Read Online Trace of Innocence by Erica Orloff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erica Orloff
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what I hoped to accomplish, but I didn’t want whoever it was to get away.
“Lewis,” I called out, “there’s someone over there. Come stay with Tommy.”
Lewis dashed over and grabbed my shoulder. “Do you want to get killed? Stay here!” He had his cell phone out and was dialing 911.
I looked at poor Tommy, but I guess a combination of adrenaline and insanity took over because I shook off Lewis’s grip and ran toward the van, ducking behind cars for cover. I began shouting at the top of my lungs, “Help! Help!” hoping that someone would come along to get his or her car and hear me.
A man wearing a dark blue hooded sweatshirt took off from behind the van. His back was to me, and I wasn’t close enough to get a good look of any kind, especially with his hood pulled close around his face. He hopped into thepassenger side of a four-door green Taurus at the end of the row, its engine running, and took off. I aimed my gun at the tires, but missed. At that point, some measure of caution caught up with me. I didn’t want to risk a ricocheting bullet hitting an innocent bystander.
I tucked the gun in the waistband of my pants, and jogged back to Lewis, whose hand was pressed up against the bullet hole in Tommy’s chest. I felt for Tommy’s pulse. Still okay, if a bit thready.
“Come on, buddy, hang in there.”
The bullet hole was about two inches above Tommy’s nipple area, and it looked as though with every beat of his heart a little gush spurted between Lewis’s fingers.
“Ambulance and cops are coming,” Lewis said. I could hear the anxiety in his voice.
“He’s bleeding bad,” I replied, my own breath ragged with panic.
“Come on, ambulances,” he said. “Maybe we should lay him down.”
“I’m afraid to. What if the bullet is lodged in his spine or something?”
I heard the sound of sirens in the distance and let out a sigh of relief. Growing up with my questionable family, the sound of sirens usually made me feel a little nervous—all right, a lotnervous. But I was never so happy to hear them as at that moment.
An ambulance, a fire truck and three cop cars came barreling up the ramp in the garage in short order, tires squealing, sirens reverberating in the echoing parking garage, lights pulsating.
Two guys in blue uniforms hopped out of the ambulance and raced to us.
“What happened?”
“He was shot,” I said.
“By who?”
“We don’t know,” Lewis said. “I’m Lewis LeBarge. I head the crime lab across the street. This is Billie Quinn, the assistant director.”
“And this guy?”
I blurted out, “He’s Tommy Salami. Um…I don’t know his real last name. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Do you know his blood type? He’s going to need a transfusion.”
I shook my head.
“Do you know of any allergies to medications, any medical conditions?”
“No…oh, wait. I know he has high cholesterol and takes…crap, you know, one of those cholesterol-lowering drugs. We were talking about it the other day.” I remembered mocking Tommy for eating his fourth Egg McMuffinbefore taking his medicine. He told me he had an aversion to fruits and vegetables.
“Okay, the police will talk to you. We’ll take him from here.” Lewis removed his hand and moved out of the way. The paramedics began working on Tommy, getting him on a stretcher and into the ambulance pronto, and taking off down the ramp, siren at full blast.
The police cordoned off the parking garage, and pulled Lewis and me to different areas to question us. I told them about the incident with Harry.
“How come you didn’t report it?” a detective named John Fry asked me. He was young and good-looking—he looked as if he could have stepped right out from a cop show.
“I shrugged it off as a single act of grief. I wasn’t hurt. I don’t know…I just didn’t think he’d really do anything.”
“Well, looks like Harry Whitaker may have lost it big-time.”
“I don’t know. If he did, he had
“Lewis,” I called out, “there’s someone over there. Come stay with Tommy.”
Lewis dashed over and grabbed my shoulder. “Do you want to get killed? Stay here!” He had his cell phone out and was dialing 911.
I looked at poor Tommy, but I guess a combination of adrenaline and insanity took over because I shook off Lewis’s grip and ran toward the van, ducking behind cars for cover. I began shouting at the top of my lungs, “Help! Help!” hoping that someone would come along to get his or her car and hear me.
A man wearing a dark blue hooded sweatshirt took off from behind the van. His back was to me, and I wasn’t close enough to get a good look of any kind, especially with his hood pulled close around his face. He hopped into thepassenger side of a four-door green Taurus at the end of the row, its engine running, and took off. I aimed my gun at the tires, but missed. At that point, some measure of caution caught up with me. I didn’t want to risk a ricocheting bullet hitting an innocent bystander.
I tucked the gun in the waistband of my pants, and jogged back to Lewis, whose hand was pressed up against the bullet hole in Tommy’s chest. I felt for Tommy’s pulse. Still okay, if a bit thready.
“Come on, buddy, hang in there.”
The bullet hole was about two inches above Tommy’s nipple area, and it looked as though with every beat of his heart a little gush spurted between Lewis’s fingers.
“Ambulance and cops are coming,” Lewis said. I could hear the anxiety in his voice.
“He’s bleeding bad,” I replied, my own breath ragged with panic.
“Come on, ambulances,” he said. “Maybe we should lay him down.”
“I’m afraid to. What if the bullet is lodged in his spine or something?”
I heard the sound of sirens in the distance and let out a sigh of relief. Growing up with my questionable family, the sound of sirens usually made me feel a little nervous—all right, a lotnervous. But I was never so happy to hear them as at that moment.
An ambulance, a fire truck and three cop cars came barreling up the ramp in the garage in short order, tires squealing, sirens reverberating in the echoing parking garage, lights pulsating.
Two guys in blue uniforms hopped out of the ambulance and raced to us.
“What happened?”
“He was shot,” I said.
“By who?”
“We don’t know,” Lewis said. “I’m Lewis LeBarge. I head the crime lab across the street. This is Billie Quinn, the assistant director.”
“And this guy?”
I blurted out, “He’s Tommy Salami. Um…I don’t know his real last name. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Do you know his blood type? He’s going to need a transfusion.”
I shook my head.
“Do you know of any allergies to medications, any medical conditions?”
“No…oh, wait. I know he has high cholesterol and takes…crap, you know, one of those cholesterol-lowering drugs. We were talking about it the other day.” I remembered mocking Tommy for eating his fourth Egg McMuffinbefore taking his medicine. He told me he had an aversion to fruits and vegetables.
“Okay, the police will talk to you. We’ll take him from here.” Lewis removed his hand and moved out of the way. The paramedics began working on Tommy, getting him on a stretcher and into the ambulance pronto, and taking off down the ramp, siren at full blast.
The police cordoned off the parking garage, and pulled Lewis and me to different areas to question us. I told them about the incident with Harry.
“How come you didn’t report it?” a detective named John Fry asked me. He was young and good-looking—he looked as if he could have stepped right out from a cop show.
“I shrugged it off as a single act of grief. I wasn’t hurt. I don’t know…I just didn’t think he’d really do anything.”
“Well, looks like Harry Whitaker may have lost it big-time.”
“I don’t know. If he did, he had
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