"You sound bitter."
"Not really. Just letting off some steam. What I'm trying to say is you're doing just fine as a witness. Come on over here." He pulled out a battered chair in front of a scarred desk. "I'll get the stenographer, and take your statement, then drive you home. Okay?"
For the first time since early morning, Andrea relaxed. She almost liked this man. He seemed much nicer than the other one, Krastowitcz.
Questioning took about forty minutes. It seemed very routine. Trenton asked the same questions Krastowitcz had asked, only this time, someone recorded her statement. She was relieved when Sergeant Trenton finally took her home. OPD was three minutes from her apartment and even that seemed extremely long.
Home.
That word never sounded so good. A nice hot shower, some warm soup, and she would feel a thousand percent better.
"Over there, Sergeant." She pointed at the multi-story building on her left. "The new high-rise, over there."
"Nice digs."
"It's great." Andrea loved her apartment complex. The eight-story, high-rise was brand new. She and Suzanne lived on the eighth floor with a spectacular view of downtown Omaha. One side overlooked the Central Park Mall with its miniature lake surrounded by trees and benches. The park area was an island of serenity amid the lifeless steel and cement structures towering above. The other side overlooked the Missouri River with its strong current stirring up whitecaps as it swirled and snapped its way toward the great Mississippi.
"You can let me off here, if you like." She pointed toward the security entrance. "I'm in apartment eight-twenty-four. You don't have to get out, I can make it."
"No, Doctor Pearson." Trenton smiled and opened the door for her. "It's all part of the service. Your tax dollars at work. Besides, I'll check out your apartment and make sure everything's A-OK. Do you live alone?"
"No. My roommate is Suzanne Latham. She's a secretary in the surgical department at Dorlynd. She'll be home any minute. I'm sure the news has traveled about Milton, although I'm puzzled."
"About what?"
"Well, she didn't rush up to the office. Suzanne usually knows everything that happens at Dorlynd."
"How could she know? We kept things pretty tight."
"Hospital news travels fast. Especially with cop cars, investigators, and "don't cross" tape everywhere. You don't know a hospital, do you, Officer?"
"Call me Trent, most of my friends do. Just to be on the safe side, give me your key and I'll go in first."
They rode the elevator to the eighth floor in silence. Some-times, her overactive imagination focused on crimes in small spaces--confined, trapped, slashed beyond all recognition. But today, she thought of nothing and stared straight ahead at the metal door. Finally, they whooshed open onto a long, carpeted hallway with paintings of downtown Omaha covering the walls. Trent unlocked her door and let out a low whistle.
Andrea sensed some sort of danger. "What is it?"
"Nice place." He looked around the living room and started down the hallway toward one of the bedrooms. "I'll just check it out and make sure everything's okay."
She put her problems on hold. Suzanne had done it, again. Between the fireplace and wet bar, a shiny black vase--some-thing new--beckoned to her. The chairs reminded her of Dorlynd's lobby and she wondered why her roommate would furnish their home like the hospital with gray, mauve, and turquoise accessories strategically splashed around the room.
"That's Suzanne's room, there on the left, Trent. My room's on the right."
"So I see." He took a quick peek in Andrea's room, doubled back to Suzanne's before re-entering the living room. Andrea stood waiting.
"I'd like to meet this Suzanne."
"That's what everyone says." Suzanne's room boasted a large, fur-covered, king-size bed. A conversation piece, although Andrea would never get used to the lurid reactions from the many male guests Suzanne invited home.
Andrea went to her room and removed her soiled skirt. Her taste in decorating was more practical. Plain, strewn with books and magazines, it looked as if a strong gust of wind had entered uninvited. Three large bookcases strained under the load of medical books, mysteries, and rarely used cookbooks. The medical profession changed at such an alarming rate, she didn't do much besides read. It was all she could do to keep up, and she certainly didn't expect any male visitors.
She poked her head out the door. "Make yourself at home, Trent. There's soda, iced tea, and beer in the fridge under the bar. I'll be right out."
Quickly, she stripped off her jacket and blouse and threw it in the corner with her fetid skirt, washed her face, brushed through her hair, and donned a clean set of green scrubs. That would do for now. Feeling almost human again, she joined Trenton at the bar.
Trenton sipped a Coke. "Can I call someone? Boyfriend? Relative?"
"No, thanks. Suzanne should be home any minute. I don't mean to keep you."
The door burst open. Trenton stood, hand poised on his weapon.
"Andy? Oh, my God! Are you all right? I found out about it when I got back from the bookstore. I heard about all the com-motion on the fifth floor and went to your office to find you, but it was all roped off."
Suzanne took a deep breath and continued her rapid-fire dialogue. "There were guards everywhere. I can't believe it. No one would tell me anything. Those cops! They're being so closed- mouthed. No one in Surgery knew, either. Not a soul." Her eyes focused on Sam Trenton. "Oh, uh.. . .Hi! Andrea, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you weren't alone."
As abruptly as she began, Suzanne stopped.
"I'm sorry. Suzanne, this is Sergeant Sam Trenton with the Omaha Police Division."
"Well, I can tell that, Andrea. I have eyes." Suzanne laughed, her gaze roamed up and down Trent's tall, blue-clad frame. "Sorry about that cop remark."
Suzanne tossed back her hair. Her hand traced along her necklace, fingering the charm nestled in her ample cleavage. Andrea watched with a twinge of envy. Suzanne could have any man she wanted. She oozed sexuality. No matter what she wore or did to her hair, she looked like a Monet waiting to be framed. Who needed sex when they had brains? Yeah, brains sure got Andrea a long way.
Even Milton Grafton had only been doing lip service by encouraging her to climb the medical ladder. He knew she'd never be allowed the coveted faculty appointment. Who'd do his scut work? Who'd care for his patients, if she got out of hand and tried to advance?
God, she sounded like something right out of the
Hand-maid's Tale
. Yet, there wasn't any advancement in Omaha if she wasn't faculty, and Milton had blocked her appointment. At least, that's what Dean Hardwyn had told her last Friday. She wished she'd seen the letter. Maybe it'd all been a mistake, like the Dean had said. Did Milton really want her out? Jesus! That might be grounds for murder in some people's minds. Were they lying? Was she a suspect? Somehow, she had to get her hands on that letter. With Milton dead, Hardwyn would let her see it. He had to.
She roused herself. During her daydreaming Trent had been making small talk with Suzanne and she was now accepting his invitation for a light supper at a local pub. The pang of jealousy resurfaced full-blown.
Andrea had a difficult time finding men who weren't intimidated by her education. And, there were those rare times, like tonight, when she wanted to be thought of as nothing more than just a woman. Sergeant Trenton gave all the signs of being impressed with Suzanne, with her dark brown hair, light blue eyes, and perfectly-proportioned, large breasts. A small waist and narrow hips made them look even larger. Andrea loved Suzanne like a sister, but the girl was too promiscuous.
"I know what will help, Andy," Suzanne said. "Come with us. It'll do you good to get your mind off today. Besides, you need something to eat. Trent just said it's a hang out for cops and it's the best food in the world."
"No thanks, Suzanne. You go ahead. I really need to lie down and rest. My nerves are a wreck. I'm exhausted. I'm not very hungry, anyway." Andrea edged toward the bathroom. The last thing she needed right now was to be the third person on a date. Her best prospect for the night was a nice hot shower with lots and lots of soap.
"We'll see how you feel later, Andy." Suzanne turned toward Trenton. "Well, okay, I guess it's just you and me."
He smiled. "I have to stop by the station and check out my dailies. Can I meet you around eight? If you drive yourself, it'll save time."
"No problem, Sam. That'll give me time to freshen up a little. I'm sure Andrea will change her mind by then. See you at eight." Suzanne's throaty voice always had just the right inflection to it. She walked to the door and locked her arm in Sergeant Trenton's.
"Wow! That guy is a dream!" Suzanne closed the door. "You doctors have all the luck."
"I don't call being involved in Milton's murder luck."
"Don't be so stuffy, Andrea. You know what I mean. Trent looks like an Israeli border guard, except he's taller."
"What would you know about an Israeli border guard? Honestly, Suzanne."
"Oh, you know. In the movies, they're always dark and handsome with bottomless-pit eyes. But, of course, they're al-ways short, not tall like this one, and they're always loners. Then, the right woman comes along and changes all that, till she gets shot by the terrorists. She dies and he swears to her he'll never love another. The End."
"Suzanne, sometimes I wonder about you. Do you take hormone shots? He certainly didn't impress me that way."
"Of course not, you probably didn't look at him at all."
"I did, but I wasn't looking to get laid."
"Sorry, Andy. I forgot. Was it horrible?"
"Unimaginable. Even with all my training and everything that's happened in my life, I never thought that I'd witness some-thing as awful as--" The reality of it all overwhelmed her. Andrea buried her head in her hands.
"Let's not talk." Suzanne led Andrea toward the bathroom. "You need a hot shower. And some sleep. You can tell me all about it, later."
Andrea was amazed at how sensitive Suzanne could be when she wanted to. She and Suzanne had grown up together. Andrea was six years older and they were the closest thing to sisters anyone could be. But, sometimes, Suzanne was too self-centered.
When Andrea had started her residency in Omaha, Suzanne decided to leave South Dakota and go to school at Dorlynd. Unlike Andrea, she hated Omaha. What could she do? She wasn't a doctor, yet her typing skills were good and she was a well-paid medical secretary.
How Suzanne hated being called a secretary; said they were treated like dirt: make the coffee, answer the telephone, lie for the boss, buy his spouse's birthday and anniversary presents, and screen every person who tried to make contact. With only six hours left on her bachelor's degree in Communications, Andrea was certain Suzanne would leave Dorlynd, Omaha, and the Mid-west forever.
Andrea understood. As a nurse, she'd been treated the same way--as though she were nonexistent. The male-dominated pecking order never changed. A traditionally female position was another synonym for slavery. She had compassion for her friend, but sometimes Suzanne chose unorthodox methods to accomplish her goals. It was nothing for her to sleep with professors for higher marks, although it seemed unlikely this semester. She was taking psychology from the university chaplain and even Suzanne didn't dare seduce a priest. She wasn't, unfortunately, above using her looks to get what she wanted. Still. . .a priest?
Andrea repeatedly warned against the danger of using sex to accomplish a goal, especially with AIDS at epidemic proportions, but Suzanne laughed her off. This was the Midwest; AIDS didn't exist here. Her cavalier attitude infuriated Andrea. Yet, there were times, like tonight, when Suzanne could be surprisingly intuitive and sensitive.
A long, hot shower was exactly what Andrea needed to re-lax. She peeled off her underwear and eased herself under the hot stream. Soon, she would be between the soft and inviting covers of her bed, just like when the day had started.
Had it only been one day? Less than twenty-four hours? It seemed like years since she'd awakened from that strange dream. Mondays were always terrible. The worst day of the week. But today was--more than ridiculous--the Monday from Hell. Andrea prayed for a dreamless night. Maybe, finally, God would bless her. Her eyelids closed and she let her mind float through the hole at the bottom of her shower, toward blackness, to a place from which soap bubbles never return.
Chapter V
. . . TO REGARD HIS OFFSPRING AS ON THE SAME FOOTING AS MY OWN BROTHERS. . .
The eight-o'clock autopsy was too damned early. Krastowitcz entered the morgue, pulled out a stool, and sat down. His head throbbed from one-too-many Millers at The Tap last night. He'd been minding his own business, finishing a gargantuan slice of prime rib, when Trent slid into his booth with a luscious brunette in tow. Trent had spotted his hiding place and they headed straight towards him. The lucky stiff happened to meet her at Doctor Pearson's apartment, and she had surprised the shit out of him. What was her name?
Suzanne.
In the dim bar-light her long hair glistened. Her sheer blouse was cut just low enough to show her breasts without becoming obscene, although his thoughts crossed the line. And to complete the picture, her jeans fit like a second skin.
This woman knew the effect she had on men and took ad-vantage of their weaknesses. Krastowitcz disliked her immediately, but still couldn't keep his eyes off her. A prick-tease. He could spot them a mile away. A gorgeous piece, though. Some guys had all the luck
He'd been able to surreptitiously question Suzanne through-out the evening. Chattering incessantly, she happily supplied background information on Grafton and her roommate. Info the good doctor had neglected to tell.
On the Friday before, Dr. Pearson had met with the Dean and learned Grafton had denied her faculty appointment. Seems he'd written a nasty letter about her performance. Angered, Pear-son had stated she'd confront the deceased about it on Monday. But unfortunately, she'd found him slightly uncommunicative, draped over his toilet, and skewered like a shish kabob.
Pearson had jumped Trent's case for calling her `Miss.' God, Krastowitcz hated "libbers." They were so full of anger. Maybe she was the killer after all. Grafton probably forgot to call her Doctor, and she'd nailed him.