“Opening goes in front,” she said. “Leave the door ajar when you’re ready.”
The gown provided no warmth and would be useless for modesty once they got down to business. Nonetheless, Hannah pulled the flimsy paper tight around her and wrapped her arms across her lopsided chest.
The technician reappeared and began setting the machine’s controls. Then she positioned Hannah, sandwiched her breast between the acrylic plates that pinched her flesh until it was pancake thin.
“Don’t breathe,” the tech said.
As if I could, Hannah thought.
“You get off easy having only one breast. Half the torture.” No doubt she thought she was being funny. “They ought to give you a discount. They don’t, do they?”
Hannah had no idea. Her insurance paid for the mammograms, and since she’d never considered losing a breast to cancer as being advantageous, she’d never checked. In any case, she didn’t appreciate the chummy humor.
The woman repositioned Hannah so she felt like she would topple. Another bout with the vise-like machine, and the tech said, “Let me check these. I’ll be right back.”
The room was freezing. Right back took ten minutes. Hannah could hear conversation and laughter in hall. She was sure one of the voices belonged to her technician.
Finally the woman returned. Hannah tried to anticipate what her exact words would be. There’s a spot here that’s suspicious, I’d like to take a couple more films. No, not suspicious —that was too emotionally laden. Unclear or blurred. Or maybe she’d just say, We need another few shots.
When she announced that Hannah was free to go, it took Hannah a moment to understand. She dressed in record time, took the sheaf of papers and cards that she’d accumulated since checking in, and fled.
Now the real waiting would start. It took even longer to get the radiologist’s report here than it had in LA.
Safely back in her car, Hannah lit a cigarette. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her. A cancer stick to still the terror of finding cancer. Or maybe it was just sheer recklessness. Isn’t that what the shrink had suggested? A way to get back at Malcolm, though Hannah never did understand how that was supposed to work.
Well, she was quitting, wasn’t she? Today she’d exceeded her limit, but tomorrow she’d smoke fewer cigarettes to make up for it.
Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open and answered. Myrna Edwards, the divorce attorney who’d been less than helpful the last time they’d spoken, was on the line.
“You were asking about Maureen Russell,” she said.
“Yes. And you claimed confidentiality.”
“Now that she’s deceased, I suppose I can talk to you. I’m not sure I’ll be of much help though.”
Hannah was tempted to point out that if she’d talked sooner, her client might have lived, but it probably wasn’t true. “So Maureen Russell did make an appointment with you?” she asked instead.
“Just one. She wanted to ask about a prenuptial agreement.”
“Hers and Sam’s?”
“Right. She didn’t have an independent attorney at the time she signed it, but it didn’t sound like she was coerced or misled either. I told her I wanted to see a copy of the document before giving a final answer, but based on what she told me, I thought it would be binding.”
“She was planning on divorcing him?” Hannah asked.
“She must have thought about it, or she wouldn’t have asked me about the prenup. When she never made a return appointment, I figured she either decided to tough it out or found another attorney who gave her an answer she liked better.”
“Why’d she agree to it in the first place?”
“People in love have trouble imagining a future where the love has turned. Even without the prenup, she’d have had a hard time laying claim to money he’d had coming into the marriage, though divorce is messy business, so you never can tell. She’d probably have been able to leverage something from him.” The attorney paused. “The news makes it sound like you’re focusing on her husband as a suspect.”
“He’s someone we’re taking a close look at,” Hannah replied. “Did she say anything about arguments or threats?”
“No, nothing like that. I prodded her a little too, thinking maybe I could find some wedge that might get her a better settlement. I got the sense that she just didn’t want to be married anymore.”
“After only two years?” It hadn’t taken Malcolm much longer, Hannah reminded herself. Only instead of ending their marriage, he’d simply taken his love elsewhere.
Myrna Edwards chuckled. “In my line of work, I’ve seen people come to that conclusion after only two weeks.”
Hannah thanked the attorney for getting in touch then spent a few minutes thinking about what she’d learned. Not a lot. She’d pretty much assumed that Maureen had at least considered leaving Sam, though having testimony to that effect would help at trial. The prenup was interesting, but if anything, it undercut Sam’s motive for killing his wife. Not that money was the only issue where love was concerned.
Slipping her phone back into her bag, Hannah accidentally scattered the various papers that had been forced on her during her medical appointment. She was gathering them into a pile when she noticed a single-page flyer—a recipe for heart-healthy lasagna. Just like the one she’d found in Maureen Russell’s pocket with the cryptic 233—160B jotted on the back.
Hannah took the paper and returned to radiology registration.
“Name?” The clerk behind the counter spoke without looking up.
“I just completed my appointment, but I have a question.”
“Medical questions, you’ll have to talk to your doctor. For billing questions, go to room 216, east wing by the elevators.” She was already looking over Hannah’s shoulder at the next patient in line.
“Not those kind of questions.” Hannah showed her the recipe flyer. “You gave me this?”
“It’s part of the hospital’s community outreach. Everybody gets one; it’s nothing personal.”
“Is this the only department that hands them out?”
Irritation flickered crossed the clerk’s face. She clearly found Hannah’s inquiries annoying. “They’re available all over the hospital, as well as on-line. There’s a new one each month.”
“New when? At the beginning of each month?”
“The first Monday of the month.” Her tone was curt. “Now, if you’ll step aside, I need to check in the next patient.”
“Just one more question,” Hannah said. “Would a doctor or someone from the hospital have access to the flyer prior to the first Monday?”
The woman looked as though she might be about ready to call security. Hannah was reaching into her purse for her badge when the woman sighed. “I suppose the printer would have them beforehand, but they’re delivered here on Monday. Nobody gets the inside track for our heart-healthy recipes.” The last was delivered with a caustic smile.
First Monday of the month. Hannah bit her lip and headed back to the parking lot. Maureen had disappeared on Sunday the fifth. The flyer wouldn’t have come out until Monday. So how had it ended up in her pocket with her handwriting on the back?
Hannah hadn’t made it back to her car when her phone rang again. This time it was Dallas.
“You sprung from your appointment yet?”
“Just. I’m on my way.” They’d planned to meet at the DA’s office.
“Change of plans. I just got a call from the station. There’s a guy there by the name of Ed Phipps who wants to talk to us.”
“Who is he? Does he know something about the Russell murder?”
“Maybe. He’s apparently with the FBI.”
CHAPTER 39
Even if Dallas hadn’t told her, Hannah might have guessed Special Agent Ed Phipps was with the FBI. Like other agents she’d known, he had that look: closely cropped hair, squared shoulders and rigid posture, shiny black wing tips, and eyes that took in the whole room at once.
“De
tective Montgomery,” Phipps said, extending a hand. He looked to be in his early forties, with sharp features and a hawk nose.
Hannah acknowledged the greeting then looked at Dallas. “What’s this about?”
“Agent Phipps is interested in talking to us about Maureen Russell.” Dallas’s voice was noncommital. If he was sending Hannah any silent cues, she wasn’t picking up on them. But she knew her partner well enough to know that he must be bristling at having an outsider stepping on his turf.
“Is there somewhere private where we can talk?” Phipps asked.
Dallas led the way to the smaller of the two interrogation rooms. He gestured to a chair for Phipps, the seat usually reserved for their suspects. Hannah smiled to herself. Men and their pissing contests.
She and Dallas took their regular positions on the other side of the table.
“What’s your interest in Maureen Russell?” Dallas asked.
Phipps smiled thinly. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I see.” Dallas stretched his legs out nonchalantly under the table. “We scratch your back, but you keep your hands in your pocket. Is that what you mean?”
“Detectives, surely you—”
“She was murdered,” Hannah said. “Did you know that?”
Phipps hesitated. “Yes. Though I didn’t find out until I arrived in town.”
“Which was when?” Dallas asked.
“This morning.”
“What office are you out of?” Hannah asked. She’d assumed he was from the Sacramento field office, or maybe San Francisco, but his comment about arriving in town made her wonder.
“Las Vegas.” He crossed his arms over his chest. The body language said it all—he was keeping as much to himself as he could.
Hannah flashed on a mental picture of the old “Spy vs. Spy” cartoon from Mad magazine. Dallas and Phipps, each protecting his territory.
“We’re working an active homicide,” she said. “Anything you can tell us about your interest in Maureen Russell could help.”
Phipps fidgeted in his chair. Hannah didn’t blame him. It was straight-backed and hard, and the seat height was two inches shorter than standard. She wondered if he realized what Dallas had done in seating him there.
“Any suspects?” he asked finally.
“Her husband,” Dallas said, and Hannah winced inwardly. The fact that Sam had been telling the truth about following a dark-color SUV the night of the ransom drop hadn’t changed Dallas’s mind. He’d dismissed it simply as proof that Sam had planned his story carefully.
“Her husband,” Phipps repeated. “Are you talking in terms of a general pattern, or do you have evidence against the guy?”
“Both.”
Phipps laced his fingers and frowned. “Tell me about her murder.”
Dallas shook his head. “First you tell us why you’re interested.”
“I can’t—”
“And neither can we,” Dallas retorted without letting Phipps finish.
“Fine. I can get the details of the crime other ways.” Phipps pushed back his chair. “If you’re not going to cooperate. . .” He started to rise.
“What brought you to Monte Vista?” Hannah asked. She sided with Dallas in expecting cooperation to be a two-way street, but she didn’t think it had to be paved with hostility. “You didn’t know Maureen was dead until this morning, yet you came here from Las Vegas looking for her.”
Phipps sat down again, but he didn’t respond. The expression on his face was that of an exasperated parent.
“Maureen Russell was murdered,” Hannah said, with impatience of her own. “Last time I looked, run-of-the-mill homicide wasn’t a federal crime. If you’ve got some other interest in her, we’re not going to take that away from you. We might even be able to help you.”
“It came to my attention she was missing,” Phipps replied after a moment.
“Her name showed up in the FBI database?”
He hesitated. “Her photo.”
Hannah was confused. “That still doesn’t explain why you were looking for her.” When the FBI got involved in a missing persons case, it was at the request of local authorities. And there’d been no request from Monte Vista.
Phipps pursed his lips. “She was a possible witness.”
“Witness to what?” Hannah and Dallas asked in unison.
“It’s an FBI matter.”
“But it might also be the key to our homicide case,” Hannah pointed out. She knew the FBI liked to play things close to the vest. They wanted to call the shots, and they weren’t happy about sharing. Still, most of the agents she’d dealt with in the past were reasonable people. “Surely you can tell us something.”
He sighed. “It involves drugs. Now that we’ve tossed the ball back and forth a couple of times, what can you tell me about her murder? I’ll help you to the extent I can once I get a fuller picture.”
Dallas looked to Hannah. She shrugged. It might be their only chance to hear what Phipps had to say, and he could get the information on Maureen Russell’s murder without them.
“Her husband reported her missing a week ago Sunday,” Dallas said, taking the lead.
“He wasn’t convinced foul play was involved,” Hannah added. “Not at first. There seemed to be some possibility she’d simply taken off.”
Dallas leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “But he was uncooperative from the start. Wouldn’t let us search the house or car, gave evasive answers to questions that should have been straightforward. Then he comes up with a story about a kidnapping. He claims to have gotten a ransom call, during which he heard his wife’s voice over the telephone. Two days later, her body turned up in the wine cellar of a house owned by a colleague of his.”
“This colleague—”
“Is out of the country,” Dallas said. “He let a friend use his house, which is how the body was discovered when it was. Otherwise, we’d still be looking for her.”
“How was she killed?”
“Strangled, and there were stab wounds to her chest. According to the coroner, she’d been dead for more than two days, which means the husband’s story about a kidnapping is nothing but a crock. My bet is she was already dead when he reported her missing.”
Hannah bit back the urge to speak up about the flyer. You didn’t broadside your partner in front of the FBI. There would be time to tell Dallas later, in private. Still, she found herself feeling oddly protective of Sam. “We haven’t ruled out the possibility that the ransom call from the kidnappers was unrelated to her murder,” she said.
Phipps got up from his chair and walked to the other side of the small room. “Who’s the husband?”
“Sam Russell,” Dallas said. “He’s a doctor. This is where it gets even better. He stood trial in Massachusetts for the murder of his first wife.”
“But he wasn’t convicted,” Hannah pointed out.
“When was this?”
“She was killed seven years ago.”
Phipps frowned. “What were the circumstances in that case?”
“He’d been out biking for the day,” Dallas said, “and arrived home to find his wife missing. Her body was discovered a few days later in the woods outside of town. Manner of death was the same as with his current wife.”
“What about motive?” Phipps asked.
“Not clear.” Hannah spoke up before Dallas could. It wasn’t clear which case Phipps was inquiring about at this point, and Hannah didn’t care. She was tired of the focus on Sam. “Now, why don’t you tell us why Maureen Russell’s photo sparked your interest. Surely not every missing housewife garners the interest of the FBI?”
Phipps ignored the question. “I’d like to look at the case file,” he said.
“Not so fast.” Dallas left his chair and stood in front of the agent. They were evenly matched in height, but Phipps was broad and muscular and must have outweighed Dallas by fifty pounds. “We’ve answered your questions. Now it’s your turn. T
ell us what this is about.”
Phipps glowered for a moment then walked back to the table, reached into his briefcase, and pulled out a photograph. It was grainy, in black and white, and the light was poor. It showed Maureen Russell and a dark-haired man stepping into a cab.
“Where did that come from?” Dallas asked.
“Las Vegas.”
“That’s hardly an answer.” Hannah supposed Phipps was enjoying this, but from her perspective, the game was growing tiresome. “Who’s the guy?”
“Someone we’ve been keeping an eye on. We think she may have ties to organized crime.”
Hannah looked at him. Was he joking?
“Sam Russell’s wife in the mob?” Dallas sounded skeptical as well. “Are you shitting us?”
“No, it’s the truth.”
But not all of it, Hannah guessed. She waited for Phipps to continue. He didn’t. “I don’t know how we can help,” Hannah said. “Maureen Russell is dead.”
“And you suspect her husband of having killed her. Maybe you’re right. But maybe not. A woman with connections—”
Dallas put his hands on the table and leaned closer. “You’d better not say that outside of this room,” he warned. “That’s the kind of remark defense attorneys dream about.”
Phipps gave Dallas a disgusted look. “Do you think I’m petty enough to screw up your case intentionally, or just stupid enough to do it by mistake?”
Hannah jumped in and addressed Phipps. “So, what’s your theory?”
“No theory, just questions.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Dallas said. “Ours is a simple homicide. Everything points to her husband.”
Phipps crossed his arms again. “Then why haven’t you arrested him?”
Hannah and Dallas exchanged looks. In her mind, everything hadn’t pointed to Sam. And now, with what Phipps had told them, the realm of possibilities had expanded considerably.
Hannah turned back to Phipps. “You’re probably wasting your time, but it’s yours to waste. I’ll get you the file.”
As she left the room, she could feel Dallas’s eyes like daggers on her back.
The Only Suspect Page 27