of it. He held a piece of jewelry, a thick, heavy gold bracelet.
I stared, uncomprehending, at the bracelet, then felt my eyes being drawn to the naked spot on John Richard’s left wrist. My worries about personal bankruptcy seemed a century old. The street felt as if it were moving under my feet. Steady, girl.
“I don’t believe this!” John Richard yelled. “This is entrapment! This is a setup! Why won’t you talk to me?”
The three bystanders I was trying to keep away from the ditch nudged urgently past me.
“Hey!” I yelped. “You can’t go ? “
But by the time I caught up with them, they stood beside the ditch. Damn them. Tom could not stop the men from gaping at the medics and poor, wretched Suz; he was talking into his mobile phone. And what was I now hearing? No. Yes. Tom was reciting the Miranda rights to John Richard Korman.
“Stop this,” John Richard protested loudly as Tom’s caution continued. “You have no idea what you’re doing! Suz had… She… AstuteCare had more… enemies… than I have patients. She was into more ? “
I could not believe my ears. This was so fast … too fast. What had John Richard said or done? He and Suz had “mixed it up.” And the ID bracelet ? where had the medics found it? Were John Richard’s admission of a fight and a piece of his jewelry enough to warrant an arrest? Apparently so. But John Richard had brought flowers, he must have thought Suz was alive, or must have wanted to believe she was alive, or wanted to appear to believe she was alive.
Tom said quietly, “You’re under arrest. I’ve just arranged for transport.” He reached in his back pocket for his handcuffs. He must have brought them, I thought, stupefied. Tom must have brought the cuffs and his badge and his weapon, when I told him where I was and what I’d seen.
John Richard leaped forward and swung at Tom; the three neighborhood ambassadors jumped back. John Richard’s fist shot upward again. But Tom was ready for him. He grabbed John Richard’s right arm and swung it forcefully around. Cursing, John Richard fell to his knees. Tom put his other hand into John Richard’s back and brought him easily to the ground. John Richard yelled, threatened, cursed, and reminded Tom of what he would do to him the minute he got free.
Tom leaned over and said, “Shut. Up.”
4
With practiced quickness, the paramedics transferred their energy from trying to revive Suz to pulling back. They authoritatively called out orders and pushed aside the bystanders. No matter: The group of people, which had now grown to five, had turned their attention from Suz and could not stop staring, fascinated, at John Richard. Handcuffed, he knelt in the street. Tom kept him there. Tom’s muscular body leaned toward John Richard. My husband spoke into my ex-husband’s ear. I could not make out what he was saying over the voices of the medics. But if the twisted look of fury on John Richard’s face was any indication, it wasn’t good news. Tom turned and made an announcement to the mesmerized bystanders. “Okay, you five, here’s the deal. Go stand in different driveways until we’ve stabilized this situation. Police officers will come talk to you when they arrive. Do not discuss this among yourselves.” He paused to make sure they understood. Two nodded; the others just stared. “All right, thank you. Go ahead, please, move away. Now.”
As the men promptly defied Tom’s orders by departing in a whispering cluster, John Richard raised his angry voice, demanding to be let out of the handcuffs. The medics ignored him, as did Tom, who once again pulled the mobile unit off his belt and made a call. I heard him say the words “captain,” “video,” and “team.”
Tom spoke again to John Richard, then helped him to his feet. The Jerk, cuffed, shook loose of Tom’s arm, then stalked angrily to the base of Suz Craig’s tar-streaked driveway. Tall and elegant even with his arms bound at an improbable angle behind him, Dr. John Richard Korman stood shifting his weight from one khaki-clad leg to the other. I thought absurdly that he looked as if he were considering poses for an art class. Above his gorgeous, chiseled face, which occasionally spasmed with rage, his blond hair was only slightly tousled from his exchange with Tom.
I turned away, disbelieving. Was this really happening? There was a buzzing in my ears. My eyes burned. I sat down on the curb and focused on Tom
Tom knew what he was doing. He could switch into his take-charge mode without a hitch. He nimbly moved his beefy body around the periphery of the ditch. He gave a few more instructions to the paramedics, who plopped down listlessly on the dirt-strewn incline. He had probably told them to do nothing until the coroner arrived. Then, his face set in that intimidating expression I knew so well, Tom walked in the direction of the driveway and John Richard. I tried to remember a time when I had seen these significant men from my life standing next to each other. I failed. And this certainly wasn’t the circumstance where I wanted to make the comparison of how the two appeared and how they acted. I looked away, up the street.
If I was right about what Tom had told the paramedics, the coroner would be arriving soon in his van. As my eyes skimmed the row of big, beautifully maintained houses, I wondered helplessly about Arch. I still had to go get him. I needed to stand up and put one foot in front of the other and tell Tom I was leaving. But exactly how would I say that? I’ve got to go tell my son that his father has been arrested for murder? I stayed put.
Tom, meanwhile, gently took a stiff John Richard by the elbow and guided him up the driveway toward the house. Reluctantly, I stood and followed. The buzzing in my ears was not from the sprinklers.
Get Arch, get out of the club, and get bock home. But who would take care of my son at home, comfort him and talk to him? I had a party tonight. Could Macguire help, even though he was bedridden with mono? Not likely. I would think of something. For now, I had to get away from here. The bystanders, perched like friendly watchdogs on this street full of posh houses and lush green lawns, watched my journey up the driveway with undisguised interest.
“I need to leave,” I announced to Tom. I darted a sideways glance at John Richard. Tom had directed him to the far end of Suz’s porch, where he perched stiffly on the edge of a white wicker couch. I flinched at the sight of his scathing stare and his silent, enraged face. I cleared my throat. “I need to get Arch.”
“You do that!” John Richard exploded, but not, I noticed, loudly enough for the nosy neighbors to hear. I looked at him curiously. His outburst contained no sadness. No grief. “Go get Arch!” he yelled, his face shaking. “Tell him why we can’t go hiking! And be sure to let him know what you and. your buddy have cooked up here! Arch is bound to just love it!”
My temper snapped. “Listen!” I yelled back, “I was just driving up ? “
“Save itl” John Richard hissed. The cords in his neck strained. “No more child support if I’m in jail! Think about it!”
“Look, you.” I tried to stop the angry shaking of my voice but could not. “I haven’t gotten any child support since ?”
“Goldy.” Tom’s passionless tone mercifully stilled the exchange. He waited until he had my complete attention. “Don’t get Arch yet. You need to stay here, make a statement.” His face was calm. “And you should see a victim advocate.”
“Victim advocate?” John Richard bellowed. “What does she need an advocate for? I’m the damn victim here!”
I gaped at Tom, dumbfounded. Of course. I had discovered the body. The police had to question me. And the psychologists’ recommendation for a person discovering a body was that that person was traumatized and needed comfort. But this wasn’t the first murder victim I’d found. I’d managed be-fore without an advocate. Still, what was the psychologists’ recommendation if your ex-husband was charged with the murder you’d stumbled upon? I couldn’t think. I swayed as I stood between the overturned geranium pot and the wicker furniture. What had I been doing just a moment ago? Oh, yes.
I’d been having an argument with my ex-husband about money. Now I was having a conversation with my current husband about an advocate.
You must get Arch, my inner voice urged. You must tell him what’s happened before someone else does. Trauma? You bet. Undreamed-of trauma. But like most women, I couldn’t take time out from the other crises of my life to be taken care of. “I don’t want an advocate,” I told Tom. “I’m okay.”
Even as I spoke Tom was pulling the phone off his belt. “What s Marla’s number?”
“Oh, right!” John Richard raged. “Let’s get old Marla over here. One big happy family. Hey! I have an idea! Ask that fat dumb broad how she planted my ID bracelet in that ditch.”
