Simple Genius (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 3)

WHILE SEAN WAS WORKING on his investigation, Michelle was intent on beginning one of her own. In the cafeteria she took her tray and made her way over to the table where the woman in the wheelchair was having lunch. Michelle sat down beside her and opened her bottle of water. She glanced over at the lady.

“I’m Michelle.”

“Sandy,” the woman said. “What are you in for?”

“I’m apparently suicidal,” Michelle said bluntly.

The woman brightened. “So was I, for years, but you get over it. I mean I guess you do, unless you actually manage to kill yourself.”

Michelle ran her gaze over the woman. She was in her late forties, long bottle blond hair meticulously styled, fine cheekbones, a pair of vibrant hazel eyes, and an ample bosom. Her makeup and fingernails were immaculate. Even though she was only wearing plain khaki pants, tennis shoes and a purple V-neck sweater, she carried it off with the confident air of a woman used to far more expensive things in life. Her voice had a Deep South foundation to it.

“So what are you in for?” Michelle asked.

“Depression, what else? My shrink says everybody’s depressed. But I don’t believe him. If everybody felt the way I did, well, I just don’t believe him, is all.”

“You seem okay to me.”

“I think I have a chemical imbalance. I mean that’s what everybody blames it on these days. But then like a snap, I just run out of energy. You seem okay too. Sure you’re not in here goldbricking?”

“I’ve heard of goldbricking when you’ve been physically injured.”

“People in lawsuits claiming emotional distress or mental trauma can help their case if they wind up in a place like this. You get a bed, three squares a day and all the meds you want. For some, that’s nirvana. Then their shrink testifies how they’ll never reach orgasm again or can’t leave their homes without fainting and, bam, they get a big, fat settlement.”

“Quite a scam.”

Sandy added, “Oh, I’m not saying lots of people aren’t legitimately screwed up, I happen to be one of them.”

Michelle glanced at the woman’s legs. “Accident?”

“I was shot in the spine by a nine-millimeter bullet fired from a Glock,” she said matter-of-factly. “Instant and irreversible paralysis and in a split second outgoing, athletic Sandy became a poor crip.”

“My God,” Michelle exclaimed. “How’d that happen?”

“I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Is that why you were suicidal? Because you were paralyzed?”

“The paralysis I could deal with. It was other crap that was hard to take,” she added mysteriously.

“What other crap?” Michelle asked.

“Not going there. You think you’re getting better?”

Michelle shrugged. “I think it’s too early to say. Physically I feel okay.”

“Well, you’re young and pretty, so once the bruises heal you’ll be fine to take control of your life.”

“Take control of it how?”

“Get yourself a man with money, and let him take care of you. Use your looks, honey, that’s why God gave them to you. And just remember this, title everything as joint tenants with right of survivorship. Don’t swallow the line that his money is his money bullshit.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

Sandy gave a shudder. “God I wish they let you smoke in here, but they say nicotine is an addictive substance. I say give me my cigs and get out of my damn face.”

“But you want to be here, right?” Michelle asked.

“Oh, we all want to be here, honey.” She smiled and slid two pieces of asparagus neatly into her mouth.