Hush Money

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

In the morning, under the stern gaze of Dr. Tripp, the Reading cops were solicitous, and KC was uninformative, and I was tired. KC insisted that she didn’t know her assailant. The cops clearly did not believe her but couldn’t figure out why she’d protect him, and neither could I. They had a young female assistant from the Middlesex DA’s office who seemed bright and sympathetic and was pretty clever in some of her questions but not bright enough, or apparently sympathetic enough. KC refused to change her story and finally resorted to crying, which worked. The crying may have been sincere. She had been beaten and raped, but I also knew that she could cry at will, and life had made me cynical.

After the cops left and the bright young sympathetic DA went with them, Dr. Tripp told KC that a social worker would stop by to talk with her in a while. And that Dr. Tripp felt that KC should stay another night. KC nodded. Her crying had dwindled to sniffling. She patted her unswollen eye with a Kleenex and blew her nose and sat up a little higher in the bed.

“Keep that eye cold,” Dr. Tripp said as she went out.

We were alone. I handed KC one of the compresses from the tray on her bedside table. She held it against her nearly closed eye.

“No one here but you and me,” I said. “I won’t tell, you have my word on it, but I have to be sure. You said it was Vincent.”

She started to cry again. Not boo hoo, more sniff sniff, but still crying. She seemed to be hiding behind the cold compress.

“Dip that in the ice water,” I said. “It was, wasn’t it?”

She cried some more.

“Damn it, KC, yes or no? You don’t have to speak. Just nod. You said it was Vincent.”

Nod.

“Thank you,” I said.

We were quiet. She sniffled a little more and stopped.

“Will you kill him for me?” she said.

“No,” I said. “But I’ll make sure he leaves you alone.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.

“I think he’s a little crazy,” she said. “You know how it’s crazy time when a romance breaks up.”

“Um hmm.”

“I can count on you, can’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.”

“You haven’t,” I said, “and you’re a little crazy yourself, right now. But you’ll be better.”

“Of course I’m crazy,” she said. “What I’ve gone through. I have a right to be crazy.”

“Of course you do,” I said. “But only for a while.”

The social worker stuck her head around the partly open door.

“Can I come in?” she said.

“Tell her yes,” KC said to me.

“Come in,” I said.

The social worker was a thin-faced black-haired woman wearing round glasses with green rims.

“I’m Amy Coulter,” she said, “from Social Services. Dr. Tripp asked me to come and see you.”

“Sit down,” I said. “I’m leaving anyway.”

“Where are you going?” KC said.

“Home,” I said. “Sleep.”

“You’ll come back?”

“Like esophageal reflux,” I said.

I always tried to make my similes appropriate to the ambiance. Surprisingly neither Amy Coulter nor KC remarked on it. Too bad Dr. Tripp wasn’t there. She’d appreciate my kind of quality medical humor.