Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) (5 page)

I wished everyone a good day and made my way back through art-covered walls. I scanned them for Sophie and Jack’s work but didn’t see any. As a passing toddler sneezed into his hands, I casually wondered where there were more germs. Here? Or in the hospital I was about to visit?

These days, when a baby is born, you might as well treat the parents for OCD. Is it possible to become a parent and not a compulsive, hand-washing germaphobe? For the first several years, you spend every day wiping snot and poop, watching commercials about the horrors of not using antibacterial soaps, wipes, and cleansers. When both kids were in diapers, I was sure our family could cause an E. coli outbreak. Finally, I rebelled, trusting good old soap and water. And what do you know? It worked!

With determination not to fear germs in mind, I walked into the hospital and allowed myself to breathe normally and press elevator buttons with my bare hands, although I did use my knuckles instead of fingertips. Visions of Marcus’s dripping blood pushed their way into my consciousness, and I couldn’t help wondering how many times red spots had hit the floor of the elevator transporting me from the ER lobby to the ICU, where I guessed he was admitted. I shifted my feet and replaced gruesome thoughts with images of hardworking custodians mopping away signs of suffering.

The elevator came to a smooth stop anyone in pain would appreciate. The doors slid open to reveal a placard directing ICU visitors to the right. A smaller sign informed me I was in a “quiet area” that promoted patient healing. True to this goal, Marcus’s unit seemed relatively calm compared to what I expected. Last time I’d been hospitalized (to give birth) there had been no shortage of moaning and screaming.

There was a nursing station ahead, softly abuzz with beeping, ringing, and talking sounds. I had no intention of checking in with anyone there. I tried to look relaxed as I glanced around for a waiting area where I might observe comings and goings. I spotted it on the left, complete with requisite vinyl chairs, pressed wood tables, wrinkled magazines, a phone, and a TV. The room was big enough to disappear into—completely out of the nurses’ view.

I was the only one there, so I had my pick of seats. Hmmm. By the entrance, where I’d see everyone and overhear staff banter? In the middle, where I could eavesdrop on visitors, no matter where they sat? Or by the TV, to catch up on soap operas?

I forced my eyes away from impossibly timeless actors and sat three seats from the door where I could fake-read
People
and real-people watch. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see. Every visitor made a beeline for the nurses’ station and didn’t return. No teens in sight. With intense focus, I picked up snatches of conversation, such as “He’s doing fine” and “Are you on his visitor list?”

The longer I waited, the more frustrated I got. Every minute I was here, Beth was somewhere else, surely without the support she needed. I couldn’t help imagining her alone and afraid. Enough. I stood, threw my purse over my shoulder, and marched to the nurses’ station.

“Hi,” I said to a petite woman in blue scrubs. “I’m here to visit Marcus Gomez. Am I in the right place?”

She tapped on a keyboard and checked a screen. “Your name?”

“Nicki Valentine.”

“Okay. Do you have a code?”

“No. Actually, I don’t know what you mean. Marcus doesn’t know me. I’m the one who called 911 last night when he got shot. I thought he was taken here, and I just want to make sure he’s okay. I thought maybe—”

She held up a finger. “Hang on.” She left the curved desk and padded down the hall in thick, silent sneakers. Soon after a left at the third room, she emerged with a nurse who wore no makeup and didn’t bother to color, never mind comb, the wiry hair around her face. I pegged her as a veteran, the kind you’d want sticking you with a needle if necessary. Also the kind with enough authority to bend the rules.

She glanced at me and I smiled in greeting. No response. Then she reentered the room, stayed for about thirty seconds, and treaded back down the hall with nurse number one.

“You can see him,” she said.

“Thank you so much.” I felt like I’d been given an expensive gift I had no idea how to use. Something that intimidated me. Something like exercise equipment. “So he’s totally conscious?” I confirmed.

“Yes. He’s hooked up to various monitors, but he’s awake, and he can talk. He’s in Room Three.” She pointed at the room they’d exited.

Brilliant. If only I knew what to ask him.
If you want to
be
a detective
, I reminded myself,
then act like one.
What was the old expression? “Fake it ’til you make it?” I had a lot of frickin’ faking to do.

Five

Marcus watched as I bobbed past a large window that allowed for easy observation of his room. It made sense that in the ICU they’d keep a close eye on both patients and visitors.

Other than a thick, white bandage wrapped turban-style around his head, he looked good. Warm complexion. No obvious bleeding. Focused, brown eyes that locked with mine as I rounded the doorjamb. Ugh. There was no turning back.

“Hi, I’m Nicki. You probably don’t remember me, huh?” I said.

“You look kinda familiar. But I don’t remember nothing.”

“Well, you were a little busy when we met.” His lips turned up at the corners. “Did they tell you why I’m here?”

“Yeah.” He stared out the window, which from our angle displayed threatening clouds. Then he glanced at me. “So thanks.”

“I was worried about you. How ya feeling?” I glanced at the machines connected to his body. Pulse seventy-five and rising. Respirations fifteen. Several IV bags dripping clear goodness into his veins. If someone hooked me up to those monitors, they’d see my pulse racing and know I was holding my breath—all in fear of saying the wrong thing. I was talking to a
gang member
after all. A possible kidnapper or murderer. The birth father of Kenna’s baby.
Holy crap!

“No pain, long as they keep giving me this shi...stuff.” He raised an arm toward the IV bags. I wished I could take a hit off them. “They say the bullet just grazed me, you know? But I got some bleeding in my head, so I gotta be observed for a while. Get antibiotics. Then I’m outta here.” He looked around the room as if considering an escape.

I blew out a sigh of relief. “Wow. I’m so glad you’re okay.” I pictured his car’s interior. Where had the bullet actually landed? I didn’t remember any damage, but the car was a dump, and I’d been preoccupied. “Is it okay if I sit down?”

He shrugged. “If you want.”

I settled into a blue vinyl chair and crossed my legs. If the kids had been there, they’d have laughed at the noises it made when I shifted to face him.

“I don’t want to bother you, Marcus. I’m just worried about what happened. Last night was crazy. Do you know who did this to you?”

He shook his bandaged head almost imperceptibly. We were so close I could see black specks in his cola-colored eyes and arm veins pushed to the surface by bulging muscles. A mustache and stubble added to the misimpression he was a man, not a teen.

“All I know,” he said, “is somebody’s gonna pay.”

How was I supposed to respond to that? Obviously, he had general ideas about the shooter, since he was planning revenge, but he didn’t give specifics. It all seemed pretty gang-ish and intimidating. Part of me, though, saw past his tough-guy shell. He was really a kid. Alone in the hospital. Shot in the head. Sorry, but that had to be scary, even for a gangster.

“I really hope the police figure it out,” I said. “Has your family been able to visit yet?”

“No. I talked to my ma. But her car’s messed up now. I guess I hit something. You see that?”

“Yeah. You hit a car and a pickup truck that were parked. Not your fault, of course.”

“Well, now she ain’t got a ride since it got towed.”

“Maybe the police kept it for evidence.”

He bit his lip at that. Could there be proof of other crimes in there? Crimes beyond underage drinking? A light bulb went off in my head. Not exactly an Oprah “aha!” moment, but close enough.

“I could give your mom a ride if that would help. She must be anxious to see you.”

“Cool.” He recited their phone number, which I dutifully wrote on scrap paper from my purse, although I already had it at home. I used what was always handy, a fat children’s marker that inevitably left me with stained fingers. I returned the day’s selection—grape-scented purple—to the depths of my purse with the phone number, noting the predictable splotches on my fingers. If the only malady I caught at the hospital was purple marker spots, fine by me. But I did need to add “notepad” and “grown-up pen” to my shopping list.

“Is there anyone else I can help you see? Friends? A girlfriend?”

“Nope.”

I was about to stand when Marcus looked me up and down and lifted his chin. “What were you doin’ there anyway?”

“I was totally lost,” I replied, sounding exasperated with myself. He seemed to buy it.

Frankly,
life
had me feeling a little lost. If my father were alive and in my shoes, he’d go flying, where nothing and no one stood in his way. The closest I’d come to that feeling recently was a bubble bath.

I gave Marcus a last once-over too. I wondered if he ever let a vulnerable feeling show. Maybe surviving a bullet would give him something to brag about, something akin to a scar from a dangerous sports stunt. What about killing someone—specifically a pregnant ex-girlfriend? Hopefully that would be a sign of cowardice, not bravery, to his gang buddies.

I shook his hand and wished him luck. It was comforting to know I’d return with his mom, so we could talk again.

He combined an ultra-cool “Yo, thanks” with a wink and upward nod as I left.

He’s charming when he wants to be
, I thought.
And that’s not necessarily good. Being charmed can be the same as being fooled.

I stopped at the hospital phone on my way out, noting the display on a giant, digital wall clock: 2:05. The countdown before camp pickup was always a ticking time bomb. Get “everything” done in an impossibly short time and hope for the best.

I called Marcus’s mom, but she didn’t pick up or have voicemail, which was a relief, since I needed a plan before I talked with her. I didn’t want to use my cell phone since she probably had caller ID. The first time Kenna and I called their house, we’d dialed *67 first to hide my home number.

Before leaving, I washed my hands in a bathroom. Then I dashed to Whole Foods to stock up on necessities (such as ice cream and chocolate) and conveniences (such as bread and milk). Next stop was the library to check out bedtime stories and hope our old ones weren’t so overdue I’d be turned away. (The librarian was lenient with me.) Finally I stopped at home, set the books where no one would trip over them, filled the refrigerator, checked voicemail, left Kenna a long message, and whizzed to camp in time to see Jack and Sophie march outside with their classmates.

Everyone was pink and sweaty, hauling art projects and heavy backpacks stuffed with soggy towels and bathing suits—all indications of a fun day.

“How about pool and pizza?” I asked when they were buckled in.

“Yeah,” Jack enthused.

“Okay,” said Sophie. “Can I wear my new bikini?” I’d purchased her a modest two-piece—basically a stretchy half-shirt and shorts—since it allowed her to go to the bathroom without completely undressing first. Otherwise, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of bikinis for preschoolers.

“Yep.” I was happy to oblige and keep her content as long as possible. This time of day could be challenging for Sophie.
She’s maturing,
I reassured myself,
and I’m getting better at tantrum prevention.

At home the kids raced inside, eager to put on bathing suits and head for the pool. I dumped their camp gear in the hall, immediately forming a junk pile I didn’t want to deal with. For that very reason, I forced myself to sift through it, carrying uneaten lunch remains to the garbage disposal and stacking various art projects on the kitchen counter to compliment later. The next day, with Jack and Sophie safely out of sight, I’d throw most of it away since I couldn’t save everything, but I also couldn’t bear to hurt their feelings. In a real pinch, I’d photograph adorable mementos for our photo albums.

I could hear Sophie’s accusing voice upstairs. “Where’s my bikini top? Jack, did you take it?”

“No, why would I have it? Gosh!” he responded.

While I certainly didn’t want them arguing, I was glad they weren’t ready to go. I needed to prepare myself for the pool mentally and physically. I ran through bathing suit selections in my mind. The red tankini that didn’t hide butt fat well enough? The lime bikini that resulted in good tan lines but equated with wearing skimpy underwear in front of neighbors? An old reliable black one-piece? Fact is, no matter what I wore, I never thought I measured up.

I walked upstairs and past the kids’ rooms. Jack was in board shorts building something with Legos. Sophie had found her bikini top and was posing in front of her mirror, confident as a Victoria’s Secret model, lucky thing.

She caught my eye in the reflection. “When are we leaving?”

“Pretty soon.” Translation:
It depends on a number of factors, including your ability to cooperate and my ability to get my act together and parent with authority. It could be sixty seconds, it could be tomorrow. I don’t know.
I recalled hearing a joke that, thanks to parents, kids have a warped sense of time. It had to be true. I put off the bathing suit decision and headed downstairs for a quick Internet detour.

I locked my office doors with a satisfying click and spun the power dial on the baby monitor beside my computer. Ahhh, the sweet combination of separation and safety. Located between the kids’ rooms, the monitor’s base allowed me to listen and respond with a walkie-talkie-like feature, issuing requests, commands, and threats if needed.
Praise would be nice once in a while, too,
I scolded myself.

“Great job getting on your bathing suits, guys!” I said. “I have to do something in my office for a minute.”

Out of habit, I checked email first, which included junk surrounding a recognizable address, Andy’s. I frowned and raised my eyebrows. What had he sent me? I double clicked.

Hi Nicki,

You know how I feel about you and Kenna looking into things. But I couldn’t help checking social networking sites. Beth’s on one. Take a look.

Best,

Andy

He included a link, and I clicked immediately. A lone photo graced Beth’s Facebook page, a black-and-white side view that caught just a touch of her features as she looked down to the left, sleek hair obscuring her face. It was her, though, based on the information blurb, which included
Beth Myers
and
Woodridge High School
.

I kicked myself for not checking the sites earlier. In fear the page would somehow disappear before I read the whole thing, I copied it into a file, saved it, and hit “print.” Only then did I focus on Beth’s words.

Sadly, she wasn’t a blogger type, but she did have a list of online friends, photos and all. April was among them, but Marcus wasn’t. Weeks earlier, she had posted benign references to the weather, summer school, and a song she liked.

I wanted to look up every friend and read every word on every page. And while Beth’s profile looked sparse, I needed to go through it with a fine-toothed comb, scrutinizing every detail. This was going to take a while, longer than Jack, Sophie, or the pool trip could wait. I sent Andy a thank-you reply, logged off, and marched reluctantly back to my room and bathing suit decision, which, in the midst of the latest developments, didn’t seem to matter a bit.

We walked to the closest pool, flip flopping our way down an asphalt path, laden with kickboards and noodles. I wore my black one-piece covered with a fuchsia cotton dress. I could pull off the dress if needed, but I hoped to keep it on and lounge by the pool, thinking, while the kids splashed around.

My favorite thing about our house is its proximity to everything. We live next to Kenna, of course, but we can also hit the pool, tennis court, and park without crossing a street. The elementary school is about a mile away. Stores and churches are a mile and a half. If we couldn’t walk, we could bike. Maybe after I learned to trust my kids crossing streets on foot, we would.

“Check before you cross,” I reminded them when we reached the pool parking lot. Happy screams emanated from the pool area and made me wonder if any neighborhood pals were there. If they weren’t, we’d probably make new ones. Families make fast, if fleeting, friends.

Jack and Sophie dutifully swept their heads from side to side until they were sure no one was pulling in or backing out. Then they bolted for the entryway where a lanky teenage lifeguard waited to take our passes. His eyes never met mine as he filed us under V and muttered “Thanks.” Was he bored? Insecure? Depressed? Angry? With teens, it could be so many things. I guess it’s like that with anyone, any age. You never really know.

I thanked him and watched his bronze face and hazel eyes, a touch of sunburn on his cheeks, turn away, looking back toward the pool.

Jack and Sophie ran ahead through the women’s locker room. Jack was really too old to be there, but I wasn’t sending him into men’s rooms alone, and I certainly couldn’t go with him. I wasn’t sure how to handle this problem as he grew older without a dad. Then again, it would probably be the least of my concerns.

“No running,” I reprimanded as I stepped quickly to keep up. “Pull over!” I knew the out-of-place expression would get them to giggle and obey. I added a siren sound effect.

“Ha ha, Mom. The pool police.” Jack dropped his shark kickboard and red noodle on a lounge chair. He kicked off his flip flops and held out a hand. “Goggles,” he stated as if I were a surgical assistant.

“Goggles,” I repeated while digging in the summer supply bag. The tips of my fingers identified anti-fog, UV protective goggles with a soft, foam lining. I handed them over and surveyed his look. Cool blue goggles, Hawaiian print shorts, adorable bikini-clad sister in a flotation vest, water toys galore. At times like these, when for a shining moment life looks perfect, a combination of awe, thankfulness, and guilt can strike. Is it right to have so much when others have so little? Is it wrong to savor abundance or wrong not to? The answer had to be about balance, but I hadn’t found a comfortable place on the lifestyle spectrum yet.

“You guys can hop in,” I said. They disappointed me by making a beeline for the deep end. No relaxation for me. I never knew when Sophie was going to pull a Houdini and free herself from the zipped, locked floatation device in seconds.

“Keep that on,” I reminded her, pointing at the jacket, “or we’ll have to go home.” That was a threat I didn’t want to carry out. I was desperate for the kids to have exercise and entertainment.

She smiled up from the sparkling water and called out an agreeable, “Okay.” It was all in her tone, but something made me trust her. I could read my kids’ nonverbal cues as if they had subtitles. I hoped as a PI I’d be as perceptive.

The kids swam for a few minutes and then climbed the ladder near the diving board. I sat on the side, hitched up my dress so its rear wouldn’t get soaked, and dipped my legs in, allowing them to sink a few inches below the surface. Jack ran off the diving board and tried unsuccessfully to douse me with a cannonball. Sophie followed and failed too.