To Die For Read online

  “Some people,” I announced to the sky, “have better manners than to laugh at someone who’s been shot and is bleeding to death.”

  “You aren’t bleeding to death,” Wyatt said, his voice showing some strain.

  Maybe, maybe not, but you’d think they’d give me the benefit of the doubt, wouldn’t you? I was almost tempted to bleed to death just to show him, but where’s the profit in that? Besides, if I died, then I wouldn’t be around to make his life miserable, now would I? You have to think these things out.

  More vehicles arrived. I heard Wyatt organizing a search-and-destroy mission, though he didn’t call it that. It was more like, “Find this bastard,” but I knew what he meant. A couple of medics, a young black woman with cornrowed hair and the prettiest chocolate eyes I’d ever seen, and a stocky red-haired man who reminded me of Red Buttons, arrived toting tackle boxes full of medical supplies and gear, and hunkered down next to me.

  They quickly did the basics, such as checking my pulse and blood pressure, and slapped a pressure bandage on my arm.

  “I need a cookie,” I told them.

  “Don’t we all,” said the woman with some sympathy.

  “To get my blood sugar up,” I explained. “The Red Cross gives cookies to people who give blood. So a cookie would be nice. Chocolate chip. And a Coke.”

  “I hear you,” she said, but no one was making any effort to put the requested items in my hand. I made allowances, because it was Sunday and none of the nearby shops were open. I guess they didn’t carry cookies and soft drinks in the medic truck with them, but, really, why didn’t they?

  “With all these people around, you’d think at least one person would have some cookies in the car. Or a doughnut. They are cops.”

  She grinned and said, “You’re right.” Raising her voice, she yelled, “Hey! Does anyone have anything sweet to eat in his car?”

  “You don’t need to eat anything,” the red-haired man said. I didn’t like him nearly as well as I did her, despite his sweet Red Buttons face.

  “Why? I don’t need to have surgery, do I?” That was the only reason I could think of not to eat.

  “I don’t know; that’s for the doctors to decide.”

  “Naw, you won’t need surgery,” she said, and Red glared at her.

  “You don’t know that.”

  I could tell he thought she was being way too free with the rules, and actually I understood his point. She, however, understood me. I needed reassurance, and a cookie would be just that, putting my blood loss on the same plane as giving blood at the Red Cross. If there were sweets available and they wouldn’t let me have any, then that meant I was in Serious Condition.

  A patrolman appeared, duck-walking between the cars even though no other shots had been fired and any murderer with an ounce of sense would have left the scene as soon as reinforcements arrived. He held a package in his hand. “I got Fig Newtons,” he said. He looked puzzled, as if he couldn’t understand why the medics needed something to eat and just couldn’t wait.

  “That’ll do,” she said, taking the package and tearing it open.

  “Keisha,” Red said in warning.

  “Oh, hush,” I said, and took a Fig Newton from the proffered pack. I smiled at Keisha. “Thanks. I think I’ll live, now.”

  Three more Fig Newtons later, I wasn’t feeling dizzy at all, and I sat up to prop myself against the tire once more. Red objected to that, too, but he had my well-being in mind, so I also forgave him for wanting to deny me the Newtons. I noticed that the multitude of cops milling around were walking upright now, so evidently the shooter had long since disappeared.

  Wyatt was nowhere in sight. He had joined the search-and-destroy mission, and hadn’t yet returned. Maybe this time they’d found some clues, though, that would lead them right to the shooter’s door.

  I was loaded into the back of the boxy ambulance. The back part of the gurney was raised instead of lying flat, so I was in a sitting position. I didn’t feel like walking anywhere, but I was definitely up to the task of sitting.

  It seems as if nothing at a crime or accident scene is ever done with any haste. Honest. There were a lot of people walking around, most of them uniformed, and most of them not actively doing anything other than talking to other people who were doing the same thing. Radios squawked, and people talked into them. Evidently they’d found the spot from which the shot was fired, and forensics people were going over the area. Red talked on his radio. Keisha repacked stuff. No one was in any hurry, and that was reassuring, too.

  “I need my bag,” I said, and Keisha retrieved it from my car to set it on the gurney beside me. Being a woman, she understood how much a woman needed her bag.

  I fished in the bag for a pen and my date book. I flipped to the back to the blank pages for taking notes, and began writing. Man, this list was getting long.

  Wyatt appeared at the open doors of the ambulance. His badge was clipped to his belt, and his pistol was in a shoulder holster worn over his polo shirt. Lines bracketed his mouth. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” I said politely. I wasn’t, not really, because my arm was really, really throbbing and I felt weak from blood loss, but I was still mad at him and not inclined to lean on him. See, men want you to lean on them, because it satisfies their protective instincts, which are pretty much hardwired, and by refusing his sympathy, I was telling him he was in the dog house. You have to read between the lines on these things.

  His green eyes narrowed. He got the message all right. “I’ll follow the ambulance to the hospital.”

  “Thank you, but there’s no need. I’ll call my family.”

  The eyes got even more narrow. “I said I’ll follow you. I’ll call your parents on the way.”

  “Fine. Do what you want.” Which meant, I’ll still be mad.

  He got that message, too. He put his hands on his hips, looking all macho and masculine and disgruntled. “What has you in such a snit?”

  “You mean, other than being shot?” I asked sweetly.

  “I’ve been shot. It didn’t make me act like a—” He stopped himself, evidently thinking better of what he’d been about to say.

  “Bitch? Spoiled brat? Diva?” I supplied the choices myself. Up front, Red was sitting very still as he listened to the argument. Standing off to the side, waiting to close the doors, Keisha was pretending to look at a bird in the sky.

  He gave a grim smile. “You choose the ones that fit.”

  “No problem. I can do that.” I wrote another item on my list.

  His gaze arrowed in on the date book. “What are you doing?”

  “Making a list.”

  “Jesus Christ, another one?”

  “The same one. I’m just adding to it.”

  “Give me that.” He leaned forward into the ambulance as if to snatch the date book away from me.

  I jerked it back. “This is my book, not yours. Don’t touch it.” Over my shoulder I said to Red, “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

  “Blair, you’re pouting—”

  Well, yes, I was. When I felt better I might relent, but until then I felt my pouting was well-deserved. You tell me, if you can’t pout when you’re shot, just when is it called for?

  As Keisha closed the ambulance doors, I said, “Just see if I ever sleep with you again!”

  Chapter

  Eleven

  “You’re sleeping with Lieutenant Bloodsworth, huh?” Keisha asked, grinning.

  “I have in the past,” I said, and sniffed. So what if the past was just that morning? “He shouldn’t hold his breath waiting for the next time.” I was a bit chagrined that I had blurted out something as personal as details of my love life, but I’d been provoked.

  It seemed to me that Red was driving inordinately slow. I didn’t know if he was always that careful—which might not be a good thing when you have someone dying in your ambulance—or if he just wanted to listen to as much of our conversation as possible before