Free Rose of Betrayal by Elizabeth Lowe Page B

battering and brutal raping of another woman who arrived
at the hospital a few hours after Mrs. Peterson.   A case they ruled a domestic quarrel that got
out of hand.   The female murdered her
assailant.   There was little evidence
pertaining to the incident, the on scene investigation incomplete.   Listed in critical condition, the woman
remained unconscious unable to enlighten them further.   Just another case typical of the hundreds
occurring daily in New York all too similar to the one the officers were now
preparing to probe.
    Pen and pad in hand, the officers
entered, the tall slender man confronting Brad, “Are you Mr. Peterson?”
    Raising his head, Brad’s shock
stricken eyes endeavored to assess the figure standing before him.   Indignantly he answered, “Who wants to know?”
      “I'm Lieutenant Randall.   This is Sergeant Phelps.   We are investigating the alleged beating of
Mrs. Peterson.”

 
                As
if struck by lightning, Brad vaulted to his feet, eyes blazing into the
Lieutenant's mere inches away.   ‘‘What in
hell's going on?”Brow furrowed, his
bewildered gaze examined the men expecting to be enlighten, including Ralph who
now stood beside him.
    “What do you mean beating?   Christ . . . I don't understand.   Who would hurt Sam?   I thought maybe . . . maybe . . .”
    “Maybe what, Mr. Peterson,” Randall
prodded.
               
                Brad
hesitated shaking his head before replying in a weak voice, “I don't know.”
Lungs sucking in stale air forced emotion down his throat.   Running one hand through unruly strands, he
propped the other on his hip replaying the Lieutenants words, and wondering if
he had heard correctly.
    Randall persisted, “I realize you're
upset, Mr. Peterson, but I need some answers.”
    Beginning his vendetta with a short
stretch of worn tile, Brad’s utterance was barely audible, “I'm . . . I'm . . .
not Mr. Peterson.”
    Not at all amused, Lieutenant Randall
snapped, “The nurses said you were.”

 
                Warily
Ralph explained, “You see, Lieutenant, Brad is a very dear friend of
Samantha's.   Only by posing as her
husband was he allowed entrance.”
    “Who are you,” Randall barked.
    “I'm Ralph, an employee of Mr. Peterson
and Brad's . . . I mean Mr. Johnson,” gesturing toward Brad with his hand.

 
                Not particularly interested in
Ralph, Randall studied Brad closely.   “I
don’t imagine that either of you know where we can locate her husband?”
    Brad and Ralph
answered in unison, “No, sir.”

 
                Feeling suspended in a horrible
nightmare, Brad's voice cracked, “Mr. Peterson and I are business partners and
friends.”   Pausing at the officer's feet,
he continued,” Please, sir, you have got to tell me what's going on.”

 
                With expressions reflecting their
mutual sympathy, Phelps and Randall glanced at one another neither uttered a
word.   Knowing there was no gentle
explanation, Randall elaborated.   “All I
can say at this time is that we were summoned by the director of the hospital
who was informed by the attending physicians Mrs. Peterson was severely
beaten.    Our information states the
couple has been having marital difficulties for some time, and the only
fingerprints found in the apartment belonged to them.    The husband was the last person seen
entering and leaving the penthouse making him our primary suspect.”

 
                  Knowing how Brad would react, Ralph was not
surprised when his young friend turned on him, seized his collar and shook him
violently.   “Why didn't you tell me?   Send for
    me?”
    Using all their
strength, positioned on opposing sides of Brad, the officers pulled him away
from Ralph.   Forcing him into a chair
both officers physically contained him.

 
                With a firm commanding voice,