Under the buzzing of the saw, her phone was ringing. She finished the cut through the breastplate and set the saw aside. Her mother’s home number showed as a missed call. It was probably about time for her to check in. Schwartzman rarely called her mother. It wasn’t as though she had news to share or stories to relay.
Her life was work, and her mother had no interest in her work.
It didn’t seem as though her mother enjoyed their conversations any more than Schwartzman, although her mother did gain some satisfaction by sharing the latest society gossip from Greenville. Normally, her mother knew better than to call in the middle of a workday. Probably some bit of news she couldn’t wait to share. Most of the time, Schwartzman didn’t know the people her mother talked about.
Schwartzman lifted her red-handled pruning shears and cut through Delman’s ribs so she could access his heart and lungs. The morgue had a pair of rib cutters, but the handles were solid steel rather than nylon coated. Plus, the morgue’s pair was too large for her small hands and Schwartzman found them uncomfortable and awkward to use. She’d picked up her pair at Ace Hardware. They were perfect.
As she clipped through rib five on Delman’s right side, her phone rang again. The call was her mother again, but this time from her cell phone.
It was unusual for her mother to call twice in a single day, but rarer for her to call from two different lines within a few minutes. It ran contrary to her Southern upbringing. Women should never be hysterical and calling twice in a row was a clear sign of hysteria.
As was leaving your husband for throwing you across the room and killing your unborn child.
At least, in her mother’s mind.
Schwartzman managed to get through the remaining ribs before the phone rang again. The home line this time. What in the world was the bee in her mother’s bonnet? Schwartzman set down the cutters, stripped off her gloves. The phone was still ringing when she stepped on the lever to open the trashcan and dropped the gloves in.
She raised the phone to her ear. “Schwartzman.”
There was the faint sound of breathing. “Mama?”
“Ah, Bella,” came the whispered response. There was no mistaking Spencer MacDonald’s deep, Southern drawl.
Liquid heat pooled in her belly like food gone bad. She could hardly breathe. Shivers scampered across her shoulders and neck like cockroaches in sunlight. She shivered, spinning a full circle in the room. She was alone. Spencer MacDonald was not there; he was not in that room.
He was not even in the same state.
She was in the morgue. Alone. He was—she pulled the phone away from her ear and read the screen. Mama Home. He was in her mother’s home.
“Bella?”
She considered hanging up. But this was her mother’s home. She breathed in. “Where is my mother?”
“Bella,” he said again, like a sigh.
She set the phone, facedown, on an empty autopsy table and walked away. She couldn’t hang up. What if he’d done something to her mother. He had it in him, she knew he did. She fought off her repulsion. There is no Bella here, she told herself. You are not Bella. You might have been her once, but you are not Bella. Bella is dead. Just like her daughter.
He was calling that name again. His voice reverberated against the metal autopsy table, but she made no move for the phone. He could sit there on that line until she figured out what to do. But she would not speak to him again. He could not make her do that.
She would have to change her phone number again. That was nothing new. She had changed her number three times since she’d left Greenville seven years four months ago. She’d tried the restraining order route, but Spencer always found a way around that. Like calling from one of the local hospitals or the home of one of their old friends. Once, his voice had come across on a call from her credit card company. This was the first time he’d called from her mother’s home. Her mother.
She lifted the phone. He was there.
“Bella, Bella, Bella,” like cheering for some pathetic team.
Schwartzman drew a breath. “Let me speak to my mother.”
“Oh, so you are there. Well, it’s lucky you picked back up. You see, your mother can’t talk right now. That’s why I was calling.”
“Explain,” she demanded, struggling to ignore the physiological reactions she had to his voice. The accelerated breathing of hyperventilation, the constriction of peripheral blood vessels which made her cheeks flush, the increased muscle tension. The piloerection—or goose bumps—were explained by the contraction of the muscles that attached to each hair follicle.
Even with all of her knowledge, she was helpless to counteract these reactions in her own body.
“Your mama, she went to the hospital this morning with chest pain, Bella. How come you didn’t know that and I—”
Schwartzman ended the call. She held the phone in her fist and forced deep breaths until her pulse no longer drummed in her ears. Her mother’s physician was Dr. Hayes at St. Francis. That should be her first call. If she called an ambulance, they might have taken her to Memorial. The phone rang again. She sent the call to voicemail. Her finger barely trembled at all, her head triumphing over the fear.
She Googled Greenville Memorial and called the main number. When the operator answered, Schwartzman told her she was looking for a patient who was admitted with chest pain. “Her name is Georgia Schwartzman.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t have any patient with that name.”
Schwartzman paused.
“Ma’am.”
“Can you try under Montgomery? Georgia Montgomery.”
“Sure thing.”
It was well known that her mother had never loved the name Schwartzman but changing it—even after her father’s death—would be out of character.
“No. No listing.”
Schwartzman called Dr. Hayes’s office next and asked where Hayes would have sent her. They said Memorial. “They don’t have her listed. Do you have any record that she called in? This is her daughter, Dr. Annabelle Schwartzman. I’m calling from California.”
“Bella?”
Schwartzman didn’t answer. Dyspepsia fluttered its butterfly wings in her stomach. The muscle tension returned. It was like she was caught in some intricate ruse. It should have been impossible, but she had learned not to underestimate Spencer MacDonald.
“Is that Bella?” the woman said again. “It’s Shelly Smith. It’s been a long time, but I spent a lot of time with your dad when he was sick. Stayed at the house there at the end. Maybe you don’t remember me?”
Schwartzman forced a long exhale. “Of course, Shelly. I’m sorry I’d forgotten.” She strained to find a visual memory of someone named Shelly but came up empty. She wasn’t certain if this was all part of some Spencer plan. “Have you heard from my mother today?”
“I have not, but let me check with the other nurses.” Shelly placed Schwartzman on hold to check with Dr. Hayes’s staff. She returned a minute later. “No. No calls to us today, and we haven’t received notification from the hospitals either. They would contact Dr. Hayes as her primary care provider if she were brought in.”
Unless she was unconscious and couldn’t provide a name. Spencer knew where she was. Would Spencer ruin good graces with her mother to pull one over on her?
Or was this him pulling some stunt?
Part of his latest plan to get inside her head?
If so, how was he calling from her mother’s house? Where was her mother?
She mumbled something that couldn’t have been fully coherent and hung up. Though Shelly had assured her that her mother wasn’t at any of the local hospitals, Schwartzman found the number for St. Francis and called them, too.
No Georgia Schwartzman there either.
The phone buzzed again in her hand. Four missed calls from her mother’s home number. Four voicemails. She’d have to get another phone later today. Spencer wouldn’t let up. He’d call day and night. She no longer kept a landlin
e at home, so the cell phone was how her team got ahold of her. She’d keep a close watch on the phone numbers and hope he didn’t find a way to route a call through the San Francisco Police Department. At least he was in Greenville.
Right now, anyway.
She wasn’t sure she’d be able to ignore Spencer. If she couldn’t figure out a way to get in contact with her mother, she’d be forced to call him.
Her mind was already working on the process of changing her number. She’d have to get the new number out to colleagues. She’d use the same excuse she always did with her first number change in a new city. Tell them she was switching to a local number from her current one with the Seattle area code.
She had known he’d find her eventually. In hindsight, this had been a relatively long hiatus. Almost six months had passed since the last time Spencer had sniffed her out. If he was back, it was unlikely that he’d give up after one contact. Every time she answered a phone—her work line, her mobile—she’d been waiting to hear that voice.
The morgue door slammed open against the inside wall. Schwartzman jumped.
Hal Harris halted in the doorway. He scanned the room. “You okay?”
She willed herself not to cry.
“Someone here?”
The phone buzzed in her hand again. Startled, she let it fall to the floor.
Hal crossed the room and picked it up. She made no move to reach for it. The phone looked tiny in his hand, and as he swiped his thumb across the screen, it covered the contact image of her mother entirely. “Inspector Harris,” he answered.
Schwartzman backed away.
“She’s right here.” He lowered the phone, covering it with a huge hand. “It’s your mother.”
Schwartzman stared at the phone sandwiched between his palms. “Are you sure?”
Hal frowned. “I don’t know your mom, so I’m not totally sure. But it’s an older woman, and she said she was your mother. You want me to ask her some questions to be sure?”
Schwartzman reached for the phone and pressed the speaker button. “Hello?”
“Annabelle, are you all right?” Her mother’s voice.
She scrambled to shut off the speaker and pressed the phone to her ear. “I’m fine. I was worried about you. I heard you were in the hospital?”
“What on earth would make you think that? I’m at home.”
Schwartzman exhaled. The ruse hadn’t been that he knew where her mother was and she didn’t. The ruse was that her mother was fine. “Alone?” she asked.
Hal pointed to the door. She shook her head and put up one finger.
“I had some guests for lunch,” she said. There was a little slur in her voice. Spencer was great at pouring drinks for guests. She couldn’t count the times she’d watched him get guests smashed to squeeze some tidbit of information from them.
“We were out in the garden,” her mother went on. “The gardenias and the ginger lilies are blooming, and the smell is glorious. Cornelia cooked up the most delicious grilled lamb chops with a lemon tarragon aioli and orange gremolata. We indulged in some wine.” She laughed. “Maybe a bit too much, but it isn’t as though I’ve got to go to work. I’ll have plenty of time to take a little rest before the auxiliary meeting this evening. We’re planning for the annual fundraising ball at the club. You ought to consider coming home—”
“I’m at work,” Schwartzman interrupted.
“Well, of course you are. You are usually at work, aren’t you, Annabelle? I shall let you go on and get back to your important work.”
“Well, and we don’t want to keep your guests waiting,” Schwartzman countered.
“Oh, no. They’ve all gone home. I only called because it appeared that you were trying to reach me—rather frantically, from the number of missed calls.”
“Missed calls? I didn’t dial—” How could Spencer have made it look as though she’d called her mother? Reprogrammed another number in as hers. Put in his own number as hers. He hadn’t been particularly tech savvy when they were married. She refused to imagine he was better with technology. The idea was terrifying.
“Really, Annabelle. I don’t know why you’re so frantic.”
Schwartzman closed her mouth. Frantic. Synonym for hysterical.
“I’ll give you a call tonight,” Schwartzman told her mother.
“I may not answer,” her mother warned as though speaking to a young child. “It’s the auxiliary meeting, remember? I wouldn’t want you to start fretting again if you can’t reach me.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. Goodbye.”
Her mother made a last tittering. Those were the noises of a Southern woman, striving to come across light and carefree and also charmed by whomever she was speaking with.
Schwartzman hated those sounds.
She set the phone on the counter. There would be no arguing with her mother about Spencer. Her mother had Spencer MacDonald to lunch. Spencer had been bold to take her number from her mother’s phone. He had assumed that Schwartzman wouldn’t tell her mother about it.
He was correct. It wouldn’t do any good.
Her mother was a staunch MacDonald supporter.
After coming to the hospital that night—after his brutal attack—her mother believed he was innocent. Her mother had listened as the doctor outlined her daughter’s injuries. She had witnessed firsthand what Spencer MacDonald had done to her daughter. To his wife.
Her mother let him into her house after he had killed her first granddaughter. She invited him to lunch for God’s sake. By inviting him to lunch, her mother had given him access to her phone number. And who knew what else.
How vulnerable was she to Spencer?
Did Spencer have her address?
Sweat broke out on her upper lip. Lightheaded, she moved toward her chair. Would changing her phone number be enough or would she have to move yet again?
“You okay?”
“I—”
“It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t need to explain.”
She opened her mouth to say something. Anything to deflect the attention.
“I may not be the person you want to talk to about—” He motioned to the phone, “—whatever that was. But I am always willing.”
She didn’t answer.
“And Hailey’s good, too. You might not feel it, but you’re one of us now. We protect our own.” He gave her a smile.
“Hal—”
“Yes, ma’am?”
She wanted to say thank you. She didn’t think anyone had ever reached out to her that way. Not what she expected from someone who looked like Hal. After Spencer, she should have known better than to judge a man by his appearance. But she couldn’t bring herself to reach out for help. Instead, she asked, “Did you come down for something?”
“You know, I did,” Hal said. “I was checking on Delman. We’re working on how he got over to City Academy. His car wasn’t there, and he wasn’t scheduled to work yesterday. You run a tox panel yet?”
“I did.” She crossed to the computer and signed in. She found the lab request and opened it to see if it had been completed. “Looks like it came in about a half-hour ago.”
Hal stood at a distance. “Anything interesting?”
Schwartzman waved him over. “There is. Check this out.”
Hal joined her as she pointed to the notation on the report. “The tox screen shows presence of a phenothiazine.”
“What’s a pheno-whatever?”
Schwartzman tried to make sense of it. “It’s an antipsychotic. Did Delman have a mental disorder?”
“Not that I know of,” Hal said. “You’re not talking about depression or something?”
“No. This class of drug would be for managing psychosis, like schizophrenia or bipolar disease.”
“Can we tell how much he was taking?”
Schwartzman studied the numbers. The level was high, but there was no indication of prolonged use. “It doesn’t look like he’d been on it for long, but I’d have to
call the lab to ask if they can pinpoint it more exactly.”
“Is it possible that Delman was drugged?”
“It’s possible,” she confirmed. “Phenothiazines are also sometimes used as tranquilizers if a patient is amped up on illicit drugs or suffering from a brief psychotic episode. It would have been administered at a hospital though.”
“I’ll send a request to the local hospitals to see if they treated someone with Delman’s description.” Hal’s mind seemed to be turning. “What about the bullet wound?” he asked. “Is there a chance that Delman wasn’t shot at the school?”
She hesitated. “It is possible. The shot wasn’t a through and through, so the blood was contained in the abdominal cavity.” She returned to the body. “But it isn’t probable. Liver temp suggested he’d only been dead a short while when I arrived. But Roger has his clothes, so he should probably run a check for transfer. It’s more likely that he was transferred to the school, unconscious, and shot there.”
“But the drug would be powerful enough to render him unconscious.”
“Absolutely,” Schwartzman said.
“Okay,” Hal said, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll go talk to Roger.”
“And I’ll see if I can find any trace evidence on his skin or hair to give us a clue to how he was transported to the school,” Schwartzman said.
“Keep me posted, then.”
“Will do, Hal.”
With that, Schwartzman gave Delman her complete focus. Her job was always her best shot at shutting out Spencer’s most recent assault… at least until his next one.
Chapter 25
Jamie had been up most of the night. Every time her eyes closed, that mitt was there. The smeared blood on the window of Sondra’s Mercedes. Once, she woke to a nightmare in which a ten-year-old Zephenaya stood over the body of Charlotte Borden. At 6:00 a.m., she gave up on sleep and got out of bed. She crossed the hall to her son’s room and let herself in. Sat on his bed.
He didn’t move.
“Z,” she said.
His breathing deepened, then returned to normal. It was amazing how teenagers could sleep. Under different circumstances, she would have thought it amusing. She shook him harder. “Zephenaya.”
Everything to Lose Page 17