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WASHINGTON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
MONDAY AFTERNOON
Kara Moody could hardly believe how giddy she felt when she held her son, Alex. Suddenly everything made sense; her life had purpose. She was happy, excited about the future. She hadn’t felt anything like it in a very long time.
In the past year, her life had flown out of control, and she’d floundered and questioned everything, turned herself into an emotional fruitcake. She could admit it to herself without rancor because none of that mattered now. There was no doubt in her mind her decisions to keep Alex and leave Baltimore were the best decisions she’d made in her life. She had no friends who really understood her choices. As for Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Carl, they only saw she was alone and pregnant, and treated her like a scandalous teenager from thirty years ago. They’d wanted her to have an abortion, as did most of her friends, and she’d broken with them, no choice. As for her mother, she now lived in Oregon with her husband and two children, and they rarely spoke. Kara couldn’t imagine her caring one way or the other.
So she’d taken it all on her own shoulders, made some calls, found a part-time job at the Raleigh Gallery in Georgetown, packed up her Honda, and headed south. In addition to her savings, she had a small inheritance, enough to afford the rent on the house in Georgetown. And to her surprise, she soon found buyers for her own paintings through the gallery. Her art career had seemed to flourish with each week Alex grew inside her.
Dr. Janice Hudson, her next-door neighbor, had been with her, her coach through the long labor, there to cheer when Alex was born. Dr. Janice had whispered to her when she’d first held Alex in her arms that she’d just come through the most profound experience granted to humans. She should never forget she was in charge of two people now, she and no one else. And Dr. Janice had contacted her b
oss at the Raleigh Gallery, and now she had three huge bouquets of flowers, with congratulations to her and Alex.
Alex. Her beautiful boy had a mop of dark hair, the same shade as hers, the same shade as her father’s had once been before the cancer had taken him so quickly. She’d named her son Alex Ives Moody, after her father and her grandfather, both good men who’d encouraged her to stay the course as an artist, both gone now. It saddened her that they’d never see her miracle, that Alex would never know them.
She found she couldn’t look away from Alex’s bassinet even though it was empty for the moment. A nurse had come in to take him for an ultraviolet-light treatment to prevent him from getting jaundice, she’d told Kara, which sounded scary to her, but the nurse had assured her it was a common treatment that couldn’t hurt him, she wasn’t to worry. It had only been ten minutes and she already missed him. She loved having him in her room, not ten feet away from her, ready for her to feed him, sing to him, tell him she would love him with all her soul forever.
She looked up when a nurse came back into her room with Alex in her arms. “He’s asleep, the little angel. The treatment went fine, he slept right through it. Let him sleep for a while more, Ms. Moody, say thirty more minutes until he wakes up by himself. He’ll be ready to eat by then.” She carefully placed him in his bassinet. “Can I get you anything?”
“No, thank you. You’re sure he’s all right?”
“He’s perfect.” The nurse nodded, smiled at her, and left.
Kara sat up on the side of her bed, her feet dangling, staring at the bassinet. She wanted to hold him now, watch him smack his lips as he had that morning when she’d sung him a Scottish ballad, but she forced herself to wait a bit longer. She thought instead about the series of Tuscany vineyard oil paintings she’d very nearly finished for the reception area of the Alonzo Group’s new Washington office. Exactly what they wanted, one of the VPs told her, and she’d basked. She thought about all the portraits she’d paint of Alex. Life was good.
The terror she’d been through the day before came unbidden into her mind. She couldn’t escape it, not yet, sitting duct-taped in that chair, helpless, terrified she’d failed to protect her baby, because she’d been alone by her own choice. But he couldn’t hurt her now. He was in a coma on the third floor, a nurse assured her. They called him John Doe because he’d had no ID on him. Kara knew she’d have to speak to the police again, tell them everything she could remember, but not now. She looked over at the bassinet again and smiled. Alex was sleeping the sleep of angels.
She slipped out of bed and walked quietly to his bassinet. She leaned down to lift the light blue blanket nearly covering his small face, to look at her gift from God.
9
“I asked you what you were doing here.” Mayer’s voice sounded calm enough, and that was a nice change. Maybe he wasn’t going to draw his weapon.
Savich rose. “Good afternoon, Detective. I’m here to see how John Doe is doing.”
“He’s in a freaking coma, that’s how he’s doing.” Mayer took a step forward, stopped. “You could have learned that from a telephone call.”
“You could have called as well. So why are you here?”
“What’s it to you? It’s my case, not yours. I’m here to see if he’s come around. The mutt’s got a lot to answer for. First off, I’d like him to tell me his name.”
“No one has contacted you about him yet?”
“Nope, no one, not a mental institution, or lockup, not his family. He doesn’t look homeless, so someone will come to claim him; they always do.”
Mayer walked to the bed and looked dispassionately down at the motionless young man. “He looks almost dead. It might have been easier if you’d killed him. I see a bad future for him if he wakes up. Look at those needle marks on his arms. He’s already fried his veins, and now he’s looking at a long stretch in prison if he’s competent enough to stand trial. Have they told you anything about all the tests they’re doing on him?”
Savich started to tell him there was no way John Doe had been shooting himself up, but decided to drop it. “No, only a trace of an antipsychotic drug left in his system.”
Mayer turned at a voice he recognized outside the room. He listened, then rounded on Savich. “What is Officer Sharpe doing up here? You did that, didn’t you? Arranged for a police guard for this guy?”
“Actually, Ben Raven arranged it.”
“But you called Raven, didn’t you? You had no right to stick your freaking Fed nose into my business. Why are you even here, really? Playing the glory hound again?”
Savich pictured Mayer in the fetal position on the floor, hugging his gut. He said easily, “I wondered why you haven’t interviewed me, asked me if I’d heard anything John Doe said that might help identify him.”
“If you knew anything, you’d have shouted it to the cameras. Besides, who gives a crap what a crazy man rants? He was obviously off his meds—I heard him screaming about the gods this and the gods that, but none of it made any sense.” He paused a moment, thrust out his chin. “Everyone could see that. When I speak to Ms. Moody, I’m sure she’ll agree.”
