Her Lawman On Call

It had never been one of Sasha’s favorite words or sensations. As far as that went, it was way down on the list.

At the very least, it encompassed a teasing sensation that tormented her until she could finally recall what, where and when she’d done “this” before, whatever “this” might be. Most of the time, the answers to the questions that occurred to her never materialized as she struggled to recall an elusive memory that would put things in perspective for her.

This time, she didn’t have to try to recall. The memory that had sent the sensation rippling through her was still sickeningly fresh in her mind.

Angela, lying in a pool of her own blood on the concrete floor beside her car.

Since the discovery, Sasha hadn’t stopped parking in the structure. It was either that or resort to taking a cab or some mode of public transportation. Although the city had probably the best public transportation system in the world, Sasha was possessed of an independent streak that fairly demanded she be in charge of deciding how she came and went. Subways and buses left you depending on others.

Besides, she loved that little ten-year-old Toyota. The vehicle had been her parents’ gift to her when she’d graduated medical school. They could hardly afford to splurge the way they did, even though they’d bought it used. And, since they did buy it for her, not to use it would be tantamount to insulting them.

Entering the level where she’d parked this morning, Sasha realized she was holding her breath as she made her way down a deserted row.

She was too old to be afraid of the dark, she scolded herself.

It wasn’t so much the dark that frightened her, actually, as it was who might be hiding in that dark.

Sasha glanced around to see if Walter Stevens was around somewhere. But if the security guard was on duty, he was making rounds on another level of the structure. There was no sound of anyone walking around here. No sound at all, really.

And then she heard it.

Every nerve ending in her body tightened as she listened.

A moan? A gasp? She couldn’t make it out.

Sasha looked over her shoulder toward the elevator doors. For a second, she thought about running back. And then she became annoyed with herself. There were still cars here. Probably just someone going home for the night. Or coming on for the night shift.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Sasha called. But even as she asked, she was hurrying over toward where she’d parked her car this morning before making her rounds.

There was a prickly sensation traveling along the back of her neck. It refused to go away, refused to be blocked.

And then she saw it.

Her breath caught in her throat, threatening to suffocate her. A scream escaped her, vibrating amid the trapped air. There was a figure on the ground, sprawled out like a mutilated doll. Like Angela, there was a pool of blood beneath her. Like Angela, there was a bullet hole in the center of her forehead. Her eyes were wide open, unseeing as they stared at the ceiling.

This couldn’t be happening. Not twice. She was having some kind of hysterical hallucination, Sasha silently argued. Any second now, the figure would disappear.

But it didn’t.

Legs no longer made of lead, Sasha broke into a run. But it was too late. The figure on the ground was not moving. The gray-haired woman had surrendered to death the moment the bullet had found her.

And then another sound came. The sound of screaming. Sasha did not immediately realize that it was coming from her.

She was never going to get warm again.

The iciness that surrounded her went clear down to her soul, despite the blanket that someone had draped over her shoulders.

Sasha was sitting in her car, on the driver’s side, her feet planted outside the vehicle on the concrete floor as she faced the activity that was going on just a few feet away.

What were the odds? she wondered. What were the odds of this kind of thing happening twice? Two women, nurses, both shot execution style. And both times her car was parked close enough to the scene of the crime to be touched by the killer.

She shivered and took another long sip from the hot container of coffee the detective had shoved into her hands. It was half-consumed. Only belatedly did it register that he must have drunk out of it before he’d given it to her.

Whether it was meant to warm her hands or her insides, she didn’t know. The no-frills coffee—black no sugar—failed to do either. But the jolt of super-strength caffeine did help her focus. Did help her hear his questions rather than just drift numbly away from the scene in a desperate act of self-preservation.

Her lashes felt moist. Was it the steam from the coffee, or was she crying? Sasha didn’t know. She couldn’t tell. Everything seemed so surreal.

“The hospital has signs up in the staff lounge advising women to go into the parking structure in pairs,” she said hoarsely, more to the container in her hands than to the detective she knew was staring down at her.

“So why didn’t you?” he asked her quietly.

The question surprised her. She had been referring to the dead woman, to the fact that if the grandmother of two had heeded the advice, maybe she would have escaped being the center of another homicide investigation.

Another homicide at PM.

It seemed absurd. They had above average success in keeping their patients from dying within their walls, whether they were brought here for surgery or because of some extensive illness.

But it’s not the patients who are getting killed, it’s the staff, a voice in her head whispered.

Why?

Sasha looked up blankly. The detective—Santini, wasn’t it?—was looking down at her. There was a frown on his lips. It seemed like there was always a frown on his lips, she thought.

But then, murders were nothing to smile about.

“What?” she finally asked him.

“Why didn’t you?” Tony repeated patiently, aware that she could be going into some kind of shock. “Why didn’t you take someone with you? Why did you go into the parking structure alone?”

She shrugged. One side of the blanket slid down her shoulder. Tony moved it back into place, his fingers brushing against the side of her neck. They felt rough, as if he worked with his hands when he wasn’t being a cop.

“It was late,” Sasha replied.

“All the more reason,” he pointed out. When he’d taken the call that brought him back to the location where he’d been just two weeks ago, canvassing the area, he hadn’t expected to find the doctor at the center of the scene again.

The sensation that had shimmied through him was a surprise as well.

Sasha thought for a second. She supposed, to the detective, it must have appeared stupid. In hindsight, she had to agree. But she’d been going alone to the parking structure every night since they’d found Angela’s body. Besides, she didn’t think of herself in terms of mortality.

Sasha’s hands tightened around the container. “No one else was leaving when I left and I don’t like inconveniencing people.”

His eyes met hers. “Murder is the ultimate inconvenience,” he commented. Satisfied that the woman could understand him and process his questions now, he began by asking the obvious one. “Did you know the victim?”

Sasha bit back a sigh. She nodded. “Her name’s Rachel Wells. She’s a nurse. And a grandmother.” Sasha suddenly realized where he was going with this. “I didn’t know her well. Just to nod to, that kind of thing. She once showed me a photograph of her grandchildren. It was a Christmas-card photo,” she added.

Santini gave no indication that he was pleased or displeased with her answer. She didn’t like faces she couldn’t read. Everything that any of her family felt was right out there for everyone to see.

“Did the other victim know her?” he wanted to know.