Expose (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 3)

by Danielle Girard

  Her report went further to compare the angle at which the blade had entered the bodies, another indication that Malik Washington’s injury was likely caused by someone with less upper-body strength, which required that the blade be swung harder in order to penetrate. Schwartzman had also laid out other scenarios in which the attacker or the victim might have been moving or in a lowered position—bent over or crouched or seated—and that it was also possible, though less likely, that the wounds had been perpetrated by the same attacker.

  What the report didn’t say was that Schwartzman found it impossible to imagine Tabitha Wilson as a killer at all. That was, of course, outside her purview as the medical examiner. And she would be wrong. Bitty had confessed to killing Malik Washington—admitted that, in her desperation, she had struggled with him to gain access to the theater. The weapon had been in her hand, she recounted. She had slid it between the door and the frame to keep him from shutting it. And then the blade had been in Malik Washington. Bitty had been certain Bao was watching her when she left the park with Kaelen, although they’d found no evidence of that.

  Bitty Wilson had also testified that Deming Bao had stabbed Malcolm Wei when the two had gotten into an argument in the hotel room. Malcolm Wei reported that he knew nothing about the two women or Bao’s history, only that Bao had requested Wei take his place as keynote speaker a few days before the conference. Wei was told Bao had a room reserved for him, and that he need only show his passport and request a key at the desk. The front desk staff had been alerted that Malcolm Wei would be joining Tabitha Wilson in her room. Wei was the bait to enable Bao to locate Bitty in the crowd. Why Bao had chosen to make the reservation in her name would remain a mystery.

  According to Wilson, Bao had broken Parveen Yasmin’s neck in the basement. Bitty claimed that Bao had bragged about finding Yasmin on her way to the hotel’s security office. He recognized her from his surveillance of Aleena Laughlin, but Bao had told Wilson later, when he tortured her in the professor’s basement, that it was the fear in Yasmin’s eyes that gave her away. Knowing Yasmin was there to foil his plans, Bao had lured her into the storage room and strangled her.

  They had not determined how Parveen Yasmin came to find Deming Bao at the hotel—whether she had seen the conference information on Aleena’s computer that day or if Aleena had written something down that led Parveen to the Century Hotel. Phyllis suggested it might have had something to do with protecting Aleena’s honor. It was possible that Parveen thought Deming Bao and Aleena were romantically involved. She might have withheld evidence in an effort to protect Aleena’s reputation.

  For her part, Schwartzman kept imagining herself sharing an awkward conversation with Ken Macy as she waited for the motorcycle and rider to be pulled from the pond. Standing in the rain and cold, Schwartzman had been bundled under her umbrella, while over the hill and unseen to them, a woman lay naked and dying. She was three hundred feet away as the crow flies.

  What if she’d driven out of the park a bit sooner? What if any of them had? Surely the police cars would have spotted the boy in distress. Would they have been able to save Aleena?

  This train of thought led her to wonder how things would have been different had she been the one to stumble upon the boy in the car. Had Bitty Wilson arrived later, Aleena Laughlin would have been dead already. But Malik Washington, Parveen Yasmin, Deming Bao, George Ramseyer—they might have all lived.

  In his investigation, Hal learned that Deming Bao had been tormented at the orphanage for his dark skin and Asian eyes. A group of older boys had been especially masochistic, often holding him prisoner in a basement room for days at a time, burning and cutting him before releasing him and threatening to kill him if he told anyone.

  Somehow, Deming Bao had managed to finish his college degree at age fifteen and was offered a place at the university’s graduate program the following year, right before he turned sixteen. It was then that he was able to leave the orphanage. Bao’s torture had lasted for his entire time there.

  At the age of twenty-one, while working through a second master’s in engineering and robotics in Germany, he was arrested in conjunction with the investigation of a prostitute who had been held in an abandoned apartment for three weeks while she was tortured and raped. The prosecutors didn’t have enough evidence to try Bao, and he was able to leave Germany. He turned to his father, in Berkeley.

  George Ramseyer did his best to protect his broken son, letting him stay at his home while the professor went on sabbatical. Unfortunately, after the assaults of Aleena Safar and Tabitha Jones, Bao had to leave Berkeley as well. With Ramseyer’s financial help, Bao settled in Shanghai, where he had remained for almost fifteen years, until the success of ANS Optera brought him back to San Francisco.

  With new evidence, the Berkeley police had reopened the hit-and-run death of Susan Slade. It turned out the make and model of George Ramseyer’s Mercedes was a good match for the injuries that had killed her. On the night of Slade’s death, Ramseyer’s small stature and longish hair might have caused him to be mistaken for an older woman. Considering everything Ramseyer went through for Bao, Schwartzman didn’t doubt that he might have killed a grad student to protect his son.

  There were some answers they might never have. Jeffrey Gordon, the hotel employee, testified that he had gotten a call offering him $500 in cash to pick up Malcolm Wei in the penthouse and take him to the back of the hotel, where an ambulance would take him to the hospital. Gordon’s only other task was to keep his mouth shut.

  Wei had no memory of who had cared for him in the penthouse, and Jeffrey Gordon could offer no clue about whom he had spoken to on the phone. Bao would have been gone by then, having brought Bitty Wilson back to Berkeley. The hotel cameras showed no sign of George Ramseyer, but the privacy of access to the penthouse meant they might never know the identity of the accomplice. Nor would they be able to confirm the origin of the weapon, the Chinese ji, though it was safe to assume Ramseyer had acquired it during his travels.

  Schwartzman and Hal spent most evenings together, though they didn’t talk about the case or the terrifying minutes they’d spent in the basement. The images of George Ramseyer’s exploding head flashed in her mind, as did the salty taste of his blood and tissue.

  Nor did they talk about Thanksgiving. It had been three weeks since the night they had spent together, but since then, they’d maneuvered to a sort of middle place. A purgatory.

  They had agreed to take some time. Well, she had told him she needed time, and he had agreed. What choice did he have?

  Schwartzman had been so certain of herself on the ride home from Tasha’s house, so confident that they could make a run of it. That they should be together. She loved Hal, loved him more than she’d ever loved a man other than her father. And his feelings for her were strong as well. Wasn’t that all they needed?

  And then there were the hours spent with Bitty Wilson after her imprisonment. Schwartzman had listened as she’d described what had happened to her at the hands of Deming Bao all those years ago.

  What it had done to her.

  For years, Bitty Wilson had been haunted by those memories. She feared that Deming Bao would be back, but worse than that, she couldn’t get rid of him, even if he weren’t physically near. The insomnia, the nightmares. She had been unable to make friends, unable to tell her husband . . . to tell anyone. She had wanted to die, prayed for it. And then she was pregnant with her son. She survived. But what kind of life had it been? Isolated, terrified . . .

  Listening to Tabitha Wilson brought it all back for Schwartzman. She wanted to tell Tabitha that she could get over it. But would she? Could Schwartzman get over what Spencer had done to her? Could she make Hal understand the damage it had done? How it had stayed with her?

  Bitty Wilson had killed an innocent man. Malik Washington did not deserve to die. He had nothing but good things ahead of him, and she had taken that from him. From his parents, his sisters. Her defense would argue temporary
insanity—a reasonable plea. Bitty Wilson had been unhinged. Whatever horrors had happened in that basement in Berkeley had scarred her permanently.

  The night she and Hal had found Tabitha in Ramseyer’s basement, they had returned to Schwartzman’s house, and Hal had spent the night. He held her, and she tried to feel safe in his arms. She wanted to. But the fear remained. On Sunday, she had told him she needed a little time. And while he was clearly disappointed, he understood. She’d been through a lot—too much. The last man she’d dated, Ken Macy, had ended up with eighteen stab wounds to his chest.

  Three weeks had passed since she’d asked for more time. She didn’t know what she would do. What if she was like Bitty? What if Spencer haunted her forever? What if she could never get over what he had done to her? That wasn’t fair to Hal. She couldn’t ask him to live that way. She didn’t even know how to try.

  She was trying to zip up her dress when Hal arrived to pick her up for their “date,” although she still didn’t know how to classify what tonight was. They’d been invited to a holiday party in Aleena’s honor, hosted by Ben and Phyllis Johnson. He was early.

  “We’ve got a little time,” he said at the front door. Dressed in a sports coat and jeans, he looked so handsome. It broke her heart a little. Made her hate herself.

  “Maybe we should have a drink before we go?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Can I pour you a glass of wine?” he asked.

  “That would be great.”

  She followed him to the kitchen. In her stocking feet, she stretched her arms back for the zipper.

  “Let me,” he said, and she hesitated.

  He smiled softly. “I won’t bite.”

  Nervous, she moved her hair over one shoulder. His fingertips brushed her skin, and a breathy noise escaped from her throat. He cupped the back of her neck, his breath in her hair.

  “Anna.”

  She closed her eyes as he spun her around. His eyes searched hers.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  “I am, too,” he said, his lips almost touching hers.

  She gripped his hand. “I couldn’t survive if something happened to you.”

  “I’m not afraid of Spencer.”

  She examined his expression for a hint of fear. He wasn’t lying. He wasn’t afraid. “You should be.”

  “He left town for a day and came back, and we knew about it. Price is watching him. We’ll know before he makes a move. And we’ll be ready.”

  She let go of his hand and shook her head. “You make it sound so easy.”

  Hal caught her before she walked away. He took hold of her chin and brought his lips to hers, kissing her softly. His eyes closed, and she breathed him in, against her fear.

  “I’m afraid of losing this, of not taking this chance,” Hal whispered.

  “Ken Macy almost died because he went out with me,” she said, forcing the distance between them. “It wasn’t even a date. We bumped into each other on the street and shared a meal. That was it.”

  Hal pushed his forehead to hers. “I can take care of myself, Anna.”

  “So could Ken.”

  “You can’t keep me safe by keeping me away. If he shows up, I’m going to be right here, whether or not we’re together.”

  She closed her eyes. He was right. Spencer might decide to target Hal because they worked together. Because Hal came to her house. Because they were friends. So what was the sense in pushing him away? Why give up what they had, what they might have, in order to protect him?

  Because she would die if something happened to him.

  If Spencer shows up, you might die anyway.

  “I need a little more time,” she whispered, wanting to give in, to banish her fears and be with him.

  There was a soft groan from his throat. “More time it is.”

  She kissed his cheek and took the glass of wine from his hand. He opened the refrigerator and bent down for one of the Guinness she kept stocked there. He opened the can and tapped the aluminum to her glass. “To the future,” he said with a wink.

  “To the future,” she agreed.

  They settled in the living room and finished their drinks. Then he helped her into her coat, and they headed to celebrate the holiday with the family of Aleena Laughlin.

  53

  Four weeks later

  Schwartzman woke early and stayed in bed to read a piece in the New York Times before her yoga class. Curled in the window seat, the sky still dark, she read the article profiling Aleena Laughlin. At least something good had come from all of this. Kaelen and Naadiya were reunited with their father, and the world—or at least the New York Times–reading portion of it—would get a chance to read about a couple who had risen above the divisiveness of race and religion.

  She had hoped the story might boost her spirits. She’d been under the weather. Perhaps the cold days, as well as spending the holidays alone while her mother stayed in Greenville, had been harder on her than she’d realized, so she’d chalked her aches up to stress and the season. But she normally loved January. The weekend before she and Hal had taken a drizzling hike along the Dipsea, her favorite trail, and then they’d had dinner at a pizza place over in Sausalito. They had yet to sleep together again. She wanted to take it slow. Her career with the SFPD was her life, and she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.

  She couldn’t. She’d come too far.

  But that wasn’t the real reason she hadn’t committed to him. Hal had become the brightest thing in her life. She did not want to lose him. She could not survive if she lost him. And she couldn’t live with herself if she couldn’t give herself to him fully. If she couldn’t get over her own history.

  Hal had been understanding and patient, and she was easing into the idea of being a couple. Of committing.

  It wasn’t like a light switch. She had no flash of realization. It was more like a dawn, the slow emergence of light from darkness, the subtle colors that rose in the sky. She had to be with Hal. It was not a choice. Not if she wanted to be happy.

  And she did want to be happy. From the time she was a girl, she had pursued the things she loved. Reading, school, explorations of things that were foreign to her, her love of the body and the ways in which it failed.

  The worst times in her life had one thing in common: she had done something that someone else wanted her to do instead of listening to her own gut. But she was done with that. If Spencer came, he would come.

  They would deal with him. She and Hal.

  It was as though a fog had cleared. She’d been shortsighted to worry that they couldn’t conquer this together. They could. They would. She was in love with Hal Harris. She wanted to be with him. She was certain of that now.

  They had made plans to stay in tonight, to celebrate her birthday, which was next week. This weekend she would tell him. She would commit to him. The realization gave her butterflies.

  It had been a long week. She had worked three different suicides and two aggravated assaults that had escalated to homicide. Hal’s caseload kept him busy. He would have to work today, so they would be mellow tonight. Cook, watch a movie. She’d been feeling off all week with some sort of flu that made her nauseated and tired. But she thought it was passing.

  She would invite Hal to stay tonight. It would be the first time since Thanksgiving, and it made her feel like a schoolgirl, her stomach aflutter.

  She got out of bed and went into the kitchen. Scooping food into Buster’s bowl, she recoiled from the smell of the chicken ingredient. She popped one of the Nespresso capsules into the machine and waited for the familiar hiss to begin. Another wave of nausea hit her, and she pulled a yogurt from the fridge. She left the coffee untouched and headed out to yoga, hoping she would feel better after a little exercise.

  In class, the nausea persisted. She could go back to bed. But she was hungry, too. At the store, she picked up a loaf of wheat bread and peanut butter and jelly. Odd that she was craving the chi
ldhood concoction. As she walked toward the cash registers, she passed a pregnant woman.

  Schwartzman’s gaze held on the round of the woman’s belly.

  Pregnant.

  Oh, God.

  She thought of the smells. She avoided drinking coffee, avoided people at work when they were drinking it. And not only coffee—the smell of the street vendor with his Thai food when she walked to the little market, the fish section inside. It made her sick to go too long without food. She looked down at her cart. She craved peanut butter and jelly.

  What an idiot she was.

  Thanksgiving night with Hal. They’d had unprotected sex. She tried to remember what had gone through her mind, how she’d let it happen.

  It was only one time.

  Damn it. You’re a doctor. You know it only takes once.

  But it didn’t feel real. Or possible.

  Her body played tricks on her all the time. When she’d moved to Seattle, she hadn’t had a period in months. Terrified she’d somehow gotten pregnant in the last days with Spencer, she’d taken a dozen pregnancy tests. It turned out to be stress.

  Just like now. It had to be stress. To be sure, she bought two pregnancy tests along with the sandwich fixings.

  At home, she drank two tall glasses of water, made a sandwich, and ate it with a glass of milk. She thought about Hal. Shouldn’t he be there for this?

  How would he feel about a baby? They’d barely talked about how they would handle the relationship with their work. In the past two months, they’d simply talked about if they wanted to be together enough to confront the challenges there.

  He made it clear that he did.

  And she did, too. She knew she did. But fear slowed her decisions. Look what had happened with Ken Macy.