Ash was in pain, too. He was given some codeine tablets to take the edge off a cracked sternum, and I had my broken wrist which ached, and my head was throbbing dully.
We spent Christmas curled up on the couch under the quilt from the bedroom, slowly munching our way through frozen pizza, potato chips and everything unhealthy that we could find while watching silly holiday movies. Then we shuffled into the bedroom and fell asleep holding hands.
I was woken the next morning by my cell phone. Ash cursed sleepily as I picked it up to see who was calling so early, but the number was unknown. I pressed ‘reject’ and tossed it back onto the bedside table, but a moment later, it was ringing again.
If this was a telesales call, I was going to be pissed.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Novak, good morning. My name is Phil Nickeas from the ‘Chicago Tribune’. Is this a good time to talk?”
It took a few seconds for my brain to make a connection. For a start, I wasn’t used to being called by my married name, and secondly, what the hell?
“How did you get this number?”
“From Angela Pinto. She’s a friend of mine and we’ve worked together a couple of times. She thought if I talked to you it could really help your husband’s case.”
Case?
My brain was struggling to make sense of what he was saying.
The caller took my silence in his stride.
“I’d really like to get your side of the story before the investigation. Russian mafia—that’s big news. I won’t be the only journalist to call you, but I’m a crime reporter, not a sleaze-monger. Angie said she was going to call you about me.” He paused. “Maybe you need a minute to talk to your husband . . . okay, well you can call me back on this number. Any time.”
I muttered something and hung up. Ash was sitting with a quizzical expression on his face.
“That was a reporter from the Tribune. He wants to talk to you—to us—about Sergei, I think.”
Ash was already shaking his head.
“He said it would help your case. What does he mean?”
Ash shrugged and winced as he adjusted the pillow behind him. His chest was a rainbow of ugly black, purple and yellow bruises radiating out from the center.
“Ash, what case?”
“The murder case, I guess.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What . . . what murder case?”
His eyes shifted to mine before sliding away.
“Because I shot Sergei.”
“You! I thought the police shot Sergei?”
His lips pulled to the side. “No-o. After he shot you, I fought with him. I took the gun and shot him.”
A sigh of relief escaped me. “So, it was self-defense.”
Ash nodded.
“Thank goodness for that. I thought for a moment . . . I don’t know what I thought. He made it sound like the police charged you.”
“They talked to me at the hospital, but your dad said I didn’t have to leave you.”
A headache was starting behind my eyes.
“Ash, tell me exactly what the police said.”
He frowned. “I have some papers they gave me.”
He rolled out of bed, moving more stiffly than I was used to seeing. He was normally so graceful and fizzing with energy.
He dug around in his discarded jeans and tossed a packet of papers onto the quilt, then sat back on the bed, watching me.
I unfolded the top sheet and as I started reading, blood drained from my face.
“Ash, it says here that there’s going to be an investigation. They’ll be gathering evidence from witnesses and you’ll be interviewed formally. We both will.” I bit my lip. “I don’t see how they can possibly charge you with anything—it’s ridiculous.”
Ash didn’t seem the least concerned.
“Your friend Angie left a message on my cell—she wants to talk to me.”
I nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s good. I’ll call her in a minute. But . . . I don’t know . . . why did that reporter talk about a ‘case’? There is no case.”
“I killed him. I don’t care what they call it,” Ash snapped, his jaw tight. “We could hear the police sirens and their voices. Sergei laughed, saying he’d be out of jail by morning and then he’d come after us. So, I pushed the gun in his face and pulled the trigger. He wasn’t laughing anymore. And I’d do it again. One of the policemen took the gun.”
I thought I was going to pass out—this wasn’t an open and shut case of self-defense. Could they call it murder? I didn’t want to believe that was possible.
The police would investigate then bring it to the DA. He’d decide if there would be any charges.
Oh my God, surely not. It was self-defense.
“Ash, you need to speak to Angie as soon as possible. This is serious.”
“I did what I had to!” he yelled.
He stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door, and a second later I heard the shower running. I hoped it was a cold one, because he had to cool down. He clearly had no idea how serious this was.
I called Angie immediately.
“Finally!” she said, answering on the first ring. “I’ve been calling and calling you! I’ve left messages!”