“Thanks, so much. This means a lot—to me and Oscar. I’ll take you to dinner when I get back. A small token of my appreciation.”
“You’re on. And don’t worry about Oscar. I’ll keep an eye on the little bastard as long you need me to.” He touched my arm and looked into my eyes. “For God’s sake, be careful.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I ran upstairs to get Oscar and the spare key. I tossed some clothes and toiletries into an old gym bag—my version of luggage—and put in a quick call to Walt. He didn’t answer, so I left a message, filling him in on the latest developments. I hoped his Saturday night was more fun than mine.
I had just finished camouflaging the bruise with concealer when the phone rang. A woman at the other end sounded breathless.
“Ms. McRae? This is Ruth Higgins. Walt’s sister. He’s in the hospital.”
“Walt?” I went limp. “Oh, my God. What happened?”
“I found him on the living room floor. He’d been beaten to a pulp. The d
octor says he’s had a heart attack too. If I hadn’t stopped by, who knows . . . . ” I heard a sob at the other end. After a moment, she continued, anguish in her voice. “He’s barely conscious, but he asked me to call and let you know. He said it was very important. He keeps mentioning a big man.” At that point, she fell apart.
“I’m coming,” I said. “Which hospital?”
* * * * *
I raced to Laurel Regional Hospital, inquired at the front desk, and shot through a maze of halls to the CCU. Ruth, a short woman in her late fifties with a drawn expression and frizzy, bottle-red hair, looked as bad as she sounded. When I asked to see Walt, she told the nurse I was his niece. Five minutes, the nurse said, giving me her sternest look.
I crept into the room, rank with the odor of sickness and disinfectant. Walt was gray and immobile. Plastic tubes ran in and out of him. On one side of the bed, a machine monitored his vitals. His eyelids fluttered, and he extended a hand to me.
“Sam,” he said, his voice raspy.
I walked up and took his hand in mine. “Walt. I’m so sorry.” I choked up. Stifling tears, I bit my puffy lip, grateful that he hadn’t noticed it.
“Nothing to be sorry about.”
“That man. He broke into my apartment earlier today. I didn’t think. I should have called you right away . . . .” The dam broke. Tears rolled down my cheeks. “If I’d called sooner, maybe you’d be okay.”
“Don’t be silly. Don’t blame yourself.” He squeezed my hand, then went on hoarsely. “Now listen. This scumbag is using me to get to you. Don’t let him. Do whatever it takes to help my sister’s boy.”
“I will, Walt. You can count on me.”
“I know I can.” He gave me a weak grin. “Why do you think I brought you onto this case? I only work with the best, you know.”
I returned the smile. “You’re the best, Walt.”
“Sure,” he said. “But you’re almost as good.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I stopped at the office to retrieve my active files, backup hard drive, and Rolodex, keeping a sharp eye out for Diesel Don or his black car. I set up my phone to forward calls to my cell. After borrowing an old laptop with a wireless Internet card from my friend, Jamila, I checked into a cheap motel on Route One and locked myself in my room, ready to do business on the run.
If only I could repaint my car, I thought glumly, while peeking at it through the curtains. Even at night, my grape-colored Mustang stood out like a purple beacon.
Staying at a motel gave me some peace of mind. Still, it seemed like the calm eye of a hurricane. One step outside, and I felt certain I’d be blown away.
I stayed in all day Sunday, organizing paperwork and my thoughts. I sat cross-legged on the bed, files fanned around me, and made another to-do list.
My first thought was to find Tina and wrestle the truth out of her. While turning her in would be unavoidable, I had to do it—to get the truth and protect her.
Second, follow up with the police about the child porn discs. They could be relevant to two murder investigations and evidence of a separate set of crimes.
Third, call Hirschbeck about the status of the audit and bug him again to check the computers for tampering.