Nolan hesitates. I imagine he’s trying to figure out exactly how to answer the detective’s question. “My father died of sudden cardiac arrest. The substance in that vial causes that. I think my brother-in-law used it on my father.”
Molina frowns. “That doesn’t give me a whole lot to go on. Just connecting this vial to your brother-in-law is somewhat circumstantial. I need something more.” He pushes his chair back and lifts his foot on top of his knee. “Okay, so where did your father die?”
“In the hospital,” Nolan says.
Detective Molina nods rapidly. “Good. That’s good to know. How long ago did this happen?”
Nolan glances at me as if he’s seeking corroboration. “About eighteen months ago.”
“Yes,” I say as I put my hand on Nolan’s.
Detective Molina seems to notice what I’ve just done. “And what’s your father’s name?”
“William Patrick,” Nolan says.
He takes a pad and pencil off his desk and jots down what Nolan said. “What’s your brother-in-law’s name?”
“John Neal Sharp.”
Molina writes it down. “Which hospital?”
“Midwest Memorial.”
The detective writes that too. “And what do you think his motive was?”
“Money,” Nolan says then tells him everything John did prior to Bill’s death and after his death. He doesn’t leave out anything—not the women John used to get what he wanted or how he was either bold or stupid enough to cart Bill into the bank in a wheelchair then forge Bill’s signature.
Detective Molina drops his foot back on the floor. “Now those are circumstances I can work with.”
Nolan sighs in relief. “That’s what I was hoping.”
We’re all silent for a beat.
“So what next?” Nolan asks.
Detective Molina stands and takes his notepad with him. “I’m going to get on this. I’ll be in touch.”
Nolan shakes the detective’s hand. “Any idea when I can expect to hear from you?”
“As soon as I know something,” the detective says.
He walks us out of the station, and Nolan and I head back to Bills house. There’s nothing else we can do at this point but continue the arduous task of packing while playing the waiting game.
30
Detective Molina
3:45 p.m.
I walk into the lab. It always smells like burning tires and sulfur in here.
“Hey, Joe!” I say.
I’m positive Joe’s the lab tech on duty right now. He’s a strange kid who always lets the processing get backed up.
“Just put the evidence in the bin, and I’ll get to it when I can,” he says.
My evidence and I follow the sound of Joe’s deadpan voice and catch sight of him looking into a microscope.
“Yeah, but you see… I need this processed now,” I say.
“Uh-huh. Just put it in the pan.” He jots something on the report he’s working on.
“Hey, Joe?” I throw a hand up in frustration.
He casually puts his eye back on the eyepiece and adjusts the lens. “Uh-huh?”
I hate when he does this shit. He doesn’t look at anyone when they come to the lab. I get that it’s a tactic, and actually, it’s a pretty good one. Every single cop and detective in this building wants a rush job. He probably figures that if he comes off like a moron, we’ll succumb to the frustration, grumble a little, say something condescending, and eventually turn around and leave. Mostly that’s what happens—but never with me.
I walk up and stand right next to him. “Hey, Joe?”
He doesn’t budge. “Uh-huh?”
First, I take a moment to respect his nerves of steel. He’s a tall, lanky guy who is probably two percent muscle mass. He’s the kind of guy big dudes liked to push around in high school, but he’s also the kind of dude guys like me felt the need to protect.
I set my evidence on the counter beside the microscope. “If you just look up, you’ll see that it’s me, Hector.”
Joe lifts his head, and after a second, he turns in my direction. “Oh, Hector.” He narrows his eyes at the vial in the plastic bag. “You need that processed?”
“The sooner, the better.” I wink with a smile.
He hesitates. I figure he’s going through the situation in his head. Joe’s a stickler for the rules, but here’s what I do that the rest of the guys, and gals, don’t do. Joe and the other techs are cooped up in this smelly room for ten hours a day, five days a week, sometimes longer, so I bring them donuts. If I’m on the road, I check on their pets. Sometimes, if they have to work really late processing evidence for me, I’ll order pizza for them. Yeah, I do it so I can have a little priority—which I don’t abuse. But I also do it for them because I don’t mind doing it.
“What do you need done?” Joe asks.
I point at my evidence. “I need the fingerprints off that.”
“Now?”
I shrug. “You know me—I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”
Joe picks up the bag, holds it up, and studies it. “I guess I can do it for you now.”
“Thank you. How long do you think it’ll take?”
He examines the vial. “Uh… not long.”
I shoot my finger at him. “Good. Then I’ll let you get to work.”
The trick is to get the hell out as soon as I get what I want. If I linger, then I make them feel like I’m a burden.
I’m almost at the door when Joe says, “Oh, Detective Molina?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping he just hasn’t remembered an excuse to why he can’t put a rush on those prints.
“Yeah?” I say, keeping my voice composed.
“Uh…”
I turn to see he’s left the workstation.
“I think Trixie wanted me to tell you thanks for looking in on her last week. You left those bacon bits for her.”
Damn, I’m relieved that’s all he wanted to say. “Yeah, she’s a cat, but she likes them.”
“Yeah, you know…” He sounds spaced.
If anything, I want him to get this conversation over with so he can get me those fingerprints. I wait for him to say something else, and a few awkward seconds go by. “If that’s it, then you’re welcome.”
“’Cause I would’ve never known she likes those bacon bits—but she does.”
“Yep.” I look at him, waiting to see if he has anything else to say, however, Joe has this way of looking right past you.
“So thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay.” He spins around and heads back to his workstation.
I get the hell out before he feels the need to tell me that Trixie, his cat, wants me to babysit her or something. That’s where I draw the line.
4:07 p.m.
As soon as I sit back down at my desk, I call Dan Schaffer, who works in the records department at the hospital. He gives me William Patrick’s hospital room number on the night of his death, his exact time of death, and his cause of death. Sure enough, he died from cardiac arrest.
After that, I work to close out another case I’m working on. When I finally look at the time on my computer, nearly two hours have passed, and I haven’t heard from Joe. I put my foot on my knee and shake it. Sometimes when I do that, it helps with my impatience. I think of what I can do next to keep the ball rolling.
I flip through the Rolodex at the edge of my desk until I find what I’m looking for.
“Lucy Anderson.” I snatch my phone off the base and punch in the call.
Lucy picks up after three rings. “Digi-Store, this is Lucy.”
“How are you, Lucy? This is Detective Molina.”
“Oh, hi,” she says more enthusiastically. “It’s been a while.”
“It sure has. How are the boys?”
“They’re fine, thanks for asking.”
I smile. She has two boys—fourteen and sixteen. A while ago, the oldest, Taylor, go
t mixed up with the wrong crowd and ended up in my precinct. She called me not too long after he was arrested for disorderly conduct, and I told her I’d handle it and asked her what her son’s favorite meal was.
I was able to pull Taylor from booking before he was fingerprinted. I brought him to my cubicle and sat him in the chair across from mine. I sat back in my seat and rubbed my bottom lip as I assessed how scared he was. The kid was shaking in his boots even though he tried not to show it.
My first question was, “What’s going on with you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to sound tough.
Just then, my ex-partner, Johnson, opened the door. I had called him before I brought the kid to my cube, and he knew exactly what to do.
“Hey, Molina…” He looked at the kid curiously. “Weren’t you just in booking?”
The kid squirmed in his seat. “Um, yeah…”
Johnson grunted. “Anyway, you want me to grab you some lunch?” he asked me.
“Sure. Meatball sub.” I watched the kid’s eyes brighten.
“What about you?” Johnson asked, looking at Taylor.
Taylor pointed at his chest. “Me?”
“Yeah,” he said.
From that moment on, I had his ear. We talked about all the shit he was angry about. It’s always the same with kids like him—parents just got a divorce, and Dad’s expectations are still too high although his own life is shabby as hell. The kid felt like the embodiment of an atomic bomb—ready to blow up everybody’s life, including his own.
His problems were too deep to fix in one sit-down, so I told him we could forget the arrest thing ever happened if he’d stop by when shit got bad and sit down and have a meatball sub with me. I figured I’d leave how often he comes by up to him. Now Taylor stops by once every two weeks and tells me what’s bothering him. I give him advice on how to deal with his issues. He’s even taken some interest in being a detective. I’ve told him when he’s ready to get serious to let me know.
So Lucy’s always happy to help me, and right now is no different.
“I might need video from Midwest Memorial Hospital. How long do you store their security feeds?” I asked.
“We store them for eighteen months.”
I look at the notes I took when I spoke to Nolan. Damn. It’s eighteen months as of today.
Line two rings with a call from the lab. Energy gusts through me. Hot damn, it’s time.
“Lucy, can I put you on hold?” All I want to hear is one answer.
“Um… sure, okay.”
“Thanks.” I switch lines. “Molina?”
“Uh, Detective Molina?” It’s Joe, and he’s talking slowly as usual.
“Hey, Joe. Did you finish processing the evidence?”
He pauses. “I finished processing the evidence.”
I sigh deeply, frustrated by his style of communication. “Okay, can I have the report?”
“I have the report for you, so you can come get it whenever you want it.”
I scratch the back of neck. “Thanks.”
I hang up and hop to my feet. I’m flying down the hallway, making a beeline to the lab. Once I’m there, Joe hands me the report.
“There are three sets of prints. I ran them through the database,” he says.
That number sends me reeling. “Three?”
“Yep.”
I tell him thank you and speed walk back to my cubicle.
“What’s up with you?” Johnson asks as I sweep past him.
I’m sure I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat. “I don’t know yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”
He looks confused, but I continue to my desk. When I open the envelope, the name at the top of the list is Nolan Patrick. I haven’t ruled him out as a suspect although he’s an unlikely one. The guy seemed pretty furious about finding the Xen-deux—short for Xenalexanphrenine-deux—in his brother-in-law’s desk, and when his girlfriend claimed to be his alibi, I believed her. I have a sixth sense when it comes to liars.
The next name on the list makes my grin even bigger—John Neal Sharp.
“You might be the one, and if so, I’ve almost got you,” I say to the ink on the page.
John Neal Sharp is the strongest suspect on the list being that the substance was found in his desk, but the third name on the list makes me optimistic that we have found our distributor—Dr. Helene Staples. She may be the glue who’s going to help me kill two birds with one stone.
I go straight to Chief Bradley’s office and request a tail on Dr. Staples. He asks me why, and I go over my report with him. I have enough details to convince him to put Riley and Davidson on her for at least seventy-two hours while I collect more evidence.
4:45 p.m.
Once I make it back to my desk, I remember I left Lucy on hold.
“Shit.”
I call her. The phone rings three times then goes straight to voicemail. I curse under my breath. I need to see that footage. If I can put John Sharp at the hospital around the time of William Patrick’s death, then I’ll have enough evidence to request an arrest warrant.
However, if this Dr. Helene Staples is our distributor, then she will be a bigger fish to fry. One reason we can’t get our hands on Xen-deux is because the distributor provides purchasers with detailed instructions, including instructions for destroying the vials. At some suicide scenes, we’ve found glass vials crushed to powder, and there’s no acquiring evidence once it’s in that form.
I slouch in my seat and stare at the red ball hanging on the wall of my cubicle. I hung it there to help me think through moments like this.
First.
The bad doctor…
If I can prove she’s the distributor of Xen-deux, then I can link her to William Patrick’s death and at least six more doctor-assisted suicides in the state.
Second.
The greedy son-in-law…
He’s my strongest link to the Xen-deux. The drug was found in his house and in his desk. A good lawyer, which I’m positive he has, can get the charges dismissed during the arraignment hearing. I need more evidence against this bastard, or he’ll get off scot-free.
So what do I need to prove? The answer comes right to me, and I hop to my feet. I’ve already been sitting here way too long. I swipe my keys from the top drawer of my desk and head out.
5:55 p.m.
I arrive at Digi-Storage five minutes before they close, so I run from my car to the lobby. I’m breathing heavily as I lean on the receptionist’s desk. It’s been seven years since my days of chasing boneheads down alleys on a daily basis. Now my throat is burning just from running from the parking lot to the lobby—go figure.
“Hi, Detective Molina,” the young receptionist says.
I raise a finger as I work to steady my breath. “Is Lucy here?”
“No,” she says with a smile.
I feel as though a ton of bricks have just come crashing down on me. “Where did she go?”
“She left early today.”
Hell, I wish she would’ve told me that when I talked to her earlier. At least now I’ve centered myself enough to smile. “Becky, right?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
I make my smile bigger. “Can you direct me to someone who can pull some footage for me right this very moment?”
“Oh, well, I can do that,” she says. “At least, if you’re on the list.”
My emotions are fluctuating, and my hope is dropping quickly. Before I can ask her to check the list, she’s already pulled it out of her desk.
She looks at me with wide, giddy eyes. “Here you are!”
I’m good at reading people, but this is the part I don’t get —women like this. Is she flirting with me, or is she just being nice? The hell if I know.
“Thanks for going the extra mile, Becky,” I say.
She’s still smiling, and her skin has turned red. Maybe I make her nervous because I’m a cop.
&nb
sp; Becky rips her eyes off my face and forces them onto her computer screen. “I need to know what facility, day, and time.”
I tell her.
“Oh…” She looks at me as if I might be out of luck. “What time was that again?”
“One hour before and after 9:30 p.m.”
She grabs her chest with a sigh of relief. “Oh… p.m. and not a.m.” She types as she explains. “The system automatically purges video after eighteen months—on the hour that it was captured. It’s 6:23 p.m., so you’ve got plenty of time.” She looks at me, still red in the face and grinning.
“Great, thanks for the explanation.”
“You’re welcome, Detective. Do you need help in the viewing booth?”
“No, thank you.”
She drops her face bashfully. “I know you’ve used the booth at least thirteen times in the past six months. So you should know how to use it.”
I feel my eyebrows pull as I do the math in my head. I have the gift of recall so I’m able to remember the number. She’s right. I’ve been here exactly thirteen times in the past six months.
“I don’t sign a ledger. How did you know that?” I ask.
She frowns, seeming puzzled. “Know what?”
“How many times I’ve been here?”
“Oh.” She drops her face. “It’s just… I remember everybody. It’s no big deal.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve just made her uncomfortable, so I let it go and head into the booth to study the footage. Midwest Memorial has cameras in all critical and intensive care units. William Patrick was in the intensive care unit, and a mounted camera was six feet away from his door.
At 9:20 p.m.—time for the nurses to switch shifts—the nurses’ station is vacant. No visitors are allowed in ICU during the shift changes, but doctors are.
However, I see John stroll into the ward, and he’s not alone.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I whisper.
I take a closer look. The best thing about Digi-Storage is their images are always nice and sharp, so I have no doubt it’s her, the woman who showed up in my fingerprint analysis report—Dr. Helene Staples.
The Sexy Series: The COMPLETE SERIES Box Set Page 33