“Ever since Global bought the Star, you’ve been more on the entertainment side than the crime beat,” I said, still angry, wanting to prick him as he had me. “So who you hear from doesn’t carry the punch it used to.”
“When have I ever skimped on a story, Warshawski?” Murray was furious now, too. “You on your pedestal, it’s easy to work solo as an investigator, but I have to work for a company if I want to write for a newspaper. And my sources trust me.”
I looked at my wrapped hands and wished I worked for a big company where someone would pick up the slack when I was on the disabled list. “So what are your sources telling you about the perps? Lawrence Avenue was hopping when I rang Sister Frankie’s bell. They all suffer from witness-phobic amnesia?”
I couldn’t see his face through my lenses in the darkened room, but Murray was still breathing hard. He didn’t speak for a long moment, but, despite my nasty accusation, he was a reporter through and through. He wanted my story and knew he had to answer some questions if I was going to talk.
“There are a ton of witnesses to the perps. A Ford Expedition drove up at high speed, honking. Everyone jumped out of the way, and the Expedition pulled up onto the sidewalk. A guy—or maybe a gal, but they’re pretty sure a guy—with a stocking pulled over his head got out, threw the bottles, jumped back in, and the Expedition took off before anyone really realized what was happening.”
“License plate?”
“No one bothered. Or they know and aren’t telling. I’ve heard both stories,” Murray said. “One of my sources says the boys in the alley recognized the SUV and are afraid to admit it for fear of being targeted next. Someone who will fire bomb a nun will pretty much do anything.”
I was quiet for a moment, digesting that. “The FBI and OEM had a stakeout going. Any news out of them?”
“Yeah, the news that the First Amendment is DOA. We have to clear anything we print through them. Turds! And so’s my editor. Bitch just nodded and blinked, and said the rules have changed and we need to follow them if we’re going to bring people the news.”
His words brought my own police interrogation back to me. That was the question nagging at me, the woman from Emergency Management wanting to know what Sister Frances had told me about Harmony Newsome. I lay back against the mattress, feeling sick again. OEM already knew about Harmony Newsome when they talked to me.
In halting words, I explained why I’d been at the Freedom Center: the old murder, the search for Lamont. And the fact that OEM already knew about my interest in Harmony Newsome before their investigator talked to me.
“Is that because they were monitoring Sister Frankie’s calls?” I finished. “Or mine? Or both? Murray, if she died because I was there—”
“Hey, hey, Wonder Woman, don’t get all weepy now,” Murray protested.
I couldn’t help it. The doubts that had nagged me all summer about my personality, why I couldn’t keep a relationship alive. Did I bring destruction to everyone around me?
27
IN THE FIRED HOUSE
LOTTY SAILED INTO MY ROOM JUST THEN, FOLLOWED BY two of the residents and a medical student. Lotty sent Murray out of the room with a comment that stung like the snap of a whip.
I fumbled for tissues on the cart next to me. Lotty found the box but warned me not to rub my eyes.
“How did Ryerson get in here at all?” she demanded. “What is going on in this hospital, that I give a specific order only to have it overridden? I have expressly forbidden any visitors in your room to make sure neither reporters nor police harass you. You didn’t invite Murray in, did you?”
She had two fingers on the pulse in my neck. “This is why you can’t have visitors. You’re vulnerable. You shouldn’t be crying like this. And they tell me you disappeared this afternoon while I was in surgery. Was that to organize this rendezvous?”
“I went down to the coffee shop for an espresso, and the trip did me in. I fell asleep in a chair and didn’t know people were paging me.”
I didn’t like lying to Lotty, but it was sort of the truth. I wondered if she was right, though. I wondered if I’d wanted to see Murray. I could have reported him to hospital security when I spotted him in the lobby, but I didn’t. Maybe my unconscious brain was hoping he’d track me down.
Lotty grunted, and asked the residents to update her on my progress. While the medical student stood respectfully to one side, the two residents reviewed the damage to my corneas and optic nerves. I felt a stab of frustration, followed by a bigger stab of guilt. I was alive, I would recover. Maybe while I was on the DL, I could train myself to sleep days and work nights.
“I’m thinking of bringing you home with me when they discharge you tomorrow.” Lotty sounded like she was adopting a dog that had been returned to the pound too many times by people it bit. “I’m worried about your health. And I’m worried about your safety.”