Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

“You and your damn girlfriend,” I said.

“My girlfriend? I think that’s you, last time I checked.”

“You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?”

We both looked straight ahead and a long silence followed.

“That obvious, huh?” he finally said.

“I can read you with one eye tied behind my back,” I said.

“You’re scary.”

“No. I’m a good detective.”

“So you are. Anyway, it was a long time ago. Ten years. Big mistake. Back then all that mattered to me was what a girl looked like. I’d just started in Homicide and though lots of guys turn to booze after they’ve worked a year of scenes, I turned to women. I met Quinn through her dad—he was chief of police in Seacliff and—”

“I know that, too.”

“That I’d worked with her dad?”

“No. Knew he was police chief. Go on.”

“Did you research Quinn on the Internet or something?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you how I found out about him later. Right now, we have more important stuff to discuss.”

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and reached for the gum in his shirt pocket. He had two sticks of Big Red working before he went on. “I met her when I gave some expert help on a manslaughter case in Seacliff. Quinn’s father told me his daughter wanted to get into the academy, asked me if I could pull some strings.”

“And then pretty soon you were pulling her strings,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s about right.”

“I can understand your interest. She’s... very attractive.”

“On the outside. And like I said, back then that’s all that mattered. Anyway, I broke it off after a couple months. She was too intense for me, not to mention too young.”

“You broke it off? How did that go over?”

“Not so good.” He chewed his gum faster. “Let’s say she didn’t let go easily.”

“You two seemed to have forgotten about all that from what I saw yesterday.”

“It’s old business, Abby,” he said. “She has a job to do and isn’t afraid to ask for help, which means she’s matured.”

“I’m not afraid to ask for help, either. But when I asked what you discussed with her, you wouldn’t tell me.”

He moved in front of me, mirrored my cross-legged position, now chewing far more languidly. “So this isn’t just about Abby being jealous. This is about Abby’s insatiable need to know everything and maybe dip her toes in some dangerous water.”

His blue-ice detective stare worked like it probably does on every suspect he interrogates, and I made myself stare right back even though I wished I had a trap door in the mattress to escape through.

“Is that a crime?” I asked.

Putting his index finger on my chin, he applied pressure and my head lowered. “Get your nose out of the air. Curiosity is not a crime for you—more like a lifestyle—and I obviously acted like an ass yesterday. But this business with Quinn? Well, you know I’m not so hot at mixing personal stuff with police business.”

I smiled. “You are definitely not so hot in that department. But you are so good in other departments, it makes up for it. So let’s get personal.”

He smiled and ditched the gum.

The next morning, I traveled south again, switching the car radio station back and forth between NPR and a local talk show for entertainment. Some days I am easily amused. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at St. Mary’s Hospital and stepped out into more typical south Texas weather than the previous frigid days: temperature in the low sixties, gray skies, and enough humidity to make even big hair wilt.

After entering the St. Mary’s lobby with my leather attaché in hand, I stopped at the information desk situated in front of a floor-to-ceiling aquarium and was given directions to the baby ward. I rode the elevator alone and soon found myself staring through picture windows at five clear bassinets holding infants wrapped up like sausages in their white receiving blankets. I was looking at three boys and two girls from their color-coded knit caps.

A woman in fuchsia surgical scrubs, maybe mid-fifties, spotted me and smiled broadly. She came around through a door to my left and said, “Which sweetheart do you belong to? I’ll bring the baby closer to the window for you.”

“Though I would love to belong to one of these sweethearts, I came about a baby who was born here many years ago. Can I ask you a few questions?” I took out a business card, the one identifying Yellow Rose Investigations as specializing in adoptions.

I handed it to her, and while she read, I noted the picture ID hanging from a lanyard identifying her as C. Worthington, R.N.

“If this is about an adoption, I can’t talk about it,” she said kindly, handing the card back. “All patient records are confidential.”

I opened my attaché and produced the notarized release of information letter Megan had addressed to the hospital, the one I used the last time I came here and spoke to the administrator.

She looked, but didn’t touch. “Did you go through administration, Ms. Rose?”

“Yes. Worked with a Mr. Hansen.” I didn’t add that I had bypassed him today. Before she could question me further, I exchanged the release letter for the birth certificate. “This young woman hired me to help her find her mother. Megan Beadford was here once, just like those cute little kids beyond the window.”

The nurse shifted her gaze to the bassinets, her eyes softening. “They are so precious when they sleep. So wonderful.” She refocused on me. “But as much as I’d like to help, I don’t see how I can, Ms. Rose.”

“How long have you worked here?” I asked.

“Ten years, and from the date on the birth certificate, your client made her entrance into the world long before I arrived on the scene.”

“Okay, but maybe you know someone who’s worked here longer.”

She squinted in thought, then said, “No. And if you got no help from Sister Nell, then—”

“Sister Nell?”

“The medical records administrator. But I assume that’s where Mr. Hansen directed you first.”

A baby started wailing—the boy in the middle crib. The nurse glanced back at him and smiled her loving, unruffled smile.

I said, “You probably need to take care of him, so—”

“Darien’s had everything I can offer,” she said evenly. “Fed, burped, changed, rocked. He’s fine.”

I looked uneasily at the wide-mouthed Darien. The kid was into a rhythm and getting louder and more red faced by the second. But since Nurse Worthington wasn’t responding to his screams, I went on. “I visited with Mr. Hansen several weeks ago. When he could find nothing during his computer search, he said he would contact medical records and get back to me.”

“And did he?” Her crossed arms and amused features told me she knew plenty about Mr. Hansen—stuff I obviously did not.

“I had to call him back.”

She nodded knowingly.

I said, “He told me medical records only had baby charts that went back twenty years.”

“Really? I suggest you speak directly with Sister Nell. She’s been here since they opened St. Mary’s doors.”

“Sister Nell. Does she have a last name or—”

“Everyone knows Sister Nell. You’ll find her.”

More noise erupted from the peanut gallery, but the nurse remained unperturbed, despite my sincere belief that Darien, who’d woken the rest of his buddies, was about to burst a blood vessel in his head. I had to get out of here. “Thanks. Is medical records on the first floor?”

She nodded and gave me a little wave, then turned and walked back into the nursery.

Meanwhile I hightailed it to the elevator. If this job would be taking me to more maternity wards in the future, I wasn’t sure I could stay in the business.