As he jots down the info, I see his mind forming a question, but at that moment an unmarked car pulls into the parking lot. Mazzola is driving, and Corcoran’s in the passenger seat. As soon as the car lurches to a stop, she throws open her door and strides in my direction, with Mazzola right behind her. There’s no surprise in her eyes at the sight of me, and I realize that certain facts have already been relayed to her, probably by the cop who’s been on the walkie-talkie.
“Talk to me,” she says before she’s even reached the spot where I’m sitting.
I repeat what I’ve told the uniformed cop but flesh out as many details as possible this time. As I’m spilling the story, I realize that what I’m trying desperately to do is measure my words as I go, making sure that I don’t sound crazy or guilty or anything in between on the spectrum. It’s going to be my word against that of Sandra’s—or whoever the hell she is—at least until they can link her, through evidence, to the murders.
I expect Corcoran to pepper me with questions, but mainly she listens, her expression neutral. Until I reach the part where I hurled myself into the basement. She pulls her head back, startled.
“You’re telling me you jumped into the laundry chute and risked breaking your neck.”
I can’t help it. I feel a rush of indignation at her comment.
“Yes. A woman who admitted bludgeoning two other people to death was coming at me with a hammer, and I took whatever risk necessary to get out of her path.”
Corcoran pumps her head up and down a couple of times, as if she’s buying what I’m saying, but I can’t be sure. From the tug of Mazzola’s mouth, I sense he’s actually impressed.
“Okay, we need to take you downtown to make a full statement,” Corcoran announces.
What if she thinks I’m the crazy one?
“Detective,” the older cop interrupts, “we’ve got an ambulance coming for her. She’s banged up her ankle pretty badly.”
For Corcoran’s sake—because I know my credibility factor may still be lousy with her—I reach down and pull the end of my jeans up. By now my ankle has ballooned to the size of an orange.
She lets out a frustrated sigh. This is going to throw a big fat wrench in her plans. And right on cue, we hear the wail of an ambulance siren. Corcoran glances back toward the ununiformed cop.
“Meet the ambulance at the ER,” she orders. “And tell them this is a priority. We need her at the station as soon as they’ve had a look.”
Part of me wishes I could bag the hospital and go directly to the police station—not only to get my statement over with but also to suss out what I can about Sandra. The one cop said other officers were in pursuit, but I’ve no idea whether they caught up with her. Going to the hospital will at least buy me needed time. Time to call the lawyer’s office and explain that I require more than a phone consultation right now. And time to think.
I stand up, ready to make my way to the ambulance, when a form rushes around the corner of the building. I tense, scared it’s Sandra, and one of the cops touches the gun in his holster. To my utter shock, I see that the person who’s darted into view is Derek.
“Sir, step back,” one of the cops demands.
“I know him,” I call out. “He’s a friend.”
Is he? I flash on the omission he made about Eve.
“He still can’t be here,” the cop says. “It’s a crime scene.”
“Bryn, just tell me you’re okay,” Derek yells.
“Yes, only a little banged up. But . . . why are you here?”
“I kept thinking about what you said—about the baths. I realized they were closed.”
“Stay where you are.” This time it’s Corcoran calling out. She turns to Mazzola and tells him to detain Derek and question him. And then, before I can say anything else, I’m escorted into the ambulance.
We’re no sooner pulling out of the parking lot than one of paramedics is ripping open the right leg of my jeans. He takes a look at my ankle and explains that I’m probably dealing with a sprain, not a break, but an X-ray will have to confirm that. The hospital, he says, is minutes away. As he activates an ice pack and applies it to my ankle, I dig my phone from my bag and call the law firm that I was expecting to hear from at one. I explain to the assistant that I’ve been attacked and will need a lawyer in Saratoga as quickly as possible.
Five minutes later we’re in the ER and I’m given a kind of VIP treatment, quickly ushered by an attendant onto a bed at the far side of the large open area. The patrol cop Corcoran has ordered to meet me here arrives almost simultaneously. He pulls a chair from against the wall and drags it over to the area near my bed. Two minutes later, a woman with “PA” on her badge arrives, yanks the curtain closed, and takes the first look at my ankle. Like the paramedic said, she thinks we’re looking at a sprain, not a break. She promises to get me down to X-ray as quickly as possible.