Doyle shakes his head. ‘It was deliberate. Somebody’s idea of fun. I was told you were hurt too. Bastard beat up an innocent woman and left these on her.’ He takes the cellphone and driver’s license from his pocket.
Rachel gapes at the items. ‘I’ve been looking for those! I was convinced I put them in the car’s glove compartment this morning. When I went to get them later on, they were gone. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.’
‘He must have broken into the car somehow, looking for things that belonged to you.’
‘Who, Cal? Who the hell would play such a cruel trick on us?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
‘What about the woman? The one who got beat up? Couldn’t she tell you anything?’
Doyle looks at her, biting his lip. His vision suddenly blurs, and he blinks it away.
Rachel says, ‘Oh, God, Cal! She’s dead? And you thought it was. . Oh, Jesus!’
She latches onto him again, pulling herself as close as she can get. He savors the intimacy while he can. There are other things he needs to say to her.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
They head toward the exit, his arm around her shoulders, keeping her safe against him, wishing he could be her protector forever.
She doesn’t suspect yet, he thinks. She doesn’t know what’s coming.
He hears footsteps hurrying along the corridor behind him.
‘Mr Doyle! Mr Doyle!’
He turns, and Rachel turns with him. He takes her hand in his, and waits for the caller to catch up with them.
Nurse Lynley stops in front of them. Her eyes slide to Rachel, then back to Doyle.
‘This is-’
‘My wife, yes.’
The nurse nods at this final and undeniable confirmation of the mistaken identity. ‘Mr Doyle, I’m so sorry. We try to be as careful as we can about identifying victims. It’s just that-’
‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re not to blame. I don’t plan to file a complaint or sue the hospital or anything.’
In gratitude, she flashes the briefest of smiles. ‘Mr Doyle, would I be right in thinking that you’re a detective?’
Doyle stares back into her green eyes, looking for a hint of mysticism that helped her divine that particular piece of information.
‘Yes, I am. How did you. .’
‘There was something else on the victim. It fell from her clothing when she was brought in. An orderly left it at the reception desk.’
Nurse Lynley dips into a capacious pocket on her uniform. Doyle knows what her hand will contain even before it’s withdrawn.
A white envelope. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ on its face.
Doyle takes the offering, thanks the nurse. He feels the familiar turmoil in his stomach.
She says, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here, and maybe you’d prefer not to tell me. Maybe you’d prefer not to talk about this to anybody. But there’s a woman back there who is now a murder victim. The thing you need to know is-’
‘The hospital has to make a police report, I know. And you’ll have to mention my connection with all this. I understand.’
She shows another hint of a smile, grateful to him for not making this difficult for her.
‘I’m glad you’ve found your wife. Goodbye, Detective.’
She turns then, and goes briskly back to her business. Doyle gazes down at the envelope, knowing that he can’t delay in opening it.
‘What is it?’ Rachel asks.
‘The son of a bitch has been sending me anonymous messages. This is his latest. His chance to gloat.’
Doyle rips open the envelope and unfolds the note it contains.
Dear Detective Doyle,
Fooled you!
Did you like it? As practical jokes go, you have to admit it was pretty damn good. Go ahead, laugh about it.
Next time it really will be your family on the slab. I can get to them, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
You getting the message now, Detective? People just aren’t safe when you’re around them.
Why don’t you go away and think about it? Far away. From everyone. Think about it real hard, and maybe then you’ll get some idea of what you put me through.
Sweet dreams, Detective.
‘What’s it say?’
‘Crap you don’t need to hear.’ He folds the note over, then tucks it and the envelope into his pocket. ‘Let’s go.’
His mind is made up now. All that remains is to figure out how to break it to Rachel.
He worries about his plans.
It seems to him that he plans things meticulously, knows exactly what he wants to do, but when it comes to implementing them he just gets, well, carried away. Like he starts off as the driver and suddenly finds himself in the passenger seat.
He hadn’t set out with any intention of killing the girl.
His objective was just to rough her up a little. Well, a lot, actually. Enough to keep her in the hospital for a while. Get her into the ICU, drips in her arm, monitors on her brain activity — all that shit. Long enough to get Doyle in there. Give him a little scare.
He’d done his research. The hooker was roughly the right height and shape, her hair was long and dark, and she wasn’t too skanky-looking as whores go. Her face was nowhere near as attractive as the one on Doyle’s wife, but that wasn’t so important. When he was done with her, the face was the last place people would be looking for recognizable features.
So he called her up. Told her he’d traveled all the way from Chicago for a business meeting and wanted to relax a little before heading back to the Windy City. Put her at ease by telling her to meet him at his nice hotel on Seventh Avenue.
There were many things he didn’t tell her, of course.
He didn’t tell her she would never make it to his hotel. Didn’t tell her that she wouldn’t even make it out of her own apartment building. Didn’t tell her that his call was just a ruse to get her out of the apartment without her feeling that, at that very moment, she was about to be attacked.
He was waiting for her in the hallway. It was black out there because he’d removed the light bulb. He waited patiently until he heard her take the locks off. Waited until the door opened and a dirty yellow light leaked out and she stepped into the gloom and turned to lock up.
And then he pounced.
He rammed into her back, driving her through the door and into the apartment. She yelped, then whirled to face him. He saw first the shock and then the fear. He’d expected that reaction. He believed he cut an imposing, formidable figure. Although the ski mask and the baseball bat may have added to the effect.
He expected also that she’d run. Maybe even put up a fight. This was a woman of the streets, after all. She would have learned something about how to handle herself.
So he didn’t wait. Didn’t try to reason with her. He just let the baseball bat do the talking. Let it sing through the air on its way to connecting with her ribcage with such force that he heard bones crack. Let it whistle a little before bouncing off the back of her skull.
And then he closed the door behind him. Stood panting over the woman who was now balled up on the floor, her blood-streaked hands spread across her head in a pathetic attempt at protection.
