Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5) Page 8

  She narrowed her eyes and stomped out the door. Landers didn’t look sorry to see her go. “She always so easy to get along with?”

  “She has her moments.” I turned back to Aaron.

  “At least one of you has some sense of self-preservation.” He shook his head.

  “No takebacks,” I said.

  “You. Will. Be. Careful.” He punctuated each word with a slam of his hand on the console. “I mean it, Nichelle. I’ve seen you do a lot of shit in the name of a headline, but this guy has to know the chances of him coming out of there alive are fairly low. Maybe Charlie’s right.”

  “Charlie’s almost never right.” I tried for flip, but the tremor in my voice gave away my frazzled nerves. “At least not when I can help it.”

  He reached for the phone. I only half-heard the conversation as Landers hauled a kevlar vest out of a bin under the counter. Snatching the thing, I yanked it on and let Landers fasten it up as Aaron replaced the receiver.

  Aaron rolled his eyes as Landers pulled the last strap tight.

  “What am I looking for?” I squeaked, trying to wriggle a more comfortable posture in my twenty-pound corset.

  Aaron handed me a two-way radio. “Keep this on, and scream if you need help. He’s going to open the front door. Go up to the fifth floor, and announce yourself loudly. But don’t go back into the ICU.” The words were stern. “I want you near the windows. Let him come to you.”

  I glanced at the rooftops of neighboring buildings. There were snipers up there as sure I knew a Manolo from a Louboutin.

  “Y’all aren’t going to shoot him if he hasn’t hurt anyone, are you?”

  “We have no way of knowing that,” Aaron said. “What we do know is that there are thousands of hostages in that building, and we have to neutralize this situation as quickly as we can.”

  Shit. I didn’t want to get anyone shot, especially without a feel for what was going on.

  “I’ll be safe,” I promised, my voice reflecting more conviction than I felt.

  Landers flashed a thumbs-up, and Aaron shot me a dad-like look. “I’m allowing this against my better judgement. And only because you’d probably find a way to sneak in. This way, I get to put a vest on you.”

  In perfect fairness, I’d snuck into many a crime scene. But a face-off with a gunman and no cops present wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, so I couldn’t say for sure what I’d have done if the evening had gone differently. Did it matter? I was about to walk into the exclusive of a lifetime. I pulled in a steadying breath and followed Landers out of the trailer and up the sidewalk.

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said.

  I pulled my BlackBerry from my pocket and opened a new text message to my editor. Stop the presses and clear the front. I’m going in to interview the shooter who shut down Saint Vincent’s.

  “I generally pride myself on being smart,” I said, tucking the phone away and looking up at Landers. “And I have no interest in coming out of here with any more holes than I’m going in with.”

  It was so…quiet.

  I’m not sure what I expected, but dead, utter, you-could-hear-a-gnat-sneeze silence was pretty far down my list.

  I’d been through the doors at St. Vincent’s a million times. The hospital has noise. Muzak. Loudspeakers. Phones. People.

  Bustle.

  Not today.

  The front desk was empty, and the lack of sweet old lady smiles from the candy stripers was more ominous than the stillness. Something was definitely wrong here.

  I pulled in a deep breath and uprooted my feet from the tile just inside the door, turning to nod at the SWAT captain who’d walked me in and wondering if I was really brave or just really stupid. Some days, it’s a toss-up.

  Squaring my shoulders, I strode to the elevators and jabbed the “up” button. Of course I was scared. But I’d dump my shoe collection into a storm drain before I’d let on.

  The elevator crept upward and I patted the vest, assuring myself everything would work out fine. I had a radio to Aaron in my bag, and a mission—get myself, and everyone else, out of the building safely. I was good with people. And Aaron had SWAT on point at every door, ready to blast in at my first gasp. It was fine.

  The bell for the fifth floor binged and the doors whispered open, loud in the silence.

  Still no people.

  I walked past a nurses’ station and peeked into a patient room. Rumpled bed, half-eaten dinner on the tray. No patient.

  I kept walking, the click-clack of my stilettos on the tile echoing off the walls like firecrackers.

  The squeak of a door froze my Louboutin in mid-air.

  I turned, a single eyeball peering at me through the barest of door openings. It widened, and the door slipped shut again. The sign marked it as the break room.

  Hoping the staff had jammed everyone in there, I kept walking.

  No blood was a good sign. No gunfire was a better one.

  The ICU was at the end of the hallway, the sliding glass doors closed. It took eleven hundred years for me to walk close enough for them to open.

  “Who’s there?” A man’s voice, high and stressed.

  And a rifle cocking.

  Shit.

  I cleared my throat. “Nichelle Clarke, Richmond Telegraph.”

  “Miss Clarke?” He sounded unsure. “You’re alone?”

  “The police said you wanted to talk to me.” I took a teensy step forward. I wanted to see the guy. I didn’t want to get shot, though. “You ready to chat?”

  Sneakers squeaked across the floor.

  I closed my hand around the mace canister Kyle had given me when I refused to take the handgun class.

  Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

  Rifle lax in his hands, the man who’d caused all the uproar appeared in the doorway.

  And I let out a huge whoosh of air and reached for a pen.

  Three inches shorter than me, he was slight, but muscular. Thinning brown hair, glasses, and jeans and t-shirt that had been slept in more than once. And his eyes—round, hazel, and…sad. Not angry. Not crazy.

  Anguished.

  Desperate.

  He wanted something, but it wasn’t to shoot me.

  “I’m Nichelle.” I offered a smile. And a hand.

  He nodded and let go of the stock of the gun, keeping his other fingers closed around the barrel. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Taking a building full of sick people hostage is pretty far down my list of ways to spend Wednesday night,” I said, keeping my tone light.

  The ghost of a smile flashed on his unshaven face. “Mine too.”

  “All evidence to the contrary.” My nose picked up a hit of B.O., my eyes skimmed the clothes again, and a puzzle piece clicked in place.

  Aaron said he knew the hospital.

  “You don’t work here, do you?”

  He shook his head, his face crumpling. “I can’t lose her. They’re going to let her die. Money is greater than love after all.”

  Oh. My.

  LOVE>MONEY.

  It took a second to find my voice.

  “Are you LCX12?”

  He nodded, tears slipping down his face.

  I pulled out a notebook and a pen. Eight years of dealing with some of the worst society had to offer had honed my asshole radar to a fine point. This guy was desperate and depressed, but he was no murderer.

  And he had a story to tell.

  “Help me understand.” I poised the pen.

  “How?” He shook his head, slumping back against the wall and sliding to the floor, his hands still on the gun. I ran my eyes over the weapon.

  The safety was on.

  Any lingering doubt about his motive vanished. I studied
him. Completely middle of the road, unremarkable thirty-something dude. Except for the rifle—I’m no expert, but it looked pretty standard, too. Hunter?

  Maybe. Still, though. How does Average Joe end up here?

  “You’ve been sending me messages for weeks,” I said. “Why?”

  “I needed people to listen.”

  “I’m listening now.” I reached into my bag and clicked off the radio. I knew as sure as I knew my shoe size that Charlie had weaseled her way back into the RV, and if I was going toe-to-toe with the gunman, she could find her own lead. Aaron would get over it. Surely he’d heard enough to stand down for the time being. My eyes stayed fixed on the top of the man’s bowed head.

  “Someone you love is sick.” I glanced at his left hand. “Your wife?”

  “She has cancer.” His shoulders quaked with sobs.

  “And she’s in the ICU, so it’s bad.” I didn’t bother with the question.

  “Stage four ovarian cancer.” His voice took on a bitter edge, his head thumping back against the wall. “We’ve tried everything. I’m drowning in medical bills. We had to sell our house. But she was in remission for ten months. It was worth every penny to give my babies their mother back.”

  Heat flushed my cheeks and the backs of my eyeballs pricked. I blinked hard, scribbling every word. He stopped talking, and I looked up. He shrank into the wall, clutching the gun like a life preserver and shaking his head as tears dripped from his chin and spattered his threadbare t-shirt.

  A vise closed around my heart. I had been there. Vomiting into a plastic trashcan every time I ate because the fear of losing my mother was too much to stomach.

  I half-wanted to hug him, but I wasn’t suicidal. I nodded instead. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Everyone is sorry. The insurance company people, who won’t pay for anything else because we’ve reached our lifetime maximum. The nurses, who come in and make small talk about the drawings the kids make for her and try to smile at me. And the fucking lying doctors, who tell me she’s dying and there’s nothing else they can do.” His voice took on a hard edge, and he brushed at the tears. “They will stop lying. Or they will pay.”

  He flipped the safety off and looked over my shoulder. “I just have to find the chickenshit bastards first.”

  10.

  Hidden truth

  “Whoa there, cowboy,” I said, raising both hands slowly. “Why would the doctors lie to you about being able to help your wife?”

  “They can cure it.” His fingers tightened on the gun. “I know they can. They can make her better. But they won’t.”

  I studied his face, the five o’clock last Tuesday shadow and too-wide eyes making me want to run back outside. Or cry. I felt sorry for the guy, but he sounded a little looney.

  Not murderer-looney. If he killed anyone it’d be plain old bad luck.

  But my gut said I was about to get an earful of a cancer cure conspiracy. Since I’d done a mind-numbing amount of research on such things when my mom was in a cancer ward, I felt suddenly qualified to try to talk him down.

  Probably not the smartest (or sanest) idea I’ve ever had.

  “Far be it from me to disagree with the man with the big gun, but a cure for cancer would be the biggest news story in…pretty much ever. I would have heard about it. Trust me.” I tried for a smile.

  It only made him flip the gun to his shoulder and spin for the door. “No. This is why I need you in here. Because it’s time people finally knew the truth.”

  “What truth is that?”

  He did a slow one-eighty and lowered the rifle to his side and his chin to his chest.

  “We love stand-up,” he said, so softly I had to step forward to hear.

  Okay. I waited. He missed five beats before he continued. “I heard a comic do a bit on cancer once. A long time ago, before Amy got sick. ‘There’s no money in the cure. The money’s in the medicine.’ That’s what he said. And he’s right. Think about how many drug companies will lose billions of dollars a year if they cure cancer. This isn’t about people. It’s about business and money.”

  His words flowed through my ear to my hand and onto the page. I didn’t stop to consider them. Get the story now. Have an opinion later.

  “And you think someone in this hospital has this miracle cure you’re looking for?”

  “If no one on the oncology staff has it, they can get it. The doctor who discovered it is here in Richmond. Half of these guys play golf with him. I hear he’s got a killer putt, when he’s not refusing to help young mothers see their children grow up.”

  No.

  Way.

  “Who’s the doctor you’re looking for?” I couldn’t force my mouth around the words. Three attempts later, they tripped through my lips.

  “David Maynard. He used to be the head of oncology at the university hospital. He went to private practice, but he refused to see us. Said he couldn’t possibly take a non-trial case. I guess he’ll see her now, won’t he?”

  I shook my head, my dry tongue rasping against the roof of my mouth. “He can’t. He’s dead.”

  My eyes followed his slow-motion crumple all the way to the floor.

  I flinched when I heard the rifle hit the tile. It didn’t fire, though. I stepped forward, the sight of his body curling into a ball as he repeated a drawn-out refrain of “no,” making the tear-pricking return.

  “I’m so sorry.” Lame, but they were the only words I had.

  “She’ll die.” He didn’t look up. “Maynard. Getting Maynard’s attention was our last hope. I can’t live without her. What am I going to do? My babies—how am I going to tell them their mother’s not coming home?”

  Sweet cartwheeling Jesus. I didn’t want his children to lose their mom any more than I’d wanted to lose my own.

  I cleared my throat. “Why do you think Dr. Maynard had something as huge as a cure for cancer that he kept a lid on?” I’d been sure my Twitter stalker was delusional just moments ago, but…Well, Maynard was dead, and the cops did think someone killed him.

  A cure for cancer?

  Fame. Fortune. Instant spot in the history books for the genius who produces that string of chemicals.

  People have killed for less.

  “Money. Everything is always about money.” He spit the words into the tile. “If I had enough of it, my Amy would be going home with me. We did all the DNA mapping. A whole summer in Houston. But it’s not as effective for ovarian cancer as it is for some others. Seventy-five thousand dollars, no insurance accepted. No brainer. I cashed out my 401K and we got on a plane. They gave her some prescriptions and told her she’d be fine. No chemo, even. Just pills.

  “But then she started having pain and bleeding again. By the time she told me and we got her in to see a specialist here, it had metastasized to her liver and lungs. Stage four, sorry folks, we can’t help you.” He sat up. “I spent hours in front of my computer. I applied for every clinical trial there was. Her cancer was too advanced for Maynard’s peer group. He told me to try again next time. I don’t have a next time. She’s dying.” His words faded into a wail. “Oh, God, she really is.”

  In a blink, the entire range of human emotion flashed across his haggard face. Anger was last, twisting his mouth and brow such that he didn’t look like the same guy who’d been sobbing half a minute before. He snatched up the rifle and braced it against his shoulder, standing and turning in a slow arc.

  “Come out, cowards! Do I have to actually kill someone to get your attention?”

  Silence.

  He slammed one heel back into the wall as he roared again, swinging the gun wide.

  I dove for the tile, not really sure if the scream that sounded so far away came from me or someone else. Two shots split the silence.

  Five beats. Ten. My heart slo
wed to slightly less than verge-of-bursting speed and I raised my head.

  “That’s not going to help her,” I said softly.

  “Nothing’s going to help her.” The words were hollow, his arms going slack as he dropped back to the floor.

  I scanned the hallway for any sign of injury.

  The room just behind my online friend looked vacant, the two-thirds of the bed I could see from my angle neatly made.

  The open doorway across the hall was empty, silence settling back over the floor. I swung my gaze back to the grieving husband.

  “I’m so sorry.” Still too little. But I had nothing better.

  He sobbed. Just once. “Yeah. Me too.”

  He dropped the rifle. I eyed it for a full two minutes, part of me thinking I should grab it before something stupid could happen, the other part whispering I might be the something stupid if he freaked when I moved for it.

  He didn’t seem to notice it wasn’t in his hands, and he was still babbling.

  Curiosity, shoes, and white chocolate are generally my biggest weaknesses—if you don’t count my mother. The fleeting mention of a cure, even from a man who might well be a few sandals short of a spring collection, was enough to keep the questions tripping out of my face.

  “How can you be sure Dr. Maynard had this magical key?”

  He pulled in a hitching breath and dragged the back of one hand across his face. I inched closer, my pen biting into my clenched fingers.

  “I saw some messages in a forum about cancer survivors,” he said. “Probably five or six months ago. It was late, and I remember sitting up and shaking off half-sleep, thinking I was dreaming. They didn’t say anything outright—the group was open to whoever found it. But I’m a communications guy. Pretty good at reading between the lines. I DM’d one of the people in the conversation, and at first she avoided my messages. But I kept trying, telling her about Amy. I finally sent a photo of her with the kids. The first Christmas she was sick, they spent the holiday with her in the hospital. That got me a reply.”