Ten Times Guilty (4 page)

The nurse’s mouth flew open. “You wouldn’t.”

Reese shrugged.

“Damn you, Reese, you’re going to hell.”

“Honey, I’m already there.”

Ramirez paused. “I guess you are. What do you want to know?”

“Can she talk? Her mouth’s not wired or anything.”

“She’ll be sipping soup for a long while, but she can talk. Suzy’s with her.”

Reese nodded. Susan Banning might look strange with all her sequins, but as a counselor, there was none better. “What happened?”

“He beat her nearly to death, that’s what happened.”

“Heard she worked here.”

Ramirez nodded. “RN. Started last week, just out of school. Young, about twenty-three. She wasn’t on my floor, but from what I heard, she was competent and pitched in without complaining. She’s from somewhere in the Midwest.” She glanced at the blinking light on the phone. “I have to take a call.”

“Two more minutes.”

Ramirez pursed her lips. “Marnie’s seeing someone new and there’s something about him I don’t like.” She cocked an eyebrow at Reese.

He nodded.

“She was semi-conscious when they brought her in,” Ramirez said. “Severe abrasions and contusions to her face and torso. Dr. Prescott suspects concussion and broken ribs. They’re trying to save her teeth, but it’s doubtful. Poor kid.”

“Was she raped?”

“Bastard nearly tore her apart. Get him, Reese. No woman is safe with that much hatred on the streets.”

A nurse stepped from room Three and motioned for the officers. “Ready to do the rape kit now.”

Both officers hustled to Three. Ramirez held up a hand. “Only one. Reese, you stay.”

Like hell he’d stay. He hurried to room Three and pushed aside the curtain.

Chapter Five

Forks of lightning jagged across the sky. Thunder rolled through boiling gray clouds. A fat raindrop splattered Tracy’s face. She scanned the clouds, hoping to make the last block home before the storm broke. Judy Golden, her teenage babysitter, was attending hairdressing school and just last evening had cut and styled Tracy’s thick brunette hair into a sleek bob.

And now it was going to be ruined. All because of Rita and Karr. If she hadn’t stayed those extra few minutes she’d be warm and safe in her apartment by now.

But if she were honest, it wasn’t Rita or Karr that had kept her from leaving; it was the damn cinnamon rolls and trying to figure how to get one.

She deserved to get soaked.

Another drop splashed her face, followed by several more. Cold and wet, they trailed her neck and ran under her collar. Goosebumps prickled her skin. Tracy held her purse over her head and took off running. The clouds burst. Rain fell in sheets, drenching the sidewalks and streets with water. By the time she reached her apartment, her dark hair hung in her eyes and her feet squished in her shoes. Scurrying up the stairs, she paused to open the door, a puddle forming under her feet.

Judy looked up from the futon across from Ritchie’s crib. One thing about an efficiency apartment, everything was convenient.

“Good grief,” Judy said in a loud whisper, “if you didn’t like the style, you could’ve just said so.”

“Very funny.” Tracy slipped out of her shoes, then tiptoed to the crib. Ritchie slept in his favorite position, on his tummy with his knees tucked under him, his rump in the air. Tracy peeled off her sodden jacket and hung it over the bathroom door.

“Why didn’t you take your umbrella?” Judy asked. “It would’ve helped, you know.” She placed a bookmark in her paperback and stacked it on top of her textbooks.

“I threw it away weeks ago. Looked like a bunch of toothpicks with scraps of nylon stuck in the middle.”

“Maybe you shoulda kept it. Stuck marshmallows on the ends and used it as a decoration. Anything would help in here.” Judy looked around the barren room in distaste.

“You know, I love your mother, but sometimes she’s a smartass and you’re just like her.”

“It’s in the genes—”

“I’d like to yank down those jeans and paddle your rear end. Then perhaps you’d have some respect for your elders.”

“Elders? You? You’re only a few years older than me.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I feel like your grandmother. And keep your voice down.”

“Why? You usually get him up,” Judy stage-whispered.

“I want some time to go over the mail.”

“Oh, yeah.” Judy stood and gathered her things together. “It’s on the table. I thought about holding it for ransom, but you don’t have anything I want.”

“What I want is another sitter.”

“I’m not worried. Ritchie likes me too much.” Judy smiled, gave a mock salute and slipped out the door.

Tracy locked up behind her. What a kid, and how fortunate Tracy was to have her. That Judy lived downstairs and her mother, Diana, happened to be Tracy’s best friend, was a heaven-sent bonus.

Tracy crept back to Ritchie’s crib and stood watching as he slept. His fingers clutched his favorite blanket, a ragged blue cotton with satin borders. Tracy reached out to touch his cheek, then drew back. Once he woke, all her time would be spent feeding and playing with him, ordinarily a time she loved.

But not right now. Not while her future was waiting on the kitchen table. 

Ritchie let out a soft sigh and rolled onto his back. Tracy froze. No, don’t wake yet, just ten more minutes. She stood immobile, not daring to breathe. After an eternity, Ritchie resumed the even breathing of sleep. Tracy tread carefully into the bathroom to hang up her clothes and change into her robe.

Her apartment had originally been the attic in Diana’s home until they converted it for Diana’s mother-in-law. Tracy loved it. The rent was low, and she could walk to work. The best thing was the strong sense of comfort she felt having her best friend downstairs, particularly since she had no one else.

Tracy had been six when a pickup smashed into her father’s car on his way home from work. He died instantly. Later, she realized it was a blessing it happened so quickly, but the ache inside her heart had never healed.

Until she held her son the first time.

When the nurse placed him in her arms, Tracy had been terrified. As an only child, she had never been around babies and she worried she wouldn’t hold him properly. Or that she’d drop him. And what would she do if he choked? But she embraced the tiny body tightly wrapped in a hospital blanket and felt his warmth close to her heart. His little round face underneath the knitted cap was all she could see, and his big brown eyes, so much like her own, stared right back. By some miracle he didn’t cry. And magic happened. All the love she kept locked inside flowed to her infant son. Finally, there was someone just for her, someone special for her to love, someone who would love her back.

But it was so difficult sometimes. Coming home from work, seeing to a baby’s needs before her own, using safety pins to hold her worn bra together because Ritchie needed medicine for an earache, or diaper rash, or even new clothes that every growing baby needs. She sometimes felt so exhausted and defeated she just wanted to turn to someone, anyone, and say, “Please help me, I can’t do it any longer.”

But she had to. She had to keep walking to work, had to wear clothes from the second-hand store. Most of all, she had to get into a school that offered her a future. It was her only hope.

Wrapping her wet hair in a towel, she changed to her threadbare robe, then crept to the kitchen to examine the bulging manila envelope on the chrome table. Across the top, bold, black letters read, Rocky Mountain Institute of Hotel & Motel Management.

Tracy picked it up and hugged it to her. Sometimes she took Ritchie and rode the bus around town, with no particular destination. It was enough just to get out and go as far as her change would allow. One day she’d be able to afford the zoo, the museum, some of the things that helped make life more than just bearable. Occasionally the bus passed one of the big hotels, all the lights glittering in the dusk, the doormen busy assisting the elegantly dressed men and women who could afford to stay there. Nose pressed against the window, Tracy dreamed of being part of their world, a world full of colored lights and sparkle. Reminded her of fairy tales and a life of promise.

Now, as much as she wanted to rip it open and devour the material, she wanted time to go over it, time to savor every bit of information.

But when Ritchie woke, he’d be hungry. Reluctantly, she set the envelope down to get supper going.

After she put spaghetti on to boil, she took a jar of sauce from the fridge. No cheese, but she’d make do with the sauce even though there were only a few drops left. Adding water, she put it on to heat and had just settled down to open the manila envelope when Ritchie woke and called to her. Ah, the joys of motherhood. She set the envelope down and tiptoed to the doorway to peek around the corner. Ritchie saw her and giggled. Playfully bending to a crouch, she crept through the door.

“I see that little button nose,” she said, skulking closer to the crib.

Ritchie pulled himself up, laughing and waving his arms at her until he almost fell. He grabbed the hardwood rails and peeked through the bars.

“There’s that little round tummy,” she chanted, almost up to the crib. “I see it...right...THERE!” Reaching in, she tickled his stomach, and in his delight he squealed and made small jumps, rattling the entire crib.

She changed him, then picked him up, kissing him right on the soft spot under his chin. Inhaling the fresh, powdery scent of a clean baby, she carried him to the kitchen. Sounds of laughter filled the tiny apartment as they played and had their dinner. Most of Ritchie’s spaghetti went on his face and in his hair, but he managed to get some in his mouth. She wiped his face and cleaned him as much as she could, then set him on the floor. He stared up at her, his eyes gathering moisture as the grin left his face. He frowned.

“I can’t play all day, you know,” Tracy told him. “I have things to do, plans to make.” She put her hands on her hips and blew a raspberry. He laughed and she stuck a stuffed bear in his hands, then gathered more of his toys. Soon his attention was completely on his toys.

A half hour later, schedules and brochures scattered over the table, Tracy was ready to cry. She must have misunderstood when the advisor, Mrs. Wellington, told her about financial aid and the start date for her class. According to the school policy she just read, she couldn’t begin until all the paperwork was completed and payment had been made or was forthcoming. When she had filled out the applications for the various grants and loans, she’d been told it sometimes took months for everything to be approved.

She checked the schedule. Classes started in three weeks; after that, the next start date was eleven months.

Eleven months.

Almost a year.

She couldn’t wait that long. She needed to start now, as planned. Too many things could happen in a year. She’d learned early not to trust fate; she had to make her own. And make it now.

But God, she needed some encouragement, something good sometimes. She didn’t ask a lot; she was willing to go it alone. Just please, no more blocks thrown her way. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair. What could she do?

First thing in the morning, she’d call Mrs. Wellington and get it straightened out. Somehow, she had to be in that class in three weeks.

Chapter Six

Reese took one look at the battered young woman and wanted five minutes alone with the perpetrator.

Cindy Harris lay on the table clutching a sheet to her chin. One green eye was a puffed slit, but the other tracked the detectives as they crowded into the small cubicle. She didn’t make a sound, but tears rolled to her temples. Her swollen lips had been cleaned, but tiny cracks held traces of blood and a splint covered her nose. An IV tube ran from her hand to a bottle hanging on a T-pole, and wires ran from her chest to a monitor that beeped with each heartbeat.

Suzy Banning, a white-haired rape counselor in her seventies, stood at the patient’s right side, firmly grasping Cindy’s hand. Instead of her usual flamboyant clothing, Suzy was wearing one of those nylon jogging suits.

Reese hid a smile. Suzy had made a couple small concessions to her own taste. Metallic gold swirls sparked against the plain white background of her blouse, and pink rhinestone balls dangled from her ears. Almost demure. For her.

Dr. Prescott stood next to the bed writing on a chart. A slight man with thinning dark hair, he looked over the glasses resting on his bulbous nose at the officer’s approach. He motioned for the detectives to follow him around the curtain.

“Take it easy,” he said, “Cindy is one of ours. She started her rotation last week, just out of school.”

“What’s her prognosis?” Reese asked. Cooper threw him a look. Back off, it said. She was right; this was her case.

“A few weeks of recovery,” Dr. Prescott continued, “she’ll be okay. Physically, that is. Sharon’s on her way.” Sharon was the hospital’s psychologist, specializing in trauma victims.