Tips for Living(96)

A female nurse arrived this time and gave me a stronger sedative to help me sleep. Even if I hadn’t been handcuffed, I had about as much of a chance of sleepwalking as a bowl of Jell-O. I didn’t know if anyone checked on me during the night, because I was practically comatose. The next morning, the male nurse was back with oatmeal and orange juice. And Sanka.

“No coffee?”

“Not on your list,” he said.

“Oh.” I frowned, imagining a withdrawal headache to add to my troubles. “When are visiting hours?”

He looked at me sympathetically. “I’m not sure. You’re in a . . . a special unit. I can ask, though.”

I shrank back into the bed. “I see. Well, could you please tell the officer outside I’d like to make a call to my lawyer right away? I’m entitled to that, at least.” I wanted to learn whether Gubbins had any news from Ben on the traffic signal. Or if he’d heard from the criminal lawyer.

“Sure.”

I ate, skipped the Sanka and lay there waiting. And waiting. No phone. No visit from Dr. Patel with word on the lab tests. No headache from caffeine deprivation, either. Thankfully, the drugs must’ve short-circuited that. I pressed the nurse call button. Why hadn’t anyone delivered a phone yet? Surely, they’d have to allow contact with my lawyer. My anxiety level was beginning to climb again. Could I get more Valium?

Finally, the door opened. Gubbins and Detective Roche walked into the room together. Roche looked rough, like he hadn’t slept or shaved. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Gubbins was in another shiny suit, freshly showered and smiling. A good sign. I sat up, eager to hear the news.

“Good morning, Ms. Glasser,” Gubbins said.

“What’s happening?”

Detective Roche positioned himself at the foot of my bed and cleared his throat.

“We are in possession of a photograph of Abbas Masout’s car, taken at 12:28 a.m. last Sunday, November fifteenth, 15.3 miles from Pequod Point. We ran preliminary tests and found a trace of blood on the driver’s seat upholstery. Probably off clothing Masout disposed of. We don’t know whose blood it is yet, but I’m willing to speculate. We also recovered shell casings indicating Mr. Masout’s gun discharged multiple shots at the site where we found him yesterday, in addition to the shots fired inside. Foot and handprints corroborate your story. You were in a prone position when he fired and no threat to him.”

“So, you’re charging Abbas?”

Roche nodded. “For the murders of Hugh and Helene Walker. And the attempted murder of you.”

“You mean I’m not a suspect anymore.”

“You’re cleared of all charges, Nora,” Gubbins said. “It’s all over.”

I moaned and fell back against the pillows, absorbing the news. Deliverance. I wanted to leap out of bed and hug him.

“Except for your testimony in court,” Roche added. “Good detective work, Ms. Glasser. You helped put the puzzle together.” He came to my side and unlocked the cuffs.

“Free as a bird,” he said.

I rubbed my sore wrist and looked at him reproachfully. He pulled his shoulders back and straightened his posture.

“I was doing my job. I’m never sorry about that. But I do regret how it came down on you.”

“Could you do me a favor, then?”

He eyed me warily. “What’s that?”

“There’s another sketchbook. The one Abbas told you I’d stolen. It’s mine. It’s at Hugh’s studio. There’s a picture of Carrie Fisher on the cover. I’m assuming the studio is off-limits. Could you arrange to get it back to me? It’s quite valuable.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean the notebook on ‘Women’s Changing Hairstyles’ you had in your purse?”

“Uh-huh. And there’s also a red Swiss Army knife, engraved to the ‘World’s Best Dad.’”

“Sorry. Everything in that studio has been logged in as evidence for the DA. It stays with the police.”

“For how long?”

“I can’t really say.”

“Please. Can you at least release the notebook? I need to sell it. I have a cash-flow situation.”

Gubbins piped up behind him. “I’d like to have a word with you about that, Detective Roche.”

The door opened again and Dr. Patel walked in.

“Gentlemen, would you please step outside?”

It couldn’t be soon enough for Roche. He took my cell phone from his pocket and set it next to me on the bed. “That’s it, then. I’ve left your computer with Mr. Gubbins here.”

Gubbins placed his attaché on the nightstand, opened it and removed my laptop.

“I’ll let Ben know about the dropped charges. And don’t worry about anything else. We’ll speak later,” he said, closing his case and following Roche out the door.

When we were alone, Dr. Patel approached the bed and looked at the skin on my wrist where the handcuffs had chafed.

“I’ll give you some cream for that. I’m happy to see your troubles with the law are over. How are you feeling today?”

“Pretty damn good. Have my test results come back?”

“They have. Do you drink a lot of coffee, Ms. Glasser?”