Lovers and Liars (38 page)

She was sweating.

She would never, never forget the look on Belinda’s face
when the gun went off. Belinda had grabbed it. Mary had struggled against her superior strength. Then the blast. Belinda suddenly letting go, face white, eyes wide, staggering backward. A red blossom, small at first, above her left breast, growing rapidly. She had started screaming wildly as she fell to the ground.

Except, Mary realized, it wasn’t Belinda screaming—it was herself.

“Call an ambulance, Mary,” Belinda had gotten out.

Mary was frozen, standing there, moaning, panting, unable to move, to think, to respond.

“Mary! An ambulance! Please!”

Mary stared and watched Belinda’s eyes close, her breathing stop. Dear God! She was dying, maybe dead. That did it! She was jolted into action. She ran down the stairs to her car. Then she thought of the gun—and fingerprints. She ran back up the stairs, panting wildly, and grabbed the gun. She turned and fled to her car, backing out, going over the curb, not caring, shifting into first, gunning it. Sweat poured down her face, blinded her. She forced herself to slow to the speed limit.

What if Belinda was alive?

She stopped at a 7-Eleven and called an ambulance, hanging up as soon as she gave the address and told them it was a shooting. Back in her car, she took off. It wasn’t until she was home that she paused, leaning against the seat, her heart pounding crazily, clenching the steering wheel so tightly that her hands were white. She was gasping for air like a fish out of water. Oh, please, don’t let her die, she prayed, and it became a litany that she said over and over.

She knew that they were coming at any second for her. They wouldn’t care that it was an accident. She would say she didn’t think the gun was loaded. The gun. She had to do something about the gun.

But what?

She knew from TV that cops could trace a bullet to a gun. Carefully she wiped off all her fingerprints. How would they ever find the gun? If it was back where it belonged in Vince’s nightstand drawer, as if it had never left? It was so
tempting to throw the gun away—into the ocean maybe—but Vince would want to know what had happened. No, she had to leave it where it always was, replacing the used bullet, and sit tight.

Mary was torn. She didn’t want Belinda to die. But if she lived, she would tell the police what had happened—and then what? Mary would go to jail. Prison. She knew it. She had seen movies; she knew how horrible prisons were. Maybe Belinda would die. Maybe she already had.

She turned on the news. Listened to the radio. There was no report of a shooting, much less a killing. Vince came home, looking harassed, in a bad mood, but Mary couldn’t face him. She wished he loved her, that she could confide in him; but if he loved her, none of this would ever have happened. It was his fault.

He wanted to know what they were having for dinner.

“Fuck off,” Mary said.

He cursed her back and jumped into his truck and took off.

Mary started to cry. She was supposed to be acting normal. Then she heard a car in the drive. Vince returning—or the cops? She couldn’t stand it, the waiting, she just couldn’t. There was a knock. With a moan, she went and answered it. It was Beth.

Mary collapsed in her arms, sobbing hysterically.

70

“L
aguna PD”

Belinda looked up at the plainclothes officer from where she was sitting in a hospital wheelchair. “It was an accident,” she said wearily. She had already told that to a cop in uniform last night—but her memory was hazy.

“I’m afraid I have to make out a complete report,” the detective said. “My name’s Hewitt. Now, exactly what happened?”

“Five minutes,” Dr. Gould said protectively. “That’s it”

She had nothing to hide. “I’m having an affair with a man named Vince Spazzio. He’s married. Yesterday I opened the door, and his wife was there—with a gun. She was obviously doped out. She called me names. I never thought she would shoot, and I was angry. I’m a very private person—I hate being intruded upon.” Belinda was angry just thinking about it. “I tried to grab the gun. I guess that was stupid. But I’m very strong, so I knew I could get it away. Well—I did. After it went off.”

“That was stupid,” Hewitt said. “But we can bring all kinds of charges. First and not least, assault with intent to do bodily harm, assault with a deadly weapon, leaving the scene—”

“It was an accident,” Belinda said. “An accident. She’s a pathetic wreck. I’m not pressing charges.” And I’m not seeing Vince anymore, she thought. She didn’t need this. Oh no. A biweekly bang was not worth this.

Both Gould and Hewitt gaped. A nurse informed them that Belinda’s cab was there.

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind,” Hewitt said. “Anyway, it’s not up to you. The DA will decide whether to prosecute or not. I still have to file my report. Spazzio?”

“Yes,” Belinda said weakly.

Dr. Gould wheeled her to the doors of the entrance, hospital policy, he told her. Belinda was very flattered and very grateful that he personally was escorting her out. He slipped his arm around her waist, and she stood. God, she was tired, and her entire body hurt. How was that possible from a simple gunshot wound in the shoulder?

He helped her down the wide outdoor steps and into the waiting cab. “Plenty of rest,” he admonished gently. “And I want to see you exactly one week from today.”

“Aye, aye, Cap,” she managed. She sank back gratefully in the cab, completely exhausted.

Her arm was in a sling, but it wasn’t her arm that had been shot. The wound was close to and just under her collarbone. The bullet had gone right through. After having been in the hospital over twenty-four hours, she had insisted on going home. She hated hospitals. They terrified her.

Gould had wanted her to call a relative or friend, both to pick her up and to spend a few days with her. There was no one she could call. She had already realized how alone in the world she was—yesterday, when she was being wheeled out of Emergency, regaining consciousness on her way to a hospital room. Completely, utterly alone. Who was there in her life who cared? Who would be there for her now when she was hurt, wounded physically, shot by some maniac, and all alone in a hospital?

It was the medication, she hoped, that was making her feel sorry for herself.

And of course, not for the first time, she thought of Jack Ford.

What would he do if he knew she’d been shot, and that she was alone now and hurting?

She was appalled at herself. At her obvious need to have him come running to her. As if that would ever happen. He didn’t know she was hurt, and even if he did, she knew he wouldn’t care, not one bit.

71

S
he hadn’t returned his call.

And she had been discharged from the hospital.

Abe was furious. To think that if some ass-kissing nurse that he just happened to have balled hadn’t made the connection between his daughter and him and hadn’t been
working that day at the hospital—he wouldn’t have even known Belinda had been shot.

It didn’t matter that her doctor had told him she was fine, just weak and exhausted; nor did it matter that Lieutenant Hewitt had told him the same thing. Abe let the phone ring, and when the answering machine came on he started to shout. He knew she was there. And dammit, he wanted to know what the fuck had happened.

“Don’t yell, I’m here,” Belinda said, her voice sounding very doped up.

“What the hell happened?” Abe practically shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Abe, I take it you found out I was shot. It’s nothing. In case you care, I’m all right. I was sleeping.”

“Gould said he asked you to stay in the hospital for a few more days. Christ! For once could you listen to somebody other than yourself?”

“What difference does it make?” she said wearily.

“You’re all alone out there, that’s what. Anyway, your mother’s on her way, and we’re sending over a nurse.
Now, what happened?”

“I don’t want a nurse here,” Belinda said firmly. “And there’s no need for Nancy to come.”

“She’s coming. For this once, just this once, do me a fucking favor,” Abe snapped. “Now what the fuck happened?”

“It was an accident,” Belinda said. “The wife of my lover came over high as a kite, and she had a gun. I’m sure she didn’t mean to use it. I tried to grab it, and it went off.”

“That was fucking stupid,” Abe said. “The no-good cunt. For assault with a deadly weapon she can get ten years, and I’ll see that she does! That little bitch!”

There was a pause. “Abe, drop it. She needs drug rehabilitation, not imprisonment. Besides, I’m not pressing charges.”

“What?”

“You heard. I feel sorry for her, I guess. The gun shouldn’t have been loaded—no, she shouldn’t have even brought a gun—but after all, I have been screwing her husband
for the past six months. I asked the police to just drop the whole thing. I think she’s more upset and traumatized than I am. She was hysterical when I got shot.”

“You can be damn smart sometimes, but sometimes I wonder where you left your brains. You can’t let that little bitch fuck with you, Belinda, do you hear me? She’s crazy! You think she’s learned her lesson? How the fuck do you know? What happens when she decides to try again? Huh?”

“She won’t,” Belinda said shortly. “Believe me. Look, I’m not up to this, not at all. Good-bye, Abe.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Abe said.

“I need my sleep—so I can get better and get back to work.”

“Forget it,” Abe said. “Didn’t you get notified? The
Outrage
production is suspended.”

“What?”

“Relax.”

“What do you mean—suspended? I was told we’d go back into production in February. What are you up to, Abe?”

“Nothing,” he said. It was one of the few times in his life he’d felt sorry for something he’d done. Not for canceling the show, but for bringing it up now. “It’s just a matter of reassessing the budget,” he said smoothly.

“I knew you were up to something … you are up to something!”

“Look, Belinda, you get some sleep and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of that little cunt.”

The phone went dead.