“Mama,” she rasped. “Talk to me, Mama.”
Janet turned her mother onto her side and gasped. The side of Maybelle’s head was crushed. Blood covered the wood floor and the edge of the throw rug. “No, no, Mama,” she wailed, as tears clouded her vision.
The inside of her skull felt as though it was filled with mush and the sound of crashing waves on a beach roared in her ears. She had a crushing headache. Then the banshee-like screams of sirens seemed suddenly overpowering. They made her head hurt even more. But amid the noise and pain in her head and the sounds of sirens, she heard a gurgling sound and looked over her left shoulder. The movement sent searing pain through her and she screamed like a wild beast. But she shunted the pain aside and leaped from her knees onto Essam’s back just as the man grasped the pistol. She beat the back of his head with her fists and then clawed at his face. But he threw an elbow backward and connected with her side, sending a wave of pain through her ribs. She fell back onto the floor and saw through a veil of tears Essam roll onto his side and slowly bring the pistol around toward her. In that moment of clarity, when she knew she was about to die, Janet scrambled to her knees, jerked the knife from her shoulder—blood flowing down her arm, and plunged it into Essam’s chest. Her pain-, rage-, and terror-driven screams ricocheted off the walls. Then she pushed him onto his back, and straddled him. As she peered into the fading light in his eyes, she raised the knife and struck…again…and again…and again.
CHAPTER 9
Charles Forsythe pulled out of his office parking lot at 8:00 p.m.
“Long friggin’ day,” Johnny Casale muttered as he watched from a parking space across the street. He followed Forsythe to a restaurant in Beverly Hills, where Casale looked at the dashboard clock and thought, better call it a day.
“Holy shit, what a mess,” Detective John Andrews groused as Hugo Rosales drove to Presbyterian Hospital. “Hope Jenkins had a permit for that pistol.”
Rosales gave Andrews a squint-eyed look. “In most states, I’d say that shouldn’t make a difference. It was obviously self-defense. But this is friggin’ California, after all. The first thing our pinche D.A. will do is bring firearms charges against her and then wait to see how the media reacts.”
“Probably right,” Andrews said. “But, now that I think about it, she’ll get off for sure, don’t you think? I mean, it was self-defense all the way.”
Rosales shrugged. “Essam brutally beat his wife, killed his kids, and was subject to a fugitive warrant when he broke into Janet’s house. Then he murdered Janet’s mother and tried to kill Janet. Even in California, that constitutes reasonable cause. But, as I said, this is California.”
“Gotta give her credit. That gal fought like a wounded tigress. Can’t believe what she did to that maniac.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” Rosales said.
They were almost at the hospital, when Andrews said, “Listen, Hugo, I want to apologize for what I said before about Janet. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
After a long beat, Rosales said, “I appreciate it. But it’s not just wrong to disrespect women; it’s bad for your career. Hell, the RBPD chief is female, as are two members of the Police Oversight Board.”
Andrews nodded.
Frank Mitchell sat in the surgical waiting room, his elbows on his thighs, his gaze fixed on the coffee-stained carpet beneath his feet. Other St. Anne’s staff members had come in and out of the hospital during the night, but they’d all gone home by 11 p.m. The news about Janet Jenkins was “as good as can be expected under the circumstances.” That’s the way the surgeon had put it. Mitchell knew there was nothing he could do for her, but he couldn’t make himself leave. After all, she had no one else. He was just about to see if he could find a cup of coffee when Detectives Rosales and Andrews walked in.
“Hey, Frank,” Rosales said. “You hear anything?”
“Yeah. She’s out of surgery and already in a room. Surgeon said something about the knife wound in her upper left chest causing her to drop a lung…whatever the hell that means. Apparently, the knife she used to kill Essam was the same one he stuck in her. If you can believe it, she took it out of her chest and used it on him. Could have severed a vein or an artery when she pulled it out.”
“So, what are you doing here? You look like death warmed over.”
Mitchell hunched his shoulders and spread his arms. “I was just asking myself that a few minutes ago.” He swallowed hard. “You know she doesn’t have any family. No friends that I know of. All she did was work and take care of her mother. I just—” Tears came to his eyes and his throat burned.
Rosales came over and put a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder.
Mitchell used a hand to wipe away his tears. “You know, we’ve had a lot of close calls at St. Anne’s; but this is the first time one of our people was badly injured.” He swallowed hard again and said, “Oh, God. And her mother.”
Andrews said, “I’m going to find a nurse. See if there’s news.”
Rosales took the chair across from Mitchell. “Did you know she had a pistol?”
Mitchell sat up straight and said, “Yeah. Janet told me she’d bought one several years ago after an incident. I encourage all our social workers to carry pepper spray, but never suggested they carry guns. But, after today, I might do just that. Pay for them all to get concealed carry permits. Our work involves dealing with some bad people.” He choked up again and couldn’t continue for a few seconds. “As far as I know, Janet hadn’t carried the thing with her in a while.”
“Having that pistol probably saved her life.”
Mitchell met Rosales’s gaze and nodded.
Rosales stood. “Let’s all go home. Maybe things will look better in the light of day.”
DAY 3
CHAPTER 10
Janet wasn’t certain if she was alive or dead. Everything was pitch-black and she felt as though she floated on mist. She heard the noise of a long groan and wondered where it came from. Then a voice.
“Ms. Jenkins, my name is Alice Higgins, your nurse.”
The groan again. This time, she realized it had come from her.
“You’re in Presbyterian Hospital. You’ve had surgery. Everything went well.”
Janet made a sound in her throat that came across like a growl. She tried to speak, but nothing came out except another growl. Then she felt a straw placed between her lips and she sucked in cool water. She finally said, “My mother?”
The nurse touched her arm. “The doctor will be in shortly. He’ll explain everything to you.”
Janet attempted a response, but her head went fuzzy and she drifted off.
Johnny Casale had been awake all night thinking about his meeting with Charles Forsythe. His instincts told him that threatening the investment guy with physical violence was a non-starter. The man had grown up on the streets of Brooklyn. He needed to come up with another way of intimidating him. One thing he’d learned over the years was that no one was a saint. He’d discover what Forsythe’s weaknesses were and then exploit them.