had been glued together…at least that’s what it felt like. After a set of exhausting calisthenics of squinting his eyes and arching his eyebrows, he finally forced his eyes open. But they immediately snapped closed again. Too much white. Too much sunlight. Too much pain.

“Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Sam’s sluggish brain worked to recognize the voice, but no name registered. But the sound of it was soft and soothing. He wanted her to keep talking. Maybe she had the key to organize the jumble of noises and emotions that were tumbling around inside his brain. He tried to answer, but all he could manage was a groan.

“The nurse said you were going to be okay.” She sounded nervous, edgy, but genuinely concerned. And still unfamiliar.

He managed to open his eyes again, just a little, but enough to look around. At least that explained where he was. Sort of. Surrounded by stark whiteness and with an angel hovering above him, he was relieved to be in a hospital and not the ultimate
lockup…District
Styx.

“She said you were really lucky. The bullet just grazed your head. It could have…” Her soft eyes were bright with tears and reminded him of the beautiful water in the Caribbean, and her voice was shaky as she continued. “There was so much
blood…everywhere.
God, it all happened so fast.”

“Hmmm.” He struggled to speak, but his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. She noticed and poured him a glass of water from the blue plastic pitcher on the nightstand, took a straw out of its sanitary packaging, and placed it in the glass. He tried to sit up and take the glass from her, but it was too great an effort. He realized, for the first time, that his right arm was bandaged and immobilized against his body and his left arm was hooked to an IV and a heart and oxygen monitor.

She guided the straw to his lips, and he drank greedily. The water was cool and fresh. He couldn’t remember anything that had ever tasted so good, and, with her help, he emptied the glass. She returned it to the table and used the corner of his pillowcase to wipe a dribble off his chin. Meeting his gaze, she flashed a shaky smile.

Memories flashed like lightning bolts through his sluggish brain. Night. The lights of Colfax. A simple contact stop gone wildly wrong. Gunshots. Blood. Larry. Sam licked his parched lips and finally managed to whisper, “You’re that hooker.”

“I’m not a hooker.” Her shoulders squared and her chin lifted indignantly. “I’m an actress.”

“Right. That’s what they all say.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. It wasn’t his place to judge her. Especially since she had probably saved his life.

Her eyes narrowed, darkening to a stormy sea. “No, some of us are just tramps.” She turned away and picked up her purse from the chair. “I’m late to rehearsal. I just wanted to stop by and see if you were okay.”

“Don’t go,” he breathed, but she was already opening the door. Dozens of questions tumbled through his mind, but he couldn’t manage to focus them into words. He felt groggy, dizzy. The room started a slow-motion spin around his bed, and his head was pounding. He tried to gather enough energy to stop her, but his body was heavy and uncooperative, and his parched tongue muffled his words. He helplessly watched as she walked out of the room…and out of his life.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes and fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Relieved the young cop had survived the night, but stung by his words, Kate hurried down the hallway. She punched the “down” button a little more viciously than necessary and tapped her foot anxiously as she waited. She shouldn’t have come today. But she just had to know he was okay. It hadn’t been her finger on the trigger, but she, somehow, felt responsible.

He had looked so helpless on that bed with all those tubes and wires attached to his left arm. The white gauze that was wrapped around his right shoulder and arm was a stark contrast to the tanned skin of his neck and the part of his broad chest that was visible above the thin cotton hospital gown. She knew he was tall, at least three or four inches taller than her five feet nine inches. And handsome with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair that looked even darker against the white bandage taped over his left ear. Her first thought had been that he had been perfect casting. But that was before the bullets started flying.
Real
bullets and
real
blood. It was then that she realized he was a real cop.

There were a half dozen uniformed officers entering the front doors of the lobby as she stepped out of the elevator. Panic flashed through her, and she took an abrupt right turn down the hallway and ducked into the ladies’ room. Leaning against the Formica countertop, she took deep breaths and tried to calm her racing heart. She simply wasn’t up for an interrogation right now. Besides, there wasn’t anything she could tell them that they probably didn’t already know.

Kate had stopped at the bookstore below her apartment and scanned the newspaper before she left that morning. There had been a small article on the front page of the
Denver Post,
and, although it was brief, it had pretty much covered the mechanics of what had happened. Apparently, the reporter had been riding with the cop and had seen it all. The article ended with the promise of a more detailed account in tomorrow’s paper. Maybe she would wait and see what it said before she went to the police herself.

She knew they would want to talk to her. And she knew she would have to come forth eventually. But there were so many reasons why she couldn’t. Right now, those reasons were keeping her hiding in a public restroom until she was sure the lobby was clear.

Kate looked into the mirror, meeting the wide, frightened eyes staring back at her. “Why are you cowering in here like a criminal? You didn’t do anything wrong. Not really.” The sound of her voice in the empty room was reassuring. The paper had said the “mystery woman” had not been identified. No one but the injured cop upstairs, the guy with the cop who had apparently been a reporter, and Jameel could even place her at the scene. And Jameel was dead.

Jameel…what on earth had come over him? She had known Jameel for only a few months, but he’d never shown any sign of aggression or anger around her. In fact, he’d always been a real sweetheart, looking after her and making her laugh when she felt discouraged. But then, what did she really know about him? Not even his last name or where he lived. It hadn’t been an important part of their relationship. She had just assumed…

Speaking of assumptions, she didn’t know what made her angrier, the fact that that asshole upstairs thought she was a prostitute or that he thought she was lying about being an actress. The woman looking back at her forced a smile. He didn’t believe her, but she was a damn good actress. She was going to walk out the door and past those cops casually and confidently. They would never guess that she was the mystery woman. She combed her fingers through her long chestnut-colored hair and wiped a smudge of mascara out from beneath her eyes. With a straight spine and a firm but unhurried stride, she left the restroom and approached the lobby. There were still a couple of cops hanging out at the information desk, but she passed them without hesitation. They glanced her way, and she felt her heart do a little skip. But when one of them gave her a flirty smile, she relaxed. They didn’t have a clue who she was, and for now she was going to keep it that way.

A gunshot shattered the quiet night, and a spray of crimson liquid splashed over him as if someone had thrown a bucket of red paint. But it wasn’t paint. It was blood. He knew by the texture. By the smell. By the taste. By the way it slowly oozed down his body and dripped to the pavement. Another gunshot and Sam jerked forward, jolting himself out of the night and into the day. Blindingly bright sunlight radiated heat through the window, fighting the whoosh of air-conditioning that blew from the vents. His body was bathed in a layer of sweat that had nothing to do with the sun or the heat. His heart was racing and his breath rasped in his dry throat.

Slowly he relaxed back against the starchy sheets. As the dream receded, he looked around the stark white room and realized he was thinking more clearly than he had the last time he had awakened. He knew he was in a hospital, recovering from multiple gunshot wounds, and that the nightmare was all too real.

There was a soft knock at the door, and, before Sam could answer, the door opened. “Hey, sleepyhead. You ready for a visitor?”

The woman was silhouetted against the light from the hallway for a few seconds, and Sam smiled. So he hadn’t imagined that earlier visit. There was so much he wanted to ask her, so much he needed to know….

The woman took another step into the room, and the sunlight touched her long black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. Sam’s smile faded.

“Hey, don’t look so disappointed,” the woman scolded. “Who were you expecting—a hot nurse?” She shook her head and approached his bed. “You’ve been here less than twelve hours, mostly unconscious, and already you’re hitting on the staff?” She smiled. “But then, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Sam grimaced as a pain shot through his shoulder and down his arm. “I must be in worse shape than I thought if they sent you.”

“No grim reaper today. I’m here just as a worried friend.”

Julie Lawrence had been working with the Denver Police Department for almost five years. She wasn’t an officer, but a civilian who ran the Victim Advocate Program. She didn’t wear a badge or carry a gun, but she or one of her volunteers was often the first person the officers called once they’d arrived on the scene of a crime.

While the police dealt with the call or the crime or the body, Julie calmed the children or the injured party until help came or, in the case of a death, helped the survivors deal with the realities of planning a funeral and dealing with the financials. The joke around the precinct was that no one wanted to look out their peephole and see Julie outside, but the truth was, she was viewed as a welcome and valuable asset to the force.

Julie stopped next to the bed and looked down at the mess of tubes and wires attached to Sam’s body. “Do you have any idea how lucky you are?”

“Yeah…lucky.” Already knowing the answer, he had to ask, “Larry?”

She shook her head. “I just left Sue. The services will be Friday.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Not good. They just bought a monster camper and were planning a cross-country trip in the fall to visit the grandkids.”

“Shit.” Larry and Sue had been high school sweethearts. They had three kids, and eight or nine grandkids—Sam had lost count. So much to live for. So much to lose.

Just one of fate’s cruel ironies. Larry had so many people loving and depending on him. Sam had no one. Oh, sure, his parents and two brothers would grieve if they lost him. But they had one another and, in the scheme of things, Sam would barely be missed. On the other hand, Larry had paid his dues. In just two more months, he would have been free. Why? It had all been so fast, so unexpected, so unjustified. Larry hadn’t even drawn his weapon.

The door opened again, and a doctor and a nurse entered. The doctor was flipping through a chart while the nurse headed for the IV bag.

“How are we feeling?” the doctor asked, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“Like
we’ve
been hit by a bus.”

Julie stepped back so the doctor could walk around to Sam. “Hey, I’ll check back later,” Julie said as she picked up her purse off the chair and headed toward the door.

“Thanks for dropping by.” Sam tried to give her a little wave, but pain streaked up his arm, turning his smile into a grimace. He turned his attention back to the doctor, who was unwrapping the bandage on Sam’s shoulder and arm.

“The bullet went straight through. It nicked your humerus just below your shoulder.” The doctor gently lifted Sam’s arm and tested the flex. “The bone will heal on its own, but there was some muscle damage. We put it all back together, but you’ll need to get started on physical therapy right away.” He pulled the sheet down and loosened the thin cotton gown so he could see Sam’s chest.

Sam looked down and was startled by the purple and black bruise radiating out from a red welt centered over his heart. The first shot had been the kill shot. Kevlar 1, Bad Guy 0.

“Sometimes a blow like this so close to your heart can cause problems, so we’ll keep your monitor on at least through the night,” the doctor continued, moving around the bed to check the wound on Sam’s head. The nurse had already removed the bandage, and the doctor didn’t spend more than a few seconds on his exam. “The bullet took out a strip of flesh and a little nick of ear, but it should heal just fine. Another inch to the left, and we probably wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He scribbled a few notes on the chart.

“When can I leave?”

“Maybe tomorrow. I’ll check back in the morning.” The doctor snapped the clipboard shut and, for the first time, looked directly into Sam’s eyes. “You’re right-handed, aren’t you?

Sam nodded.

“You’re going to be out of commission for at least a month,” the doctor continued. “Don’t push it. You could do permanent damage to those muscles and lose much of the use of your right arm. We’re going to finish your IV bag, then you’ll be on oral pain meds. Just let the nurses know when you need them.” He handed the clipboard to the nurse and left.

“Warm guy,” Sam commented.

The nurse smiled and shrugged. “Maybe not the greatest bedside manner, but he’s the best orthopedist in Denver.” She fiddled with the wires and tubes and finished applying ointment and new bandages to his wounds. Finally, hands on hips, she looked down on him. “It’s time to get you up and moving.”

It took more help than his masculine pride allowed, but he was able to shuffle, one slow step at a time, to the bathroom. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with his legs; it was just that he felt so weak. Once inside, he transferred his weight from her shoulders to the lavatory. “I can take it from here,” he assured her, hoping he didn’t fall on his face in his own urine.