“I have another idea,” Frankie said after thinking a long moment. She retrieved the pilfered note from a folder, and pushed it across the counter where Cruz stood. “Take a look at this again. In light of what you’ve told me, could the letters and numbers refer to human organs?”
Cruz nodded. “Cole was talking about musical instruments ... ”
Frankie’s brow puckered. “The symbols could represent blood types, like O+ stands for O-positive.”
“And the ‘10p’ at the end of the note could be 10:00 pm, couldn’t it?” He bent his head close to hers, their cheeks almost touching. “A delivery time?”
“Who was the note meant for? If the note says the – the supplier, I suppose, needs one O-positive or A-negative blood donor of a heart, for example – ”
“Right,” Cruz interrupted excitedly, “‘1O-O+’ means one organ, with blood type that’s either O-negative or O-positive.”
Frankie turned her head quickly toward Cruz, their faces suddenly close and unbearably tense. “Ah, because O is the universal donor, yes, and ‘HK’?”
“Heart and kidney,” Cruz replied immediately, his voice low, his breath soft against her skin.
The reality of their words broke the spell and she shuddered violently. “My God, it’s a specialty order for organ transplants.”
Chapter 53
The escape from Frankie’s family home in Rosedale to Slater’s house took place after midnight, but no one was sleepy. Even in the safest place possible – the residence of the county Sheriff – none of them found comfort in the Sierra foothills, no matter how far from Rosedale, but there was safety in numbers.
Slater’s house, roomy and spacious, was able to accommodate all of them. Frankie and Cruz each took a guest room, and Slater would sleep on the sofa bed in the den. Still recovering from the gunshot wound, but no longer feverish, Cole had been settled into the master bedroom upstairs.
Slater had finished the cleanup at the Rosedale house, the repair of the back door and disposal of the broken glass and blood-stained rug. He’d examined the residence during the daylight and found no clues to identify the attacker, but stationed the same deputy outside in case someone returned to the scene of the shooting.
It was now three in the morning, and Frankie and Cruz gathered at one end of Slater’s ancient dining room table with the Sheriff at the head. Fueled by endless cups of coffee and the adrenaline rush of flight, no one was inclined to go to their room. Everyone’s mind was on the brutal attack at Frankie’s father’s house and the astounding information that’d come at them like a runaway train.
Slater looked into Dr. Jones’ calm eyes, gray like his own. He swiped a large hand over his jaw. “I hate to say this, Dr. Jones, but the attack was aimed at you. Personally. I don’t think it had anything to do with Cole Hansen.”
“We can’t be sure of that,” Cruz contradicted. “The attacker could’ve been looking for Cole, missed seeing him in the garage, and gone searching.”
“And knew just where Cole might be? At Dr. Jones’ father’s house?” Slater shrugged but didn’t argue further. “We won’t know, will we, long as the two of them are together?”
“Are you suggesting we split them up?” Cruz seemed outraged at the idea, and Slater knew for sure the parole officer was starting to take a personal interest in Frankie Jones.
She rose abruptly, nearly knocking over her cup of coffee. Agitated, she rubbed her hands up and down over her crossed arms. She stopped and faced them, stance like someone prepared to do battle. “Talk to me, not about me.”
Cruz and Slater exchanged sheepish looks. “Sorry, Frankie,” Cruz said at last, “but it will be hard to figure out who did this if we don’t know who the target was.”
“I know that.” She ran her fingers through her thick dark hair, messy and tangled from the recent activities. A good hot shower, she thought, that’s what she needed. No time for one now, though. Her cell phone buzzed in her back jeans pocket.
It was her father’s lawyer. A sharp jolt of guilt ran through her. She hadn’t thought of her father since they’d left the Rosedale house, running for their lives. “I have to take this,” she said, and moved into the kitchen for privacy.
“Where are you?” Wright’s voice was unusually sharp, his normal unflappability gone. “I’ve been trying to reach you.” He paused. “Roger’s in ICU.”
“The prison called me,” Frankie answered. “They said Sutter.”
“Yes, Sutter General, downtown Sacramento, under heavy guard. Frankie, he’s in a bad way. He may not last the night.”
She bit down hard on her lip. “Will they let me visit?”
“Probably not, but as his attorney of record, I can get a message to him.”
Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, birds’ wings desperate for flight.