Part 6 (1/2)
”Where's your photographer?”
She snorted. ”Somebody should show up pretty soon. I just like my own stuff on top of what they can give me. Different angles and perspectives can give me clues. And if you'd have told me how Stockard was murdered...”
”You know I couldn't do that. Not revealing how the victim died is what caught the murderer.”
”I'd have waited.”
Turning to face Meredythe, Kim c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. ”Bulls.h.i.+t.”
She grinned back and slid her camera back into her bag. ”Anything you can tell me about the case?”
With a good-natured groan, Kim turned back to the body. Meredythe s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot as he used tweezers to lift something she couldn't see from the ground.
”Hey, Doc,” the homicide detective yelled. ”Where'd Poole go? I need to ask him some more questions about hooker.”
Meredythe's ears p.r.i.c.ked. ”Hooker? There was a witness?”
Kim sighed. ”A prost.i.tute. Someone beat her up. She's at the hospital now.”
A tablet and pen appeared in her hands as if by magic. ”How bad was she hurt? Is she a suspect? Which hospital and what's her name?”
He shrugged. ”Sorry, Meredythe, can't tell you. She's a witness in an ongoing homicide investigation.”
”I bet they took her to the closest one,” she mumbled. The tablet and pen disappeared in her purse. ”Thanks, Kim. I owe you one.”
”You owe me five, but who's counting?” he answered with a grin as he rose. ”Why don't you get out of here before someone smarter than Hooper shows up and tosses you out on your a.s.s?”
Chuckling, Merry blew him a kiss. Then she hurried across the gra.s.s and disappeared down the path.
Muttering curses under her breath, Meredythe stalked from one end of the counter to the other. ”Listen, all I want to do is talk to the woman who was brought in from Central Park this morning.”
”You're not a doctor and you're not family. Go sit over there. You can talk to her later-if she comes out,” answered the formidable nurse, hands on her ample hips.
”Nurse should have been a drill sergeant,” Meredythe muttered as she flopped down in a chair. Flipping through one magazine after another, her gaze jerked from the slow-moving clock hands to the emergency room exit and back to the clock again. Patience. A good reporter had patience. Everything comes to those who wait.
Finally, after an hour and a half of fidgeting and flipping through every dog-eared magazine in the waiting room, Meredythe heard the inner door swoosh open. A battered young woman walked out, followed closely by a frowning police officer. Fis.h.i.+ng in her bag for a couple sticks of gum, Meredythe quickly shoved both of them in her mouth and began chewing furiously until she had them at the perfect consistency for snapping. Loosening her hair from its ponytail, she shook the fiery curls over her back and shoulders, slipped out of her blazer and threw it over her arm.
Rising, she fixed a brazen expression on her face. Adding an exaggerated sway to her hips, she sauntered toward them.
”It would be best if you came to the station with me,” the young officer demanded as he grabbed the battered woman's arm.
She wrenched her arm free. ”No. I already told you what I saw. I wanna go home.”
”Hey, whaddaya think you're doin'?” Meredythe demanded with a loud crack of her gum. ”She don't hafta go nowhere with you unless you arrest her. Did you arrest her?”
”Who are you?” the officer snapped, his gaze immediately dropping to nipples pebbled against her t-s.h.i.+rt.
”I'm her friend, that's who. An' she can go home if she wants to.” Meredythe's unbound b.r.e.a.s.t.s swayed as she locked arms with the other woman and guided her toward the exit.
The officer's eyes were now locked on her swaying a.s.s. ”We need her at the station.”
Meredythe pushed the door open. ”Then you hafta arrest her. She ain't done nothing wrong.”
The door slid shut behind them.
”Thanks,” the battered woman said after they were half a block away.
”You're welcome.”
”Who are you?”
Meredythe pulled her companion into a coffee shop. ”Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee.”
After hesitating, she slid into a seat at the small table. ”You ain't a working girl, are you?”
Meredythe smiled. ”Not the same kind you are, no. I'm a reporter.” Holding out her hand she said, ”Meredythe Welsh.”
The young prost.i.tute stared at Meredythe's hand a moment then gingerly clasped it. ”Sally Forbes. Why'd you help me, Ms. Welsh?”
”Call me Meredythe,” she said as they sat at a table and she signaled the waiter. ”Coffee, black, and some Danish. What would you like, Sally?”
”Uh, the same,” she mumbled self-consciously. The entire right side of her face was bruised and both eyes were black. Her lip was split and she was still dressed in her ”working clothes”-a too-short orange skirt and low-cut black blouse. The garters holding her black fishnet stockings in place were plainly visible.
The waiter leered.
”Wipe that smirk off your face and get our coffee,” Meredythe snapped after she glanced up.
”Why should I? My boss don't want prost.i.tutes here, especially beat-up prost.i.tutes.”
She slapped her ID onto the table. ”Then your boss is going to have a feature story about just how bad the service is.”
After the waiter flushed, mumbled an apology and hurried away, she turned back to her companion and said, ”I'd like to know what happened in the park.”
Paling under her bruises, Sally started to rise.
Meredythe slid a twenty-dollar bill on the table. ”All I want is a little information, and I promise you'll never see me again.”
Swallowing nervously, Sally grabbed the bill and glanced around. Settling back into her seat, she asked, ”What do you want to know?”
Meredythe waited until after the waiter set their coffee and a plate of pastries before them. Another icy glare from her had him hurrying away.
”How old are you, Sally?” she asked, setting her small tape recorder on the table.
”Nineteen,” the other woman answered nervously. ”What's that for?”
”I want to make sure my story's accurate.”
Sally s.h.i.+fted uneasily in her seat. ”What kind of reporter are you? Is this gonna be on television?”