What She Doesn't Know (7 page)

The woman directed her attention to him.

“I’m looking for a room for a friend of mine. She’ll be coming in for a month this summer. I told her I’d check out hotels for her. Can you show me a room like the one you just gave that woman?”

He watched Rita gather her bag and head out the door. She didn’t even look back. The clerk tapped on her keyboard. “Yes, I have one available. Come this way.” She grabbed a key off the rack behind her. “Wait until you see our beautiful courtyard.”

He followed the woman up two flights of stairs to the room just below Rita’s, according to the numbers. All the rooms surrounded a splendid courtyard with strategically lit plants and a small pool. The lights provided plenty of shadows. The fence around the courtyard was climbable, and he spotted a shadowy corner perfect for slipping over.

“It is lovely,” he said, leaning over the railing and spotting the lighted window next to door 315. He noted the room layout, and more importantly, the flimsy locks. “It’s perfect.”

“Your friend will love it here,” she said.

“She’ll just die when she sees it.”

Christopher answered the door, wondering who would be dropping by this late in the evening. He was surprised how few people called to inquire about Brian’s health. Tammy Rieux was probably the most interested; a little too interested.

“Christopher LaPorte? I’m Detective Mark Connard with the New Orleans Police Department. I’d like to ask you some follow up questions with regard to your brother’s fall.”

“Why now, after all this time?” Still, he backed up to admit the detective and gestured toward the living room.

Connard shook his head. “This won’t take long. We have some new information we need to check on. A woman who had a relationship with your brother believes—”

“What woman?”

“Hear me out, please. She believes someone may have pushed Brian off the roof. Do you have any reason to believe your brother was pushed?”

“Pushed? As in murder?” When Connard didn’t comment, Christopher leaned against the foyer wall. “He lived like a hermit. I can’t believe he put enough into his life to make an enemy.”

“Was he involved in anything illegal?”

“I hadn’t spoken with him in years, but no, I don’t think he’d be involved in anything like that. Brian could do no wrong. As far as I know, he never even smoked pot.”

“What about you?”

“Have I smoked pot?”

“No, what about your relationship with your brother? We understand there was animosity between you.”

Where was he getting this information? Tammy? Why would she bring this all up now? “We weren’t close, never had been. We had a blow up thirteen years ago. I left town soon after that and I’ve only been back once.”

He checked his notepad. “Where were you the night your brother fell off the roof?”

Christopher could do nothing but blink in surprise at the question. “Am I under suspicion?” he asked at last, unable to believe what he was hearing. Before the detective could answer, he said, “I was at my cabin in Northern Georgia. I live in Atlanta, but I bought an old place on a lake. I go there on the weekends, and no, I can’t prove it. I suppose someone in town could have seen me buying supplies, but I have no phone there and rarely even use my cell phone.” He pushed away from the wall. “Do you really believe someone might have tried to kill him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine. You made a threatening statement at the hospital today. Care to tell me about it?”

“Threatening?” This conversation was getting stranger and stranger. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I only spoke to my brother and maybe said hello to a nurse or two.”

Detective Connard checked his notes again. “Something about putting your brother in the hospital before and that everyone you’re close to ends up in the hospital or worse.”

Someone had been listening to his conversation. Someone who had been standing in the room. “That was a childhood accident.” He wasn’t going to spill his guts to this guy. “Who reported this?”

“You also said something about finding out what a Rita Brooks knows.”

“Oh, wait a minute. She’s here, isn’t she? She’s the one who told you all this.” The detective didn’t deny or confirm it. “Let me tell you about Miss Brooks. She was having online hanky-panky with my brother. I found her in Boston and asked if she knew anything about my brother’s state of mind. She denied knowing anything about it, but I could tell she was holding something back.” Now she was here trying to implicate him. As payback? “She’s a piece of work, that one. She got kind of freaky and then her nose started bleeding.”

The man’s brows furrowed. “How could you tell she was holding something back?”

“Same way you know when someone’s lying. Her mind was calculating, and she clammed up. And now she’s here, what, telling you I had something to do with Brian’s fall?” He ran his fingers back through his hair. “I know what’s going on. I may have insinuated that she was responsible for Brian’s state of mind. I figured she broke things off, and he didn’t take it well. She’s giving me grief back. If there’s anything you want to know about my brother, ask. Have a look around if you’d like. I want to know what the hell was going on with him as much as anyone else.”

Connard slid his notepad into his pocket. He’d been nodding in agreement, but Christopher wasn’t sure if it was over the revenge of Rita Brooks or his cooperation.
 

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

Christopher closed the door and thought about Rita. He was damn well going to find her and get to the bottom of this.

Alex Connard didn’t know what to make of Rita Brooks and her accusations, not to mention her bizarre story about coma connections. His father, a long-time seasoned veteran, taught him to listen to everything without reacting. Now that he’d had the drive to think it over, he still wasn’t sure what to think. He was pretty sure the brother had nothing to do with Brian’s fall, and that Rita had probably misunderstood what she’d overheard. Maybe she
was
trying to cause trouble.

By the time returned to the station, the officer from Boston had returned his call. He called back in hopes of clearing things up.

“She hit her head pretty hard in the accident,” Officer Potter said once Connard explained his side. “I understand it can take a long time for the brain to get back to normal, if it ever does. She never mentioned the coma connection thing to me, only that the person in the car that hit hers was wearing a feather mask. That in itself seemed pretty strange. She asked me to check, but I haven’t had time. I think she’s having a hard time coming to terms with the accident, being in a coma, and whatever’s going on in her personal life.”

“That’s what I figured. Luckily she’s going back to Boston day after tomorrow. We’re heading into Mardi Gras. Not only will there be lots of feather masks around, but we’re going to have our share of nut cases. We certainly don’t need one more. Thanks for your time.”

Even so, Connard flipped through Brian LaPorte’s file once more. The attempted suicide made sense in light of his withdrawal from friends. The bruising on his face made sense in light of his fall. The only strange thing about the case was Rita Brooks.
 

And speaking of her…he called and identified himself when he answered. “I can’t find anything that indicates foul play.”

“Did you speak with his brother?”

“Yes, but again, nothing suspicious. I think you just misunderstood what he said. I suggest you say your goodbyes to your friend and go home. Oh, and be aware that Christopher LaPorte knows you’re in town, and he didn’t seem too happy about it. You might want to steer clear of him. Have a safe trip home.”

He returned the file and headed home.

She waited until after midnight before paying a visit to Rita Brooks. She slipped over the fence and landed in a clump of bushes. Though she’d made minimal noise, she remained still for a full three minutes just to make sure no one had heard her. Luckily it was too cool for couples to sit amid the shadowy beauty of the courtyard and share quiet whispers.
 

Satisfied that no one was around, she slipped from her cover and up the stairs. The doors of the rooms were dark green, and she had worn a similar color to blend in. She stopped in front of 315. It was a good thing she was strong enough to do whatever it took to protect what was hers. And there was, after all, a certain power in it. That pleasure couldn’t be denied.

She picked the lock and disappeared into the dark room. It took only a few moments for her eyes to adjust. The rest she filled in from memory. Table and chairs by the front window, double beds toward the back.

The steady sound of breathing led her to the second bed. By the contrast of shadows, Rita appeared to be lying on top of the bedspread on her back. This was almost too easy. She slid out of her thick, jersey jacket and bundled it in her hands.
 

Rita let out a low moan and started to shift. Or perhaps awaken. No more time to ponder. She slid atop her and pushed the bundle of material over her face in one movement. Rita awoke slowly and started to struggle.

“It’s just a bad dream, baby,” she whispered. “You go on back to sleep.”

Rita thrashed, but in the end, didn’t give up much of a fight. Just to be sure, she checked her pulse before removing the jacket. She knew some people played possum to save their lives. No pulse, no blood moving through her veins.

She put her jacket back on and looked out the window. Quiet as death, she thought with a smile. As quietly as she’d come, she slipped back out into the night.

CHAPTER 6

Rita became aware of the noise first, an uneven thumping sound from above. There was a high-pitched keening sound, too. She pulled the blanket up over her head and tried to drift back to sleep. When her mind placed the noise as crying, she climbed to full consciousness. The room was shadowy, even though shards of light crept around the edge of the insulated curtains.

She rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself out of bed. Sleep had eluded her for hours, filling her mind with Brian, the masked figure, and the images Brian had shown her. As tired as she’d been the night before, as soon as she’d unpacked with the sole intent of falling right into bed, she’d discovered a leak in her bathroom. She’d called down to the desk and been moved to 215. By the time she’d repacked and moved she’d been awake again.

She peered between the curtains and saw people on the other side of the courtyard standing outside their rooms looking at something above her room. Over the fence she saw an ambulance parked by the curb. She dressed and walked out to the balcony. A man was coming down the stairs at the end. She guessed he was another guest.

“What’s going on?” she asked him.

“Apparently the maintenance woman fell asleep in the room upstairs after she fixed a leak. She died in her sleep. She was the owner’s aunt, so she’s pretty broken up about it. I guess she was having health problems, so it’s not a big surprise.”

She remembered the plump, tough bird who had shown up with a toolbox just as Rita was vacating the room. She’d looked pale and her breathing was raspy. Rita had probably been the last person to see her alive. The thought filled her with an eerie sadness. She wished she’d said more than, ‘Sorry you have to deal with this so late.’
 
She said a prayer for her family and went back inside.

Once she was dressed, she headed to the hospital. She needed a chance to touch Brian, to see if the connection could be reestablished. She needed answers and proof. It was clear that the detective had only done a cursory check and chalked her story up to madness or hormones or whatever he felt comfortable with. Not that she could blame him. If she wanted anyone to take her seriously, she needed something concrete. That wasn’t going to be easy.

He watched Rita leave the hotel, unable to believe his eyes.
She
had failed. He had driven by the hotel to see if Rita’s body had been discovered. The ambulance had buoyed his spirit until he saw Rita emerge from the parking lot. Who had she smothered then?
 

He didn’t have time to ponder it. He followed Rita to the hospital, where she was undoubtedly going to visit Brian. Why wouldn’t she die? It would have been so simple if she’d bit it in Boston. Unease tightened his chest. What had she found out that sent her to the police? What did she know?

He watched her go inside. He’d have time to figure out what his next step was. He scanned the parking lot and the distant spot she’d had to take. Yeah, he had a plan.
 

I’m the boy. I’ll take care of it this time.

Rita made the long, cold trek into the hospital, getting that eerie feeling the whole way. She glanced around casually but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it was the dreary weather, overcast skies, and the fine mist floating through the air.
Or maybe it’s knowing someone tried to kill you, and they probably know you’re here.
She shivered.
 

This time she checked before walking into Brian’s room. No Christopher. She really didn’t want to see him now that she’d sent the police to question him. Even worse, he would know she’d eavesdropped on his conversation.

She watched Brian for a few minutes, finding the rhythmic sound of the respirator comforting. He was alive, at least. Would he ever come out? What would he be like?
Brian, talk to me. I miss you. I feel kind of hopeless about the future, yours and mine. Besides, I need your help.
She felt a wave of sadness that the man who would come out of this coma might not be the same man she’d been ready to open her heart to.
 

She reached out and took his hand in hers. His skin was cool and dry. She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes as she waited for the jolt of those images. Nothing came. No images, no revelations, not even a nuance. The connection didn’t extend beyond the gray place.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She spun at the voice behind her and came face to face with Christopher LaPorte. He advanced on her until he was way too close, his mouth in a hard, tight line.