“What happened, Frank?” Janet asked.
“It’s a bad one,” Mitchell answered. “Mother’s in the hospital with broken bones. Father crashed through a police roadblock with three kids in his pickup truck. He was the only one wearing a seatbelt.”
Janet felt momentarily nauseous, but she swallowed and focused on what she knew would come next. As St. Anne’s outreach social worker, among her other responsibilities, it was her job to make the first contact with their clients. Five years on the job hadn’t quite made her impervious to human suffering, but she’d developed a psychological thick skin that helped get her through the day. One day at a time, she told herself repeatedly.
Mitchell turned toward Janet. “You’ll need to interview the mother in the hospital.” He paused for a second. “It’s Jasmine Essam.”
“Oh, no; not again,” Janet said. “Does she know about the crash…her kids?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Looks like you’ll have the job of informing her.”
“Shit,” Janet muttered.
“My sentiments exactly,” Mitchell said.
“What set off the husband this time? His eggs overcooked?”
“A neighbor told the police he was pissed off because his wife didn’t cover her head when she went outside to collect the mail. The neighbor saw Essam run outside, smack her in the head, and then drag her inside. Heard the man shouting, the woman pleading, and the kids screaming. The neighbor called 9-1-1.”
Redondo Beach Detective John Andrews asked, “Who’s the broad in the blue suit? She’s built like a brick—”
Five feet, eight-inch Detective Hugo Rosales poked a finger in Andrews’s chest and glared at the six feet, two-inch, blue-eyed, blond-haired surfer boy, who’d grown up in Southern California. Andrews had transferred to the Redondo Beach PD from the LAPD with a reputation as a womanizer and a partier. Rosales had an almost Puritanical attitude about how women should be treated. His abuela had instilled that in him from an early age.
“How is it you always know exactly the wrong thing to say at any given moment?”
“Jeez, Hugo, what’d I say?”
Rosales, a fireplug-of-a-man, with jet-black hair, mahogany-colored eyes, and swarthy skin, poked Andrews again. “You and I’ve been partners for a total of two weeks. I hoped the word on you was wrong, that you couldn’t be as bad as I heard. I guess I was mistaken.”
“What the hell’s your problem? I was just—”
Rosales grabbed a fistful of Andrews’s right arm and pushed him through the open door of a linen closet on the third floor at Presbyterian Hospital. He shifted his hand to Andrews’s chest and pressed the man against a bare wall.
“Focus on why we’re here. There’s a woman in a room down the hall who was beaten to within an inch of her life by her monster-of-a-husband, and who doesn’t know yet that the guy was responsible for the deaths of her three kids. Maybe you could think for a minute how we’ll be able to get a statement from the woman considering the circumstances.”
“Get outta my face, Rosales, before I knock you on your ass.”
Rosales gave Andrews a toothy smile, dropped his hand, stepped back a foot, and then rammed his hand back into the taller man’s chest. “Anytime you want to go one-on-one with me, you let me know.” He stepped back again and walked out into the corridor. He spotted Janet Jenkins—‘the broad in the blue suit’—outside the victim’s room and moved toward her.
“Hey, Janet,” he called out.
She turned in his direction and smiled.
“Well, well,” she said, “the RBPD must have finally gotten smart. It sends me the best and the brightest for a change.”
At that instant, Detective Andrews walked up, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself to Janet.
She half-smiled and shook his hand.
Rosales said, “Good to see you. It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Janet said. “I just got here. What’s happening?”
“Mrs. Essam’s surgery was successful. She’ll be in a leg and an arm cast for at least six weeks. They reset her nose, but she’ll need plastic surgery at some point.”
“What about the husband?” Janet asked.
Rosales breathed out noisily. “I can’t believe the paramedics brought him here. He’s down in the ER right now. But, apparently, all he has are cuts and bruises. He’ll be transported to city jail pending arraignment.”
“The charge nurse told me I can speak with Mrs. Essam now,” Janet said. “The doctor okayed it.”
“You’ll have to wait for us to interview her,” Rosales said.
Janet nodded. “You going to tell her about her kids?”
Rosales grimaced. “No, we’ll leave that to you.”
“You’re a hell of a guy, Hugo.”
“That’s what they tell me, Janet.”
CHAPTER 4
Janet took an elevator down to the first level and bought a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. Someone had left a copy of the morning paper on the chair next to hers. She scanned the pages of the front section, but couldn’t concentrate on the stories about Middle Eastern wars, lone wolf terrorists, another bombing in Paris, and political in-fighting in Washington. She had more than enough violence to deal with right here at home.
She checked and answered emails on her phone and, when a half-hour had gone by, dumped her empty cup in a trash can and returned to the elevators to take her turn with Jasmine Essam.
In the hallway as she approached Mrs. Essam’s room, a man in a white lab coat hurried from the doorway.
“I’m Janet Jenkins from St. Anne’s Shelter. Are you treating Jasmine Essam,”—she noted his name tag—“Dr. Zelden?”
It took him a few seconds to look up from the cell phone in his hand. “Yes.”
“Have you told Mrs. Essam about her children, Doctor?” Janet asked.
“Uh…no. I didn’t think it was my place.”
Janet detected cowardice in the physician’s eyes and weak mouth. She’d long ago become an expert at evaluating men’s character. He didn’t think it was his place. What a load of crap.
She was fully prepared to do the dirty work the doctor was afraid to do, but that didn’t mean she had to like it. She was about to tell the man off, but stopped herself. She didn’t do “confrontation” well.
The man suddenly looked over Janet’s shoulder and said, “I think I’m needed in another room.”
Janet said, “Well, can you at least tell me if she’s well enough for bad news?”
“Her heart’s strong and she’s pretty much come out of the anesthesia. Yes, I think she can handle the news about her children.”
“Mrs. Essam,” Janet said, her voice as soft as a lullaby. “My name is Janet Jenkins. I work with St. Anne’s Shelter for Women & Children. I’m here to assist you in any way I can.”
The woman stared at Janet for several seconds. “I remember you,” she finally said, her words slightly slurred, her voice strained.