“What do you mean?”
“Her name is Carrie Sketcher.”
“Why no. I didn’t know that.”
Pamela stopped moving and fixed her eyes on the table—almost in a trance. She didn’t blink. Her manicured hands remained poised just inches from her teacup. Charlie watched her snap back to the present with a shake of the head. Pamela’s eyes darted to Charlie, assessing whether her zone-out had been noticed.
“She had her own business and good connections in the city. I knew she was a few years older than Peter,” Pamela said with a brief smile. “But otherwise, uh, Karen was one of Peter’s more acceptable companions.”
“Acceptable enough to be at Peter’s memorial service yesterday,” Charlie stated.
“Yes. She was there. Were you?”
“I was parked across the street. I wanted to see if anyone out of the ordinary showed up.”
“I see. That shows a lot of initiative.”
Suddenly Pamela’s eyes filled with tears. She wiped at them with her napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be,” Charlie said.
“Have . . . have you spoken to Franklin again?”
The tears reappeared.
“No,” Charlie lied, and changed the subject. “We also met with Peter’s other woman friend. You mentioned her in our first meeting.”
“What?” Pamela tried to focus on Charlie’s face.
“Lainey Pratt. She seemed to really care about Peter.”
“I heard him speak of Lainey, but we never met,” Pamela said regaining her composure.
“And one final note. My partner, Don, is following a lead from the police about a possible suspect. He’s on his way now to Toronto to investigate.”
# # #
“That’s a lot of paper,” Charlie said, staring at the table.
Judy had commandeered the conference table, and it was layered in papers, folders, alphabetized dividers, and clips.
“Yeah. I’m starting to organize the individual files on people of interest in this case. We have quite a menagerie of suspects. How’s Pamela?”
“Distraught.”
“That’s a copy of the master list of files,” Judy said, pointing.
“Stanford and Pamela Fairchild, Karen Scanlon, Caesar Sturdivant, and Franklin Rogers?” Charlie asked, looking up from the list.
“I thought we should keep Franklin on the list.”
“Right. Of course. Have you heard from Don?”
“He called at noon. He was at the outskirts of Hamilton, Ontario, where he stopped to get something to eat. He’s probably in Toronto by now.”
“How’s the research on Pamela?”
“I started checking, but it’s not going to be easy. Most of the time, with a bit of nudging, you can find someone happy to give a negative report. That’s not been the case with Pamela. No one’s called her warm and friendly, but the people I’ve spoken to say she’s generous with her time and money, and does what she says she’s going to do. I checked her school records, reviewed her foundation’s 501(c)(3) paperwork, and looked into her financials. I even paid someone to visit the salon where she gets her nails done. So far she’s clean, Charlie.”
“What about those withdrawals she made?”
“I’m still looking into that. The account’s in her name because it’s part of her trust fund. But it may be that other people can make withdrawals.”
“Okay. And Stanford?”
“One of our subcontractors is working on a dossier. We should have it this afternoon.”
Charlie nodded. “Pamela did this weird zone-out thing when I met with her today.”
“Zone-out thing?”
“I don’t know what else to call it. One minute she was talking to me, and the next she was somewhere else.”
“She’s got a lot on her mind,” Judy said. “What were you talking about when she started, uh, daydreaming?”
“Karen Scanlon.”
# # #
Ernestine had insisted Charlie come by her apartment. She said it was important. Charlie waved at the front desk ladies and headed to the elevator.
“Your mother’s waiting for you,” one of the ladies beamed. “She has company and wants to surprise you.”
So much for the surprise. Charlie really loved her mother’s independent living facility, and the people who ran it, but it was very hard to keep your business to yourself. It was one of the things her mother regularly complained about. Charlie normally let herself in when she visited her mother, but since Ernestine had company she knocked. Her mother opened the door, looking anxious.
“Hi, Mom.” Charlie looked over her mother’s shoulder to the dining room and saw Franklin’s mother. “What’s going on?”
“Come on in, Charlene. Don isn’t with you?”
“No, he had to go out of town.”
“Sylvia wants to speak with you.”
Charlie joined the two at the dining table for a cup of tea. Mrs. Rogers looked thinner and more tired than she had just a few days before. Charlie waited until Franklin’s mother was ready to speak.
“I think someone is spying on us. I’ve seen a car at our curb twice in the last few days, and my phone seems to be acting up. Your mother said you wanted us to be careful on the phone, so I thought you’d want to know, and I didn’t want to call.”
“It’s very likely the police, Mrs. Rogers.”
“That’s what your mother said. They think we know where Franklin is.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes and no. Percy knows, but he won’t tell me. I’m worried, Charlie. What if the people outside my house aren’t the police? Yesterday, a man came to our door saying he worked for a newspaper, but I didn’t like the looks of him. I told Franklin about it, and he wants me and Percy to go out of town for a while. He said now that there’s a reward for information leading to his capture, all kinds of crazy people might start bothering us.”
Charlie stood to stretch her back. She’d been sitting a lot, and standing helped her think.
“Franklin left a message for me at my office yesterday,” Charlie said to Sylvia. “I called back, but I haven’t heard from him. Do you know why he called?”
“Like I said, he’s worried about me and his father. He’s thinking of giving himself up so people will stop harassing us.”
“It’s a very good idea for him to surrender to the police. You think he’s ready?”
“Yes. But . . . Charlie, would you go with Franklin if he turns himself in?”
“Of course. I’ve already told him that.”
Now Sylvia rose and rounded the table to stand next to Charlie. Ernestine shifted in her chair and locked eyes with her daughter.
“Did you hear that, son?” Sylvia shouted. “Charlie will go with you.”
“I heard.”
Charlie spun as Franklin stepped out of the half-bath where he’d been hidden. He wore a long brown coat, hat, and a beard, and he’d shaved his head. He looked haggard, but not as edgy as the other night.
“Franklin! Why all the cloak and dagger? And why would you come to my mother’s apartment if you think someone’s after you?” Charlie was angry.
Ernestine interrupted. “It’s my fault, Charlene. I told Sylvia to bring Franklin here today. No one would think of looking for him here.”
“I’m sure all the ladies downstairs saw him, mom. You know how much they gossip. This place is a fishbowl.”
Charlie turned to Franklin. “It was a foolhardy thing to do. I think I’m also being followed. Probably by the same people you’re afraid of—the ones who want to keep you from revealing your suspicions about Fairchild. Let’s get out of here, Franklin. Now.”
They left without a goodbye. Charlie led Franklin to the stairs and down to the first floor, then hurried through the lobby to the front entrance.
“You wait here. I’ll bring the car around.”
Charlie turned the corner of the building, trotting through the parking lot, almost r
eaching the Corvette when two shots rang out in quick succession. She darted back toward the entrance but stopped when she saw Franklin heading her way, running in a crouch, holding his left arm. Charlie heard the squeal of tires and shouts from people nearby. She clicked the fob to unlock the car as she ran, jumped in, fired up the engine and burned rubber in Franklin’s direction. She screeched to a halt, leaning over to open the door. Franklin tumbled in and slumped.
“I’m shot, Charlie.”
“Hold on.”
Charlie sped to the lot entrance, braked the ’Vette to check for traffic, and blasted out onto West Grand Boulevard. She was at 50 mph before she checked her rearview mirror. She raced another block on the Boulevard, then doubled back.
“Why are we going back?”
“We’re not. I’m taking you to the nearest hospital. That’s Henry Ford.”
Blood oozed through the grip Franklin had on his arm. Charlie unwrapped the scarf from her neck. “Here, use this. Keep pressure on the wound.”
At two o’clock on Tuesday, a dozen people filled the chairs in the emergency room. Charlie guided Franklin past the guard and up to the intake counter.
“I have a gunshot wound here,” Charlie said.
The front-desk nurse jumped quickly into action. She shouted a code into the loudspeaker and rounded the counter with a wheelchair. The nurse and Charlie helped Franklin into the chair as all eyes in the emergency room took in the drama. Even the people who appeared lethargic and ill sat on the edge of their seats. Moments later, an attendant burst through the reception door.
“Gunshot wound, upper arm,” the reception nurse said with urgency.
The attendant pushed the wheelchair to a set of double doors where he scanned a badge and they slid open. He dashed through with Franklin, followed by the nurse and Charlie at a run. In the examination room the nurse cut Charlie’s blood-soaked scarf from Franklin’s arm and threw it to the floor, then carefully removed Franklin’s coat. They were joined by an emergency-room nurse who, with the desk nurse and attendant, lifted Franklin onto a gurney. The ER nurse cleaned the blood from Franklin’s arm to see the wound. The staff, in emergency mode, was grabbing gauze, inserting needles for an IV, and checking Franklin’s vital signs.
“Follow me,” the reception nurse said, shoving a clipboard into Charlie’s hands. The nurse pointed to a chair in the hall and sat next to Charlie. “I need you to fill out that form. Are you a relative?”
Charlie paused.
“If you’re not a relative, we need to get in touch with one, pronto!”
“I . . . I’m his wife.”
The nurse’s eyes indicated she didn’t believe Charlie, but she pointed to the form. “I need just the vital info. His name, address, age, is he taking any meds, does he have any allergies. Also, I have to call the police. That’s standard with a gunshot injury.”
Charlie nodded and reached for the business card in her jeans. “Could you call him?”
The nurse looked at Detective Wallace’s business card. “I’ll call him now. You stay here. Your friend is going to be okay. He’s lost quite a bit of blood. That’s the main thing to be concerned with.”
The nurse rose and took two steps toward a phone at the wall. “What’s your name?”
“Charlene Mack.”
“And his?” The nurse nodded toward the interior room.
Charlie hesitated.
“It’s Rogers, isn’t it?”
Charlie confirmed the nurse’s suspicions with a nod.
# # #
Wallace stared at Charlie and crossed his legs. His coat, hat, and demeanor gave him away as a cop, so people in the emergency room gave the couple a wide berth. Two uniformed officers stood inside the reception door, and Charlie saw the blinking lights of patrol cars through the front entrance.
“You know I could arrest you for obstruction, aiding and abetting, and harboring a criminal,” he commented.
Charlie let a blink say I’m sorry. “Under the circumstances, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You were at the meeting, Ms. Mack. We’re supposed to be helping each other.”
“I told Franklin he should give himself up.”
“When he was with you this time, or the time before?”
“So you are monitoring the Rogers’s phones?”
“We’re following the protocols.”
They stared at each other for a few moments. Wallace removed his coat and folded it on the chair next to him.
“Don says you’ve noticed anomalies in the case, and you’re trying to help us,” Charlie said.
Wallace nodded. “Is he on his way to Toronto?”
“He is. When can I see Franklin?”
“He’s in recovery. They’ll be moving him to a private room.”
“Someone took a shot at him, detective. He needs twenty-four-hour protection.”
“We’re aware of that, Ms. Mack. Who do you think is after him?”
Charlie looked away. The emergency room was now on full tilt. The last time she’d been in this environment, she was recovering from a blow to the head that left her unconscious. The involuntary shudder usually accompanying that memory didn’t come this time.
“Rutkowski said you’re looking into another angle in the case, but you don’t want to talk about it,” Wallace said. “Why?”
“Frankly, you wouldn’t believe us. Plus, it would put you in an awkward situation. Don and I intended to tell you as soon as we can prove what we suspect.”
“Did Rutkowski tell you about the large sums of money the sister withdrew?”
“Yes. We’re trying to understand how that might connect to Peter’s murder. But, now that you have Franklin, he’s going to tell you what he’s told us, and things are about to get a lot more complicated.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you won’t be getting a pat on the back for having Franklin in custody. Instead, you’re about to drive your bosses crazy.”
As Detective Wallace leaned in to learn more, the ER doctor interrupted them with the news that they could see Franklin for a few minutes. The surgery to remove the bullet had taken only a half hour, and there were no complications. Franklin’s small private room was on the third floor just a few feet away from the nurse’s station. Across from the door, a cop balanced on a tilted metal chair. The officer leveled the chair and jumped to his feet when he saw Wallace approaching.
“Everything okay here, Wright?”
“Yes sir, everything’s fine. I saw the prisoner a few minutes ago when the nurse changed his IV.”
Charlie inched open the door and poked her head in the room. Then she pushed the door all the way and gestured for Wallace to follow. Franklin was awake, propped up on two pillows. His left arm was immobilized with a soft cast and a white sling.
“Charlie.” Franklin flashed a silly drug-induced grin. “They took a bullet out of my arm. You wanna see it?”
“No. I think Detective Wallace here already has it.”
“Oh. Detective. Like the police? You called the police?”
“The hospital called the police. They do that when anyone gets shot. How do you feel?”
“Good.” Franklin smiled, feeling no pain.
“Rogers, are you able to answer a few questions?” Wallace asked.
“Sure.” Then glancing at Charlie: “Am I able to answer a few questions?”
“I don’t know. You seem kind of out of it.”
“Rogers, why did you kill Peter Fairchild?” Wallace blurted.
Franklin shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill Peter. Stan did!”
Wallace tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. “Stan?” Suddenly, his face registered the meaning of Franklin’s statement. He looked at Charlie. A nurse stepped into the room and confronted the visitors.
“You have to go now. He needs to rest. He just came through a major surgery.”
The nurse began checking Franklin’s vitals on the monitor, and when Charl
ie and Wallace didn’t move fast enough, she gave them the evil eye. In the hallway, Wallace cupped Charlie’s elbow and moved her to the visitor area. He pointed to seats near the windows out of earshot of the others waiting there.
“Did Rogers mean what I think he did?”
Charlie nodded. “It’s what he told me when I saw him. It’s the reason he’s been on the run.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” he said too loudly. A few visitors looked in their direction.
Wallace stood. Charlie watched him walk toward the nurse’s station, stop, and shove his hands into his pockets. He turned and looked at Charlie, then slowly walked back to her.
“Could he be right?”
“Maybe,” Charlie answered.
“Come on, let’s go.”
They returned to Franklin’s room, and looked in. He was sleeping peacefully. Then Wallace turned his attention to the cop on duty.
“I don’t want anyone but medical personnel in this room, officer. I mean it. No priests, no flower deliveries, no cleaning people, no peppermint patties, or whatever you call them.”
“Candy stripers,” Charlie corrected.
“Right. None of them. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“If there is anything out of the ordinary, call me directly,” Wallace said, handing the officer his card.
“Yes sir.”
Wallace insisted Charlie accompany him to the police station, but allowed her to follow in her car. Arriving, he escorted her to an empty office, left her there, and closed the door. She turned on her phone, retrieved Don’s message, and called back.
“What’s shaking, Mack? Sorry I missed your call earlier.”
“Don, I’m at police headquarters.”
“Okay. Did something happen?”
“Franklin was shot. I took him to Henry Ford Hospital. They called the police. Wallace knows about old man Fairchild.”
“Well, the bird’s out of the coop now. Who shot at him?”
“Franklin said it was someone in a white SUV. We were leaving my mother’s apartment, but I didn’t see them.”
“Your mother’s place?”
“Long story. But Ernestine and Franklin’s mother were in cahoots.”
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