THIRTY-SEVEN The Card Nurse
J ACKSON
“Peculiar method of starting a conversation.” The deep timbre of the voice emanating from Noah’s speakerphone bounces off the brick wall he hovers beside.
For once, the kid wears the same kind of fierce scowl that Tristan does on a daily basis. I can’t blame him. I’m sure I am, too. At the moment, where one goes, we all go. There’s too much at stake to not be a united front.
“I wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t an emergency,” Noah spat, losing his cool.
“All right. Fine. Yeah, she does. What’s it to you, rookie?”
“She doesn’t happen to be with you, does she?” There’s a lengthy pause, followed by a huffy sigh. A much more feminine voice—still at a loud boom—reverberates out of his cell next.
“Who’s this?” Kane’s wife asks, and if it wouldn’t cause more problems than it would solve, I might howl at the hold-up. We don’t have time for this. Noah states his name and that he works with her husband, then lays out our dilemma, only for her to interrupt him mid-sentence. “I can’t divulge confidential patient information.”
“I get that, but do you recognize the name Tanya Brubaker?”
“Sure. She’s the card nurse.”
Card nurse? There’s no way this could be a coincidence.
“So, you’re familiar with her?” Noah prods her further.
“Used to work with her.”
“You worked with her at your hospital?”
“I did. She was known for bringing people cards for every occasion, both patients and staff. It was her thing.”
“What’s the name of your hospital again?”
“VHMCF,” she blathers these letters off with the ease of someone who does so often. “Stands for Virginia Heights Mental Care Facility. I don’t know what this is about, and I’m sorry for what happened to her. But I haven’t seen Tanya for... what’s it been... about five years now.”
“What happened to her?” Noah asks, but he hits a dead end.
“I can’t divulge that, either. Like I said, I can’t comment on private and confidential patient affairs.”
“All right. Well, thank you. I appreciate your help.”
As soon as Noah disconnects, Tristan leans into us. “Did you catch that? This Tanya chick was a patient as well as a nurse.”
So the person Elle is stuck with is both mentally unstable and has medical knowledge. I don’t know if this is good news or if it just made the situation exponentially more hazardous. Can’t someone with such knowledge cause harm in ways that most of us might not even think of?
I peer back around at Ruiz. The detective has been tied up with various lab people and uniformed officers, yet he takes a minute to send Andre back into the store. Elle’s best friend appears to be about as frazzled and pissed off as we are.
The front of the location is lousy with different police personnel, but one of them who jaunts by with a Ziplock bag full of shards of plastic, glass, and electronic components makes my lungs hitch.
“Fucking Christ, that’s Elle’s phone,” I choke out.
The glittery silver and pink swirl case is identical, even if it’s now smashed. Just seeing it makes my stomach both churn and feel leaden. Andre comes back outside looking half ill as he scrubs his palm across his forehead back and forth.
“The code word. She gave me half the code word,” he mumbles to himself.
“What code word?” Tristan asks, seizing his sleeve. I’m as determined to get to the bottom of this as the chef is.
Andre explains about their dating protocol when he’d play wingman/bodyguard for her.
“Something about their whole interaction seemed off to me, so I called her girlie girl just to check. But she called me crazy boy rather than bad boy like it was a clue. And she had this false-as-hell smile plastered to her face. I should’ve yanked that woman away from her. Tackled her to the ground.” Yes, you should have . “It never occurred to me that her stalker would be female.”
“Did the cameras catch them leaving?” Noah questions him quietly, aimed away from the uproar.
“Yeah,” Andre replies just as quietly, gesturing toward the back of the front floor. “I sent the cops a copy of the recorded footage, but it’s also on the hard drive.”
He opens up an app on his phone—as soon as this is over, I’m questioning him about why the three of us didn’t also have access to this app—and plays some video footage. It displays a woman with dark hair towering over Elle. Not that most people don’t tower over Elliana, but Tanya appears to be as tall as my own five-foot-nine.
Her face is pretty damn distinct due to the high quality of the security cameras installed, and I’m sure I’d know her if I ever see her again. As he loops into a different video, it displays a car that Tanya guides—or maybe shoves—Elle toward, even the license plate.
I have no doubt the police are running those plates, but I memorize the combination of letters and numbers anyway. It’s a brownish orange Chevy Cavalier, early nineties model by the looks of it and based on the sun damage of the clearcoat, it’s been sitting outside neglected. It’s the type of vehicle that blends but is also easily identifiable.
I glance at my housemates. Noah seems fit to be tied as he flexes those thick arms of his over and over while clenching his fists. Tristan’s glare as he examines the police milling around is so infuriated that if he had heat vision, the entire place would be a cinder right now. I know the chef and the kid are no more okay with us hanging out twiddling our fucking thumbs than I am.
“Who else thinks we should go to that facility in Falls Church and take a look around?”
The guys yank their chins up and down in unison, and the three of us bound back into Noah’s Toyota pickup, his tires screeching on the pavement as we hightail it out of town.