Susan Peterson - Hard Evidence

From her expression I could tell there was more. “Tell me the rest.”

“Well, when I came in last night, Craig was on the phone in the hall and when I walked in the room, some guy was leaning over the bed fiddling with Pop’s IV tube. Soon as I walked in he dropped it and said something about it looking fine and hightailed it out of here. None of the nurses knew who he was.”

“Have you told the police all of this?”

Shawna nodded. “They told me I was overreacting. They won’t put a guard on him no matter what any of us say.”

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and punched in a number. “Then we’ll get our own. Dickie Petrova from the old neighborhood opened his own security business. We’ll use him.”

“That’s going to cost us a mint, Killian.”

I shrugged. “I’ll pay for it.”

Dreams of upgrading my cabin in the woods on my tiny piece of heaven right outside Keene Valley flew out the window like a puff of wood smoke escaping from a cast-iron stove, but I didn’t care. Pop’s safety was more important, and he would have done it for me, for any of the kids. That and more.

Until I found out what was going on, Pop was getting twenty-four-hour protection. And his lawyer was going to have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow when I arrived at his office. Something was going on and it didn’t add up to a simple hit-and-run case.

The front doors of the hospital slid open and a frigid wind whipped up Crouse Street, stirring up scraps of trash lining the sidewalk and spraying my face with small, gritty grains of dirt-encrusted snow. I reached up and brushed a hunk of hair out of my eyes.

A sense of disorientation hit me for a moment as I stood on the front walkway. I’d grown up in Syracuse, on the west side. A part of the city not many people visited. When I’d been sent to live with Charlie and Claire, I’d discovered a whole new Syracuse, one I hadn’t really known had existed—the world of suburbia.

Suburbia had been a place with elegant Tudor-style homes, tiny, manicured front lawns and neat wooden porches with wide, comfortable porch swings. Fussy potted plants and starched white lace curtains sat in the front windows, and antique boards painted with cute little sayings about angels and sunflowers hung on the front double doors. Claire had worked hard to keep up with the neighbors. No one had outdone Claire when it came to decorating.

I breathed in the familiar grime and reminded myself that living in a city needed some getting used to. It wasn’t suburbia and it sure wasn’t the Adirondacks.

Even though it was early evening, the temperature had already dropped down into the low teens. A frigid night in Syracuse. Now there was a big surprise.

I found myself wishing I was back on Giant Mountain, sitting under a canopy of stars, next to a roaring campfire and listening to the cold north wind rustling the pines.

It took a minute to get my bearings, but finally I turned right and headed across the street toward the parking garage. Snow crunched under my hiking boots.

My head was a little woozy, no doubt from the stuffiness of Charlie’s hospital room and then the sudden exit into carbon-monoxide-polluted air. Breathing crisp mountain air for the past few years had its advantages.

Of course, the fact that I was still recovering from sharing the same breathing space as Jack O’Brien might have something to do with my current respiratory difficulties. I’d gotten out of his breathing space just in time.

Unfortunately, I had spoken too soon. The deep rumble of an idling Harley sounded from the left and a second later, the front tire of the powerful machine nudged my left toe.

Steeling myself, I glanced over. Sure enough, Jack sat in the saddle, his legs spread wide to balance himself, his helmet sitting between his legs. The expectant expression on his face told me he’d been waiting for me.

“Most sane people know when to put their cycle away for the winter, O’Brien,” I said, stepping around the front of the bike, determined to get to the garage and my car.

He laughed agreeably. “Gets harder and harder for me to do every year.”

“Yeah, arrested development can do that to a guy.” I shot the comment over one shoulder as I tried to push past him.

“Killian, wait.” He caught my elbow and whipped me around easily.

I shrugged his hand off. “We said what we needed to say to each other inside.”

“I just wanted to try and get you to reconsider your plans to stay at Pop’s place.”

“Where I stay isn’t any of your concern.”

I started to turn away again, but he reached out again, stopping me.

I folded my arms, hopeful that it would provide protection against the flush of awareness that shot through me when those long fingers clamped on my forearm.

Damn, I hated my body and its immediate reaction to his touch. It was like a memory of him, of his hands on my body, had been scorched into every cell and nerve ending of my being.

“I’m willing to sacrifice my couch in your honor. You know the west side isn’t a place for you to be hanging out.”

I almost laughed at that. Yeah, right, I had only cut my razor-sharp baby teeth on the goings-on over on the west side. Jack knew that only too well.

I’d lived on West Belden Avenue most of my life. Until Social Services stepped in, anyway, yanking me out of my heroin-addicted, straight-vodka-swigging mother’s custody and plunking me down on the porch steps of Charlie and Claire’s rambling, historic house. For me, it had been like landing on Mars.

Thirteen years old, ornery and disagreeable, smelling like pot plant, dog slobber and dirty laundry. But Claire hadn’t blinked an eye. She’d simply opened her door wide and welcomed me into that huge, rambling house of theirs.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Speaking of which, did you know that Shawna and the others suspect that someone has been coming into Pop’s room uninvited, possibly fooling around with his life support equipment?”

“One of the nurses mentioned that they made a complaint.”

Yeah, when you were flirting with her, no doubt. I gritted my teeth. “Well, I believe Shawna and respect her concern. I’ve hired on Dickie Petrova for added security.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Ah, jeez, Killian, Dickie Petrova? You know he can’t find his way out of a paper bag. Would you please let me take care of things?”

I moved past Jack. “You had your chance and you blew it. I’m taking care of things now.”

I crossed the street to the parking garage and Jack didn’t follow. I didn’t even bother to glance over my shoulder as I stepped onto the elevator.

Jack seemed to get the message that I didn’t want his help, and he made no attempt to follow. For that I was thankful. Thankful, that is, until I stepped off the elevator onto the third floor of the parking garage.

Damn! The lights were out on this end of the garage. A sprinkling of glass shards among a few rocks laying beneath three of the closest light poles told me that some punk, bored with having to wait around for his family, had taken a couple of pot shots at the overhead lights.

I looked around. The inside of the garage was murky and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. My training kicked in, making me instantly cautious.

I walked down two rows and found my grime-encrusted car tucked in between a silver Lexus and a black Cadillac Escalade SUV. My sturdy little electric-blue Neon looked pretty lonely among all that luxury.

I pulled my key out but before I had it in the lock, I felt, rather than heard, someone come up behind me. I stiffened.

“Don’t scream and don’t turn around,” a voice whispered in my ear.