Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Read Free

department and transferred to the psych
hospital, so I’d definitely come out ahead. Frye had called to tell me the
doctors were detaining her on a 72-hour hold. I suspected the woman had been a
hamburger short of a happy meal before she’d ever met me, but the last thing my
reputation needed was a rumor about how I’d driven an old woman nutty.
    I gathered my long
hazelnut-colored hair into a knot on top of my head and pinned back my long
bangs. As summer stretched on, more streaks of red and blonde were appearing.
There are also quite a few grays now, too—a parting gift from a terrible
supervisor and a lousy man currently serving a prison sentence. Payback is a
bitch, as they say. Whatever the colors, my hair is a hot mess as often as not. Reminiscent of a
90s-era Julia Roberts, it is thick, wavy, and has a mind of its own.
    My eyes fluctuate
between deep green and hazel depending on my mood, burning darker with emotion.
This morning, they were hazel. I
have fair skin that never tans, only burns, and freckles across my nose. I’m
five eight most days, five nine on really good days, and currently only
thirty-five pounds overweight. It had been more, but regular visits to the gym
had helped trim down that number. Of course, getting shot really jump-started
the decrease. Not that I would recommend a gunshot wound as a means of weight
loss.
    I was dressed in my
usual uniform of jeans and a t-shirt, my newest accessory on the bench seat
beside me. For the last six weeks, I’d been under strict doctor’s orders to
wear a sling when up and around. For the most part, I complied, particularly in
the beginning. But six weeks is a long time, and not only was the sling a
hindrance, I preferred to do without the pain and stiffness caused by the
prolonged immobility.
    Still, I put the sling
on now and got out of the truck. The physical therapy office, located in the
old Women’s Clinic building on Prospect and Lemay, was hopping for nine a.m..
The place was filled with the elderly, who were all packing an assortment of
equipment: wheelchairs, walkers, canes, adult children. They all stared openly
at the bandage on my neck. Someone’s hearing aid was buzzing. And, as I took
the only available chair, the old woman next to me let go a breezer. My eyes
started watering almost immediately.
    My therapist is a
short white guy named Sam with a bald head who’s as bulky as a refrigerator.
Despite his height, he’s a man anyone should think twice about tangling with; he
could wipe the floor with a man twice his size. Sam’s in his forties and still
does competitions like Ironman. And wins. He’s like our local, domestic version
of Arnold Schwarzenegger.
    By the time he called
my name, I was certain my lips were blue from lack of oxygen. I practically ran
out of the lobby.
    “What happened there?”
he asked, pointing at my face as he limped along beside me.
    “Nothing, really,” I
said with the wave of a hand. “Just a small misunderstanding.”
    “That seems to happen
to you a lot.”
    Yes. It did.
    “No crutches today?” I
asked, looking down at his knee. I could see the brace under his scrub pants.
    We walked through the
gym and into a private exam room.
    “Nope.” He grinned.
“Just got cleared Wednesday.”
    “That’s great.
Congratulations.”
    He’d messed up his
knee a couple months ago and was recovering from surgery. We had this in
common.
    About seven weeks ago,
I’d been working full time for a property management company and seen my client
stabbed when I’d arrived to show her an apartment. Incidentally, this was how I
met Ellmann; he’d been the lead investigator on the case. Guilt and curiosity
and whatever else had driven me to start poking into things myself. I didn’t
understand until too late that I‘d been poking at a hornets’ nest. And I’d
gotten stung.
    There were four
subsequent attempts on my life. I was shot twice, once in the left shoulder and
once in the right thigh. The shoulder injury