Миранда Джеймс - File M For Murder

Too impatient for the elevator, I ran to the stairs, and Diesel scampered up ahead of me. My heart thudded in my chest, and the sweat dripped down my face, but I pressed on. I prayed I wouldn’t collapse before I found my daughter safe and sound.

Laura’s office lay at the end of the hall, away from the stairs. I ran down the empty hall. Diesel was still slightly ahead of me. How he knew where we were going, I had no clue, but he was straining at the leash, trying to pull free.

I let him go, and he beat me to Laura’s door by a full five seconds.

When I reached the door, I had to pause to catch my breath. I couldn’t speak because I was gulping in air. Diesel meowed loudly and scratched at the door, which was slightly ajar. His weight forced it open, and my heart almost failed me when I caught my first glimpse of the interior. Books and papers lay scattered about.

I stepped into the doorway and, still struggling to breathe freely, croaked out my daughter’s name. A phone began to ring, and I recognized the ringtone as Laura’s. I took another step inside. To my right, perhaps two feet away, was a wall covered with overloaded bookshelves. To my left was a desk, and my heart almost stopped when I saw a woman kneeling over a body on the floor between the desk and another wall of bookshelves behind it.

Diesel disappeared around the edge of the desk, but I heard him chirping and meowing in distress. The sight of my daughter’s body on the floor terrified me so that I couldn’t speak. Then I could see Diesel, licking Laura’s face. The woman started and sat back on her heels.

“What are you doing?” I finally found my voice, and my legs worked again. I strode around the side of the desk and grasped the strange woman’s shoulder. She turned her head to look up at me, her expression mirroring the fear of my own.

“I’m trying to help her,” she said. She struggled to loosen my hand from her shoulder. “Who the hell are you?”

“Her father,” I said, pushing her none too gently out of the way. I dropped to my knees on the worn carpet beside Laura. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing was regular. She looked like she was sleeping. I grasped her hands in mine. They were cold. I started rubbing them, trying to warm them.

“Laura, honey, can you hear me?” While I spoke to her, Diesel kept licking her face. I didn’t try to stop him, because I thought any kind of sensory stimulation was good.

Laura’s phone started ringing again, and I could sense the woman hovering behind me. “We need to call 911.”

“I’m doing it now.” I glanced back, and the woman had the office phone in her hand and was punching in numbers.

For the moment I ignored Laura’s still-ringing phone, though I knew Sean was probably even more worried by now. I’d call him as soon as I could.

Laura moaned, a low sound that tore at my heart. She blinked several times, then her eyes opened and tried to focus on me. Diesel stopped licking her face but kept talking to her, as I called it.

“My head,” Laura whispered. Her face contorted in a grimace of pain. “Hurts. What happened?”

“I don’t know, honey,” I said. “We’ve called 911, and they’re on the way. You lie still.”

Laura frowned. “Where am I?”

“In your office.” I stroked her hands, still trying to warm them up. Diesel moved to stand beside me, his eyes intent on Laura’s face.

She blinked, then a tremulous smile flashed briefly. “Sweet kitty,” she whispered.

“They’re on the way,” the woman announced behind me.

I turned to nod at her, and with a small shock I realized I knew her. Magda Johnston, Ralph’s wife. She looked far different today from the woman I’d seen at the party a week or so ago. For one thing, she appeared to be stone-cold sober, and she was dressed more conservatively, in a gray skirt, purple blouse, and black jacket. Nothing like the garish, blowsy woman from the party.

Laura whispered, “Water. Please. Bottle in desk.”

I gazed down at her and nodded. “Don’t move,” I told her again. I shifted position so I could open the desk drawers. I found the water on the first try. I turned back to Laura and frowned. I didn’t think she should move her head until the paramedics arrived and examined her. So how was I going to give her water without choking her?

Laura moved, and I knew she was going to try to sit up. “No,” I said. “Stay still. I’m going to dribble some water in your mouth from the side, okay?” That should work, as long as I could hold my hand steady.

“Okay,” she said. She opened her mouth as I twisted the cap off the bottle. I knelt over her and held the bottle to the side of her mouth. I tilted it until a tiny trickle of water flowed. Laura swallowed, and I stopped the flow.

We went through this procedure four more times, until Laura said, “That’s good.”

I capped the bottle and sat back on my heels, regarding my daughter with concern. Where were the EMTs? Surely they would arrive soon.

“They’re coming down the hall.” Magda Johnston spoke from the doorway. She appeared to be waving at them.

“Thank goodness,” I said. I glanced at the desk. The EMTs would need more room to work, so I stood and pushed the desk toward the opposite wall. Magda saw what I was doing and stepped forward to help. Between us we managed to get the desk as far out of the way as possible. I was gently moving Diesel away from Laura as the first member of the team entered the office.

I pulled Diesel to the corner and watched as the other emergency personnel came in. They went to work quickly and efficiently, and one of them asked Laura several questions, such as “What day is it? Who is the president?” Her responses were evidently satisfactory.

Diesel, made nervous by all the strangers in the small office, crawled underneath the desk and watched everything from there. I called Sean to apprise him of the situation but kept the conversation brief. I asked him to come in his car to pick me and Diesel up. He would need to take me to the hospital and then take Diesel home. The emergency room was no place for a feline, even one as well mannered as mine.

One of the EMTs, a woman not much older than Laura, knelt by my daughter and with gloved hands probed her head. I missed what happened next because members of the team kept shifting positions. I heard Laura moan, then the EMT said, “Got a little blood here and a small wound.”

“Did you fall and hit your head?” An older member of the team, a man in his late thirties or early forties, posed the question.

“I’m not sure.” Laura paused, her tone uncertain. “I don’t really remember much. I remember coming into my office early this morning and working, but after that, nothing.”

The man turned to me. “Who are you, sir? Any relation?”

“Yes, I’m her father.” I introduced myself. “I work here at the college. I became concerned earlier when my daughter didn’t answer her cell phone. When I arrived, I found Mrs. Johnston with her.”

Magda Johnston hovered in the doorway, and hearing her name, stepped forward. “I stopped by to see Laura, and her door was slightly open. When I stepped inside, I saw her on the floor. I was just checking her out when Mr. Harris arrived.”

A campus police officer showed up then, and he took charge of the questioning. Magda Johnston and I repeated our stories. The EMTs placed Laura on a gurney for transport to the hospital, and as they rolled her out of the office I called out that I would be right behind her.

I turned to the campus officer and said, “Someone struck my daughter on the head and knocked her out. I don’t know why, but I suspect it has something to do with the death yesterday of her colleague, Connor Lawton. You might want to notify the sheriff’s department about this, in case there is a connection.”