The Common Thread (17 page)

Even as she protested, they dragged her backward. “Wait! What are you doing? Stop!” She begged, but they ignored her pleas. With one of them on either side of her and no arms for balance, Nic was helpless as they closed the ten-foot span to the police car. When they reached it, one officer opened the door as the other pushed her head down and forced her into the backseat. Although he wasn’t unnecessarily rough, with no hands to stop her forward momentum, she crashed headfirst into the seat. Struggling to regain her balance, she grew more afraid than merely surprised, as she’d originally felt. What the fuck was going on?

Nic had heard stories about criminals impersonating police officers. What if she’d just been kidnapped? Or abducted by rapists? Since the
real
Philadelphia police had no feasible reason to subdue her like this, those seemed like plausible explanations.

She began screaming at the top of her lungs. “Help! Help me! I’ve been abducted!” In response, the driver put the car into gear and retraced the route she’d just traveled by foot. His partner in the passenger seat picked up a portable radio and spoke into it, and for the first time she wondered if they might be authentic police. After a drive of just a few blocks, Nic had her answer when the car pulled up at a police station on North Twenty-first Street.

“What’s going on?” she demanded again as the officer opened the door and helped her out.

“We just need to ask you a few questions,” he said.

“But why? About what?” She questioned one, then the other, as they escorted her into the Central Police Division.

The station was of newer construction, with a modern design that could have lent itself to any purpose. Once she was through the doors, though, a distinctly institutional feel prevailed, with gray plastic chairs that matched the paint on the walls and vinyl-tiled floors. A single police officer, a rather attractive woman with short dark hair and dark eyes, stood guard at the reception desk. Under other circumstances, Nic would have smiled at the woman and perhaps even started a conversation. But not today. She had nothing to smile about at the moment, and small talk was definitely not on her agenda.

The officers escorted her down a hallway and into an empty room, where they promptly unlocked her arms as they closed the door behind her. They’d never answered her questions. What the hell was going on?

Rubbing her wrists, Nic surveyed the room. It was a rather large rectangle, fifteen by twenty feet, and windowless, except for the two-way mirror on one wall. Four matching chairs surrounded a square metal table. The walls were painted a dull gray, the drab accentuated by the dim fluorescent lights flickering from the ceiling. She closed her eyes, concerned. Nothing guaranteed a migraine like flickering lights.

Walking around the table, Nic took some deep breaths, trying to soothe her frazzled nerves. She could really use a cigarette. Nicotine never failed to calm her. She’d done nothing wrong and had no idea why the police wanted her. That knowledge didn’t help her though, and she trembled like a leaf floating on a gust of October wind. She was literally shaking.

At least, though, she was safe. This appeared to be a real police station.

Leaning against one wall, she looked at the two-way mirror and wondered who was watching her. She figured someone was. What were they looking for? How was she supposed to act? She couldn’t have done much acting at the moment, even if she knew the lines. Her knees were weak, the trembling uncontrollable, and her voice would probably falter if she tried to speak.

Swallowing her tears, Nic closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. She imagined herself in yoga class and counted as she inhaled.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five
. She was breathing much too fast. Thinking only about her breathing, she exhaled but fared no better, making it only to four. After a few more tries, she was able to control the rate and depth of her breaths, and a few minutes later when she made her target count of eight, she felt much calmer.

Continuing to breathe slowly and deeply, Nic visualized herself on a sandy beach, with the crystal-clear turquoise waters of the Mediterranean lapping at her feet. Her parents hated the beach, but since college she’d been taking her own vacations. She still traveled to France with her family, but now instead of staying in the wine country with her parents, she’d escape to Nice or Cannes with her cousins. And when she had three or four days off, she’d often hop a flight to the Caribbean. Instead of the ten-hour trip to the south of France, she could be on the beach in Aruba in five.

She imagined it now. Above her, a cloudless blue sky reflected the rays of the sun, and they caressed her face, her breasts, and her belly, instantly warming her. She dug her toes into the sand, and the contrasting cool soothed her. Her hand rested on a tropical drink—was it a margarita? She tasted it, and the tangy flavor of lime confirmed her suspicion. Then, beside her, a woman moved, and she felt even more heat as the woman began to spread sunscreen over Nic’s skin.

Breathing and fantasizing had the desired effect. A few minutes in paradise was all Nic needed. Opening her eyes, she felt awash with calm and was once again in control. Even though she was locked in a room in a police station, wearing skimpy running gear, with no identification and no idea what she’d done to deserve this fate, she felt completely relaxed.

She walked across the room to the two-way mirror, picturing the short police officer seated on the other side, watching. She hoped he could hear as well. Scanning the length of the six-foot long mirror, she began to speak. “My name is Dr. Nicole Coussart. I’m an ER doctor from Wilkes-Barre, and I’m scheduled to give a presentation at the medical conference at the convention center. I’m due to speak at eleven today, and as you can see, I’m going to need a shower. So I would appreciate it if you can do whatever is necessary to expedite my release. Thank you.”

Instead of sitting, Nic walked across the room and began stretching. Dropping her head to her knees, she felt the pull in her hamstrings and allowed her arms to fall, feeling the stretch along her spine. After a minute she dropped her hands to the floor, ignoring the germs she imagined there, and stretched her Achilles tendons. After fifteen minutes of yoga, she sat down at the table, choosing the chair facing away from the mirror and those watching her. She continued her measured breathing, felt the chair where it touched the muscles and skin of her back and legs, cold against the thin fabric of the clothing that covered her. She was startled when she heard a door open and realized she must have dozed off. Arching her back, she reached overhead and stretched her arms, wondering how long she’d been asleep to have stiffened up so much.

“What time is it?” she asked the tall man wearing the tailored suit. It was hard to tell how long she’d been locked alone in this room, but his presence had to signal that her time was coming to an end. If only she could explain who she was, the police would be forced to release her. Offering a friendly smile, she waited for his reply.

“I ask the questions,” he said, and the loud smack that echoed through the room as he dropped a thick file folder onto the metal table startled her. He didn’t return her smile. Instead, he studied her as he removed his suit jacked and draped it over the back of his chair. Water stains soiled his shirt at the armpits, and Nic was happy to see him sweat. Wearing only her tank and shorts, she might have frozen to death if the air conditioning worked properly.

She frowned as she met his cool gaze. This wasn’t the friendly encounter she’d hoped for after she’d given her soliloquy at the mirror, but before she could speak again, he did.

“I’m Detective Young. Philip Young. I need to ask you a few questions about the murder of Billy Wallace.” Pushing back into his chair, he seemed to relax and settle in for what might be a lengthy conversation.

Bending forward, Nic placed both hands calmly on the table and stared into his eyes. “Are you serious?”

He cocked his head but otherwise didn’t move as he studied her. “Very serious, Katie. Murder is a serious crime, and I take it personally when a police informant gets gunned down in his own home.”

She shook her head and turned her palms up, shrugging. “I’m sorry about your informant, Detective, but you have the wrong suspect. My name is Nicole Coussart. I’m an ER doctor from Wilkes-Barre and I’m visiting for a conference. I know nothing about Mr. Wallace or his murder.”

He leaned forward and barked. “Do you deny knowing William Wallace?”

“I know Braveheart.”

“What?” The look of confusion on his face amused Nic. She’d clearly thrown him off balance.

“Braveheart. Hero of the Scots. Hanged by King Edward I at the Tower of London.” She didn’t mention that he’d been emasculated, eviscerated, and beheaded as well.

He studied her for another moment. “I saw the movie.” And then Nic detected what she suspected was a flicker of doubt in his eyes, verified by his next question. “Do you have any ID, Doctor?”

Nic couldn’t control her retort, and she wasn’t certain, but she suspected she could be forgiven her bad manners in this one particular situation. “Are you fucking kidding me? Where would I put an ID in this outfit?” With her right hand she waved at the running clothes she wore. “I was out running.”

“Not very nice language for a doctor. Do you talk to your patients that way?”

A sigh of exasperation escaped her lips. “You know what, Detective? I’ve had enough. I’d like to exercise whatever right it is that allows me to call my lawyer. And I’m going to sue you, and the two idiots who brought me in here, and the entire Philadelphia Police Department, and the mayor and whoever else I can think of, for harassing me. I need to be at a conference at eleven o’clock. It is vital to my career that I’m on time. Vital. So give me a phone and let me make my call.”

Smacking his lips, he looked down his nose at her, seemingly ignoring her tirade. “You have a lawyer, do you? That’s very convenient for a doctor from upstate to have a lawyer here in the city.” He smiled, reached into the inside pocket of the suit jacket hanging on the chair, and retrieved a cell phone. After a delay of a moment, where they stared each other down, he slid it across the table to her.

“Who said my lawyer was in the city?”

“Well, if you wanna make that eleven o’clock conference, you better hope he’s not in Wilkes-Barre. Would you like some privacy?”

She broke eye contact and shook her head as she dialed the phone. “I have nothing to hide. But I do have a concern. I’m going to dial my friend’s pager, and he’ll have to call me back. Is that a problem?” Once again, she stared him down.

Glaring right back at her, he responded. “Your personal lawyer has a pager, huh? How convenient.”

“I’m actually calling my friend. A surgical resident at Temple. He’ll know what to do. I don’t actually know any lawyers here.”

“I see,” he said, nodding his head as he studied her. Then he waved his hand at the phone. “Be my guest.”

Louis’s pager number hadn’t changed in the four years of his residency, and Nic had dialed it frequently enough to have memorized it. After she typed in the cell-phone number she wanted him to call, she added an additional three digits. Nine-one-two. Nine-one-one was a code often used by colleagues to convey the urgency of a page. Nine-one-two was a private code her group of friends used to identify themselves.

As she’d hoped, it took Louis less than a minute to return the call. She grabbed the phone and walked away from the table, away from the annoying man who was detaining her.

“Louis, it’s me. I’m in trouble and I need your help.”

“What’s going on?” he asked, not sounding a bit alarmed.

“I’ve been arrested. Do you know any lawyers?”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Now, his voice rose to match his concern.

Nic spoke more slowly. “I’ve been arrested. I think. I’m not sure.” Looking to the detective she shrugged and mouthed the question to him.

He responded by shaking his head.

“Actually, no, I haven’t been arrested, but I’m in jail. I need a lawyer.”

“Where are you? Do you want me to come?”

“Lou, I don’t need surgery. I need a lawyer.”

“I can call Rae.”

Nic groaned at the mention of the annoying woman’s name. She couldn’t explain how she’d forgotten her, unless her subconscious was simply burying the painful memory. She’d hoped to never see her again, yet under the circumstances, Rae would be perfect. She was loud and obnoxious—exactly the kind of lawyer she wanted defending her.

“Okay. Call her.”

“Give me the details. Where are you?”

Nic asked the detective for the particulars and she relayed them to Louis.

“I’ll try my best to track her down. If I can’t get her, I’m sure someone in her office can help.”

“Louis, I love you. And one more thing.”

“What?”

“Have her stop by the apartment and bring my wallet. They need me to show some identification.” Louis had told her he’d given Rae a key to their shared apartment to keep for an emergency. This certainly qualified as one.

“I can’t wait to hear this story, Nic. You never cease to amaze me.”

Nic managed a smile. “I feel the same way about you.” She disconnected the call, knowing she was forgiven for the bad behavior she’d displayed the night before. She was truly lucky to have Louis for a friend, and she promised herself to tell him that when she saw him later.

Pushing the phone back toward the detective, Nic met his glance once again. “Thank you. My friend’s neighbor is a lawyer. He’s going to call her.” Nic laughed. “I actually had dinner with her last night, and I forgot all about her. I must be stressed. You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”

She watched him studying her and thought he seemed somehow more relaxed than before. Did he finally believe her?

“I don’t smoke, and neither should you. Where’d you eat?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Where did you go for dinner?”

“Domain,” she said, then paused for a second. He was attempting to be cordial; she suddenly felt a reluctant obligation to do the same. It couldn’t hurt, could it? Perhaps it could even help. “Do you know it?”