“I want Stewart here if we’re going to look around his place,” he says, bending over and speaking into my ear just above a whisper. “I wasn’t able to get a search warrant and without Stewart’s permission and presence we run the risk of any inculpatory evidence we find being excluded later at trial because the search will be declared illegal.”
“Inculpatory, schmulpatory,” I say. “I won’t risk the life of one of my patients just so you guys can get some evidence that may or may not exist.”
“Hey, this was your idea,” Bob says with a shrug.
“And it was a good one. Which shows you I’m smart. Which suggests that maybe you ought to listen to me.” I glare up at Bob, hands on my hips, my expression determined. He stares right back at me for several seconds and then shakes his head. I see a hint of a smile creep in at the corners of his mouth and know he’s not truly angry. I return to Stewart, who is struggling to stand, brushing at clips of freshly mown grass stuck to his backside.
“I’m okay,” he says before I can ask. “I think seeing all these cops here made me realize how... serious the situation might be. And that took the wind from my sails, you know?”
I nod. “I know how much you love Marla,” I tell him. “And I know that this isn’t easy for you. But I do think it’s time for some tough love from you. Marla may have gone too far, and you aren’t the only person who’s at risk.” I see a cautionary look come my way from Bob. Then Stewart shows he’s not as dumb as we may think.
“Marla’s been talking in her sleep a lot lately and it’s been... disturbing, scary stuff. Things about bombs and poisons and killing lots of people all at once.” He winces and looks at the cops then back to me. “I thought she was having flashbacks, or dreams based on what she did when she was in Iraq, but you think she might be involved in something here, don’t you? A local terrorist plot or something?”
Before Bob or the others can interrupt or stop me, I say, “Do you have reason to think she’s involved in a local terrorist plot?”
Stewart looks sadder than I’ve ever seen him. “She’s been different lately. More secretive, more . . . I don’t know... judgmental.” He sighs and then heads for his front door. “Let’s get this over with.”
Bob has a video camera and he turns it on once we’re inside the house and prefaces the footage with where we are and who is present, and then he asks Stewart if it is okay to look around the house for things related to comments made by his wife about killing lots of people. Stewart agrees, looking like he just issued a death sentence to his best friend.
Bob asks Stewart if Marla has a cell phone.
He shakes his head. “She doesn’t like technology and she’s always said cell phones are a way for the government to track and listen in on you.”
Brenda and Devo take Stewart into the kitchen and have him boot up a laptop computer that’s sitting atop a small desk tucked in one corner of the room. According to Stewart, this computer is primarily his though he admits that Marla has used it from time to time. While Brenda and Devo are examining the computer content, Stewart sets up a coffee pot and starts it. Bob heads for the extra bedroom that Stewart has said Marla uses as her quiet room, a place to go when her PTSD is particularly bad, or when she simply feels the need to escape from life for a while. There is a laptop computer in this room, too, and Bob doesn’t bother looking at any content. He simply tags it and bags it.
I look around the room, which has more of a feminine touch to it than I would have expected from Marla since every time I’ve seen her she’s been outfitted in stuff that is either androgynous or leaning toward male attire: camouflage pants and tees, heavy work boots, jeans and denim shirts—that sort of thing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear any makeup. Yet this room has pale yellow walls, lace curtains on the window, a white desk with gold-colored hardware, a pink fleecy throw draped over a floral-patterned daybed, candles that lend the room a strong eucalyptus scent, and a large, framed black-and-white poster of a dozen ink-drawn Gibson girl-era women’s portraits, their bright red lips a stark contrast to the otherwise colorless lines. A five-by-seven throw rug at the center of the room boasts a mosaic pattern in shades of lavender, pink, yellow, and seafoam green.
I walk over to the desk and look at the stuff remaining on top of it after Bob has taken the computer. There’s a small set of speakers and I wonder what kind of music Marla listens to. A day calendar book sits off to one side and I flip it open.
“Please wait,” Bob says.
I withdraw my hand and let him focus the camera on the day calendar book and start flipping through the pages. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening since January she has written in Support Group at six o’clock. I point to it and say, “The support groups for veterans that are in the area all start at seven.”
Bob nods and flips more pages, still filming. When he gets to the current date he stops and steps back. “Which drawer should I do first?” he asks, eyeing the matching drawers on either side of the desk. Both are about six inches high, not big enough to store hanging files.
“Go with the one on the left,” I say. He opens it and films the contents, none of which prove too exciting. There are the usual office supply kinds of items: pens, pencils, a ruler, some index cards, a box of staples, a box of paper clips, some rubber bands, several pads of sticky notes, and boxes of replacement ink cartridges for the printer that is sitting atop a small bookcase off to the right.
As Bob shuts the drawer and moves over to open the other one, I walk over to the bookcase and examine the titles. It’s a collection of suspense novels with a few mysteries mixed in, and one other book that doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest.
“Bob, look at this,” I say, pointing to the book. On the spine is the title of the book: A Guide to Botanical Poisons. Bob abandons the drawer he just opened, which is filled with a stack of printed papers, and zooms in on the bookshelf and the book’s title. Then he takes the book out and opens it, flipping through the pages.
“Wow, this is basically a cookbook for poisons,” Bob says. He turns off the camera and sets it down, then he tags and bags the book and places it on top of the computer, which is sitting on the floor by the door to the room.
Before he can pick up the camera again, I say, “So, Brenda made it sound like you were talking to someone out in California when she called you. Isn’t that where the woman you were dating is living now?”
Bob narrows his eyes at me and screws his mouth up like he just tasted something awful. “It is,” he says after a moment. “She called me,” he adds quickly, as if to defend himself.
“Is there still something going on with you two?” I ask. “I got the impression that your relationship with her was over, but if that’s not the case, I’d like to know.”
“She wants me to move out there,” Bob says. “That’s never going to happen.”
“Do you think she might move back here?”
He shakes his head. “She bought a house out there. And she has kids living out there. She wants to be close to her grandkids.”
“I see.”
Bob cocks his head to one side and smiles at me. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Hildy?”
“More like practicality,” I tell him. “I don’t want to put a lot of time and effort into a relationship with someone who is stuck on someone else.”
“I’m not stuck on anyone,” he grumbles. “And you had dinner with Jonas Kriedeman, so it’s not like you’re giving me all of your attention.”
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Bob?”
He huffs in irritation, but then cracks a smile. “Look, I’m not interested in moving to California, and that relationship is done. But understand that I don’t have a lot of experience with this kind of stuff. I need to take things slow.”
“I’m not getting any younger, Bob,” I tell him. “And neither are you.”
He sighs. “I know. But that just goes to show you how set in my ways I am.”
“Change can be a good thi
ng. You’ve started with the décor in your house and that seems to have you revved up. Making a change in a more personal aspect of your life can be just as fulfilling.”
“This from the woman who once said she was going to join me at the gym as often as possible.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Yeah, truth is I don’t think I’m cut out for a regular gym visit kind of life, particularly now that I have two jobs to balance. My free time is severely limited.”
Bob gives me an acquiescent nod. “Fair enough. I can’t argue that point. Even I have a hard time getting there as often as I’d like, and I only have one job to deal with.”
“Speaking of which...” I nod toward the papers in the drawer.
“Right.” Bob picks up the camera and turns it on. Then he looks at me. “Would you mind holding and filming while I look through these papers?”
“Sure.” I take the camera from him and focus in on the top sheet in the drawer, watching on the tiny screen. The lens adjusts itself a smidge to bring the print in clearer and my stomach sinks when I see what it says. I keep filming as Bob goes through the stack one page at a time, stopping about halfway through.
“I think we have enough to hold Marla,” he says. “These pages are a manifesto and construction guide for destruction of all kinds—bombs, poisons, gun alterations... you name it.”
“Marla is a damaged woman,” I say. “Between her drinking and her PTSD, I don’t see how she could be any sort of mastermind for something like this. We need to figure out who it is she’s working for, or with. And if you just toss her in jail, I don’t think you’ll ever get anything useful out of her. She needs therapy, and lots of it.”
“Are you suggesting that you’re the person to do that?” Bob asks me.
I shake my head. “She needs more than what I can offer. But I think Dr. Maggie Baldwin might be willing to help her, and in doing so she might just help us.”
“Us?” Bob says, unable to suppress a smile.
“You and I are a team, right?” I say with a wink.
He doesn’t say no.
Chapter 19
The search of the house doesn’t turn up anything more of interest, but we already found enough to implicate Marla in some bad stuff. I tell Bob that I’ll put in a call to Dr. Maggie Baldwin, who just happens to be my personal counselor as well, though I leave that tidbit of information out. He puts in a call to the County Sheriff’s Department and updates someone there on what has happened, suggesting that they make arrangements to put a police hold on Marla Riley while she’s in the hospital so she can’t just leave, and maybe even put a guard at her door. By the time all is said and done, and after hauling the collected evidence back to the station, the night shift is at an end and the day staffers are coming on duty.
I give Roscoe—who had a rather boring rest of the night stuck in the car for the most part—a quick walk so he can relieve himself. P.J. will give him a longer walk once I get back to my house. Before going home, I pop my head into the front area of the station and say hi to Miranda, the dispatcher who was working all night.
Just as I’m about to depart for home and my bed—which I can hear calling to me—Bob grabs me and says, “Hildy, can you hang out for a bit longer? Arthur Fletcher’s daughters have arrived in town and they are coming down to the station. I want to chat with them, and I’d like you to sit in. See if there’s anything that pops into your head that you want to ask them about the situation. Sorry for the short notice, but I only just now found out that they were here. They didn’t tell anyone they were coming.”
“Okay,” I say tiredly. I glance at my watch, see it’s almost seven-thirty, and ask, “What time are they due to arrive?”
“Eight. I can put on a fresh pot of coffee if that helps.”
“It would,” I admit. “Is it okay if I run Roscoe home and then come right back? He could use a long walk and I’m sure P.J. is eager to give him one.”
“Absolutely. I’ll keep the daughters waiting until you get back.”
“I should be back before eight.” With that, I head out the door to my car and take Roscoe home. P.J. is sitting on my front porch waiting for us.
“Thought you’d be home closer to seven,” she says.
“So did I.”
“You going to bed right away?”
“Actually, I’m going back to the station for a while. I’ve got some things to do and since I don’t have to work at the hospital today, I figure I can hold off on sleeping.”
P.J. cocks her head to one side and studies my face. “You look okay, so I suppose you can go back.”
“You suppose I can go back?” I echo sardonically. “What are you, my mother now?”
“No. Your mother is dead.” P.J. says this matter-of-factly, without emotion. It’s a typical response from her, a simple stating of the facts. After uttering her comment, and with me still a bit taken aback by the bluntness of it, she grabs her backpack from the porch step and slings it on; then she takes Roscoe’s leash from my hand and walks him off the porch. “I’ll come by and walk him a couple of times later on today,” she says over her shoulder. “You’ll probably be sleeping by then.” Without another word, she skips off with Roscoe happily trotting along beside her.
I take a moment to run inside the house and hit up the bathroom, checking my face to see if I need a fix-up. While I’m there, I take out the Oreos and the fortune cookie to toss them. On a whim, I decide to tear open the fortune cookie and break it in half to check the fortune. It reads: I see lots of money in your immediate future. I toss it in the trash, and then head back to the police station.
It’s right at eight o’clock by the time I let myself in and make my way to Bob’s office.
“Oh, good,” Bob says. “The daughters got here early. They’ve been waiting out front for about ten minutes now and according to the dispatcher, they are none too happy about it.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like making people wait. If you get them revved up over something, they tend to drop the masks and filters more easily. You get more honest responses that way. You want a cup of coffee before we go in there?”
“Maybe the whole pot,” I say.
“Go get yourself what you want, and I’ll fetch our visitors. Meet me in the conference room.”
I fix myself a cup of coffee with sugar in it—I don’t usually do the sugar unless I need a little extra pick-me-up—and make it into the conference room before Bob or our visitors do. Their imminent arrival becomes apparent a moment later when I hear them arguing as they walk down the hallway.
“Of course, it’s all about you, Ruth,” says an irritated female voice. “It’s always about you, isn’t it? You’re the most selfish, egotistical person I’ve ever met.”
“Seriously, Rebecca?” sneers another feminine and nearly identical voice. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. At least I tried to help Dad out after Mom died. All you did was run off and do what you wanted to do. The hell with everyone else right?”
“I offered to come and help him,” the first voice says, much closer, and consequently, much louder now. “He told me he didn’t need me.”
“That’s because I was doing it all, you moron!”
With that, the door to the conference room opens and a harried-looking Bob Richmond holds it for the two women, who enter the room like cold gusts of wind. They not only sound alike, they look a lot alike. I don’t think they’re twins, but there’s little doubt that they sprang from the same genetic pool. Both are medium height with slender hips and large chests, strawberry blond hair that, judging from the eyebrows and lashes, is their natural color, and huge green eyes. I’d peg them to be around my age, maybe a smidge younger: early to mid-thirties.
After entering the room, they both stop, look at the table, chairs, and then the rest of the room. This garners a grimace from both women before they make for the seat at the head of the table. One woman grabs the chair from the left, the other from the right.
There is a brief tug of war as the two of them glare at one another, their eyes narrowing, their nostrils flaring, like two bulls about to charge.
“That seat is mine,” I say loudly, hoping to defuse the explosion that seems to be building. This isn’t true—most of the other times I’ve been in this room with Bob I sat beside him on the side of the table by the door. The chat with Danny and Allie yesterday is an exception and that was because I wanted to serve as a buffer and keep Roscoe close to me as well as Danny.
The two women turn in unison after my declaration and look at me with identical expressions of dismissive skepticism.
“You ladies can sit on that side of the table,” Bob says, pointing to the far side.
The sisters look back at one another one last time, release their respective grips on the chair, and move to the other side of the table, where each one picks a seat and settles into it, their movements perfectly in sync as if they are operating from some sort of hive mind. This makes me reconsider their relationship. Maybe they’re twins after all, not identical, obviously, but fraternal. They appear to have the type of mind link that twins often share.
I start to move toward the seat at the head of the table, but at the last second, I decide to take one beside Bob instead. I watch the two women for a reaction. The one on the left shrugs and smiles, the one on the right cocks an eyebrow at me and shakes her head.
Bob hits a switch under the table to start up the AV equipment built into the room so we can record the session. He then does the introductions and I learn that the woman on the left is Ruth and the one on the right is Rebecca. I’d wager that Rebecca is the older of the two even if it’s only by a matter of minutes because she has a take-charge attitude, as evidenced by the way she launches the conversation after Bob finishes the introductions.
“I don’t understand why you’ve asked Ruth and me to come into this... this...” She looks around the room and her upper lip curls in disgust. “Ugh.” She shudders. “Why aren’t we allowed to go to the farm? It’s our childhood home and there were cops there who wouldn’t even let us drive onto the property. Aren’t we suffering enough already with the fact of our father’s death?” She glares at Bob, eyebrows raised in question.
Night Shift Page 17