by Lowe, Sheila
Detective Jim Gray was a compact man in his fifties with thinning brown hair and dark eyebrows, frameless eyeglasses, a square face and just the hint of a moustache. He waved her over to a table at the back of the noisy coffeehouse as soon as she walked through the door.
She’d told him she would be wearing a black pantsuit with a pink top. The description had been sufficient for him to recognize her. “Good detecting, Detective,” she said, taking a seat across from him.
He wore a cranberry-colored polo shirt, with a slate gray sport jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair. He was nursing a cardboard cup with the familiar green logo. “Get you one?” he offered.
“I thought I was buying.”IT
“Nah,” he said good-naturedly. “Against department regs.”
“I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me on short notice,” Claudia said after the social niceties were out of the way. “I won’t take up much of your time.”
“’S okay,” Gray said. “My train’s delayed. One a day to Vermont, and it’s got the worst on-time record of any of ’em. Might as well have a little company while I wait. What can I get ya?”
He made his way to the counter and ordered the Breakfast Blend she had asked for. When they both had their coffees in front of them, he asked, “What’s your interest in the Lloyd case again?”
Claudia tore open two packets of sugar and stirred them into her cup. “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m working for a dating service that Heather had joined. I’m analyzing the handwritings of some of the members.”
“Handwriting analysis, huh?”
She prepared herself for skepticism, but his next words pleased her.
“Hey, that’s fascinatin’ stuff. Back when I was working for Boston PD we had a girl come in once, claimed she was raped. Had her write out a statement and took it to a handwritin’ expert. The expert said she was lyin’ about what happened. Turns out the expert was right. In the end, she admitted she just wanted to get back at this guy she’d been dating. So, what do you want to know about the Lloyd accident?”
“Just wanted to make sure it really was an accident.”IT
He gave her the eagle eye. “You got reason to believe otherwise?”
Claudia thought about it and tried to decide how much to say. He was a cop, so talking to him wouldn’t breach any professional ethics, but she was certain that Grusha wouldn’t thank her for revealing her suspicions to him. Besides, she had not seen any direct evidence of murder. She shook her head no.
Gray leveled a look at her that said he was doubting her answer. “Then why would you be all fired up about meetin’ me here? You think something else happened to that girl, you’d best tell me what it is.”
“I don’t have any information. Honestly.”
“Lady, I’ve been a detective for twenty-three years. I know bullshit when I hear it and right now, my bullshit meter is on tilt.”
“I’m not bullshitting you, Detective. It’s just, well, I was under the impression that she was a good skier, and it seemed odd she’d go off trail like that.”
He finished his coffee and balled his napkin into the cup. “What’s a handwriting analyst need this information for?”
Claudia sipped at her coffee, trying to figure out how to make the story sound anything other than bizarre. She decided to come clean.
“Three young members of the dating club have died in a short period of time. The deaths appear natural and I don’t have any evidence to say they’re not. It just seems there are too many of them in a short time.”
Behind his glasses, Gray’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘appear natural’?”
She told him about Heather, Shellee, and Ryan.
“Were they all investigated by the local authorities?”
“Yes, but—”
“Were they all autopsied?”
“As far as I know.”
He looked unconvinced. “Means, motive, opportunity,” Gray said. “That’s what it takes to prove guilt. You got those?”
Claudia quickly shook her head. “Nothing conclusive.”
“Well, then . . .”
“Can you at least tell me what the medical examiner said about Heather?”
“Sure, it’s public record. There was a bunch of antihistamine in her system—cold medicine. That stuff’ll make you sleepy. Shouldn’t have gone out after taking it. Slows the reflexes.” The detective took off his glasses and breathed on the lenses, wiped them with care on a paper napkin and replaced them. “She’d taken a double dose.”
“A double dose? Isn’t that suspicious?”
“Not particularly. We went all through her room; the box was right there on the nightstand. Prob’ly forgot she’d taken one, took another and went out groggy. No sign of foul play at all.”
“What about the man she was with?”
“We asked around. Far as we know, she went out alone that day,” Gray said. He drew his brows together and he showed some uncertainty for the first time. “I do recall hearing about a fella she was seen with at the lodge one night, at the bar. Tried to get his name, but no luck. Nobody registered with her and nobody remembers anyone being with her the day she died.”
“I don’t suppose anyone had a description of this fella she was seen with?”
“Matter of fact, they did. Tall, brown hair, bearded.”
“That’s pretty nonspecific,” Claudia said.
“Your typical eyewitness description.”IT
A description that matched Ian McAllister, or Marcus Bernard’s Elite Introductions photo before he shaved his beard.
Chapter 14
Detective Gray had nothing further to add and was disinclined to pursue the matter. So Claudia walked back to the hotel thinking about cold medicine and antihistamines, which she knew were also used to treat allergies.
Antihistamine made her think of anaphylactic shock and Shellee Jones. Then her thoughts jumped to Ryan Turner, the young doctor who had perished in the Bahamas.
Scuba diving.
Scuba diving. Skiing. Anaphylactic shock. Instinct told her that there was a connection somewhere, but where? The available information wasn’t providing the answer.
What the hell am I doing?
She reminded herself again of what she had so emphatically said to Grusha: She was a handwriting analyst, not a private investigator. The smart thing to do would be to pack up and get on the next plane to L.A.
She thought of the fee Grusha was paying for her services. And she thought of the roof repairs that her house needed, and the quarterly taxes that would soon be due. Did it make her a sellout if she stayed on for the money against her better judgment?
It couldn’t hurt to make one phone call to the hotel in Nassau where the young resident had been staying. It just might turn up something new. She thought about that as she stopped at the bagel shop and picked up a take-out turkey and Swiss sandwich, no mayo, and a latte for lunch. But by the time she returned to her room to track down the article on Ryan Turner ’s unfortunate demise, she still didn’t have a satisfactory answer to the sellout question.
The Paradise Reef hotel’s Web site portrayed a luxurious beachfront resort: stunning views of pellucid green water teeming with manta rays; a glass-walled dining room that gave diners the sense of being underwater along with the marine life that swam by in its own lagoon. The glossy pictures oozed opulence.
Grusha had said that Ryan Turner’s family had money. Was that the connection between the dead clients? Shellee Jones’ father was a hedge-fund manager. That meant money, too.
What about Heather Lloyd? Nothing had been mentioned about the model’s financial status, but as an Elite Introductions client, she would have had to come up with the membership fee—a not insignificant amount.
Calling the Nassau hotel, Claudia got routed to the marketing manager, who spoke in a British accent. “We can’t possibly discuss our guests,” the manager said in a clipped tone that brooked no argument. “They expect us to ma
intain strict privacy, and we do.”
Claudia argued anyway. “I’m not actually asking about your guest,” she said. “I’m asking about his companion. Can’t you at least tell me whether anyone else was registered with him, even if you don’t divulge the name?”
“Our hotel discharges its responsibility when it offers guests a dive guide and warns them not to dive alone. The hotel has no liability in this matter whatsoever.” Parroting what the newspaper article had said.
“I’m not looking to sue your hotel,” Claudia said, irritated by the stonewalling. “I don’t think you’re hearing me. All I’m asking is whether Dr. Turner was with anyone on that final dive.”
“Ms. Rose, I cannot help you any further.”IT
“You haven’t helped me at all,” Claudia said to dead air as the marketing manager hung up. The better part of an hour down the tubes and she’d gotten nowhere.
Jovanic had phoned a couple of times, but she’d let it ring through to voice mail. What was the point in answering? He would protest again that there was nothing between him and Alex and Claudia would not believe it. She couldn’t remember trusting anyone—even her ex-husband—in almost thirty years until Jovanic. She’d thought she was safe with him. Her heart hurt from thinking about it.
Nibbling a few bites of the turkey sandwich, she decided that she needed to do something active. Easier to play private detective for Grusha Olinetsky than to deal with her own life.
Aside from Grusha, she knew that two people had knowledge of all the dead clients: Ian McAllister and Donna Pollard. Ian was now on her suspect list, so he was out. But Dr. Pollard might hold a key to this mess. Claudia just had to get the psychologist to talk to her again.
The doorman hailed her a cab, and fifteen minutes later Claudia entered Dr. Pollard’s office. There were no clients in the waiting room.
Dorothy French opened the interior door when Claudia rang the bell, and made it clear that she was not happy to see her visitor. “What now?” she asked with no pretense of courtesy.
Claudia offered her most winning smile. “Any chance the doctor could spare a few minutes for me?”
“Have you considered making an appointment? Wouldn’t you expect that she might be with a client?”
“From your answer, I’d guess she’s not. Besides, it’s lunchtime, so I was hoping she might be free.”
“Why can’t you leave her alone?”
Why are you so hot to protect her?
“Dorothy, please ask Dr. Pollard if she’ll see me. I’ll be going back to the West Coast soon, and you’ll never have to deal with me again. But today, right now, I need to ask her a couple of questions. It’s really important.”
The secretary huffed in annoyance. “Wait here.” She stepped back into the hallway and yanked the door closed behind her with a sharp snap.
Dorothy French left her waiting for ten minutes before she let Claudia know that Dr. Pollard had agreed to meet with her. Knowing she was lucky that the psychologist had agreed to see her at all without an appointment, Claudia thanked her and followed her to the womblike room where Pollard conducted therapy.
“Come in, dear, sit down.” Donna Pollard smiled benevolently at her, as if they hadn’t parted on strained terms at their last meeting. She wore a fern green hand-knit turtleneck sweater and a long brown woolen skirt with lace-up Uggs, as if she might be planning a hike in the snow.
She appeared relaxed and at ease, unlike on the previous visit, when nervous tension had vibrated through her. “You look tired, dear,” she said as Claudia sat down. “Aren’t you sleeping well?”
The love seat was familiar in an uncomfortable way. Maybe therapists all shopped at the same love seat store. “Strange bed,” Claudia said, disliking the feeling of being under the microscope. She reminded herself that she was not there for therapy, and she felt better, more in control. “How are you feeling, doctor? Any more problems?”
“None at all. As I told you, it was a random break-in. I’m fine, no concussion. No ill effects.” Pollard smiled with more warmth than was warranted for the occasion. “So, Claudia, what brings you here today?”
“I’ve had some quite interesting conversations since I saw you last.”IT
The doctor leaned forward a little in her chair, her lips parted. “Yes?”
“I had dinner with Marcus Bernard last night. I learned that he was present when Shellee Jones died.”
Wariness came into Pollard’s blue eyes. “I can’t tell you how bad I felt. A terrible thing to happen.”IT
“Do you think there’s anything odd in the fact that he dated both Shellee and Heather?”
“Not at all. The dating service isn’t large. Marcus has been a member for a while now, and Shellee and Heather were both fairly new. He wasn’t the only one who dated them both. Why? What do you think it means, Claudia?”
“I don’t know whether it means anything, but I thought maybe you would.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t say as I do.”
“When I was here the other day, you mentioned Dr. McAllister ’s daughter.”
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not? Was she your patient?”
“You probably know, Claudia, that I can’t give you the answer to that. It would be unethical to divulge who my patients are.”
“But you can talk about Elite Introductions clients because Grusha has given permission. You said Jessica McAllister had dated three of the men we were discussing. Which ones?”
When Pollard hesitated, Claudia took the advantage and prodded her. “You might as well tell me.”
“I really don’t think I should.”
“Fine, I’ll ask her myself.”
“That would be—difficult.” Pollard hesitated. “I’m afraid Jessica passed away a few months ago.”
Claudia heard herself gasp. “Oh my god.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you. You could find out for yourself. Jessie committed suicide.”
“Suicide! Ian said he had a daughter, but he didn’t say she was dead, let alone a suicide. What the hell is going on?”
Pollard looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “Everyone in Elite Introductions has something to hide.”
“What do you mean?”
The psychologist raised her head. “What?” She seemed confused to see that she wasn’t alone in the room.
“You said everyone has something to hide,” Claudia said, overwhelmed by the news that there was another young person to be added to the dating club’s death tally. “What did you mean by that?”
“I said that out loud?” Pollard squeezed her eyes shut. “Please forget it. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s the knock on the head. I’m still having headaches. I don’t know what I’m saying. I shouldn’t even be here.”IT
She appeared so agitated that Claudia didn’t have the heart to remind her that only a few moments earlier she’d said she had suffered no ill effects from the attack.
“Was there any question that Jessica’s death was suicide?” Claudia asked.
The psychologist spoke quickly as if to get it over with. “She took a bottle of Tylenol. Then she slit her wrists and sat in a tub full of warm water, waiting to die.”II
“Two methods. It sounds like she wanted to die very badly.”IT
“She was only just eighteen,” Pollard said, her eyes bright with tears. With her own emotions playing so close to the surface, Claudia wondered how she managed to conduct therapy with vulnerable clients.
“Why do you think Jessica would do something like that?”
“I can’t discuss it with you.”
Claudia struggled to keep her voice even, but she was fed up with being thwarted. She could hear the anger coloring her words as she spoke. “Who were the men she dated, Donna?”
“Please don’t ask me that.”
“I am asking.”
“It’s confidential information.”
“How confidential can it be? She’s dead!
You and I both know there’s something wrong here.”
“But the men are still alive, except for Ryan.”
“If someone else dies and you don’t tell what you know, you, Dr. Pollard, will be an accessory after the fact.”
That jolted her.
“All right, all right, I’ll tell you. Jessica dated Avram Cohen, Marcus Bernard, and Ryan Turner.” Pollard swallowed hard. “Now, I think that’s enough. There’s nothing we can do about it now. You’ll never be able to prove—” She stopped midsentence, her face contorted in alarm.
“Prove what, Donna? Look, I know you’re frightened, but you’ve got to tell me what you know.”
“You need to leave. Now.”
“No, you need to tell the truth. If these deaths are all connected and you think you know how and why, you could be in danger yourself. You’ve already had a break-in. Somebody thinks you know something. Isn’t getting knocked on the head enough of a warning for you?”
As the two women looked at one another, realization slowly dawned in the eyes of the psychologist. The seconds ticked past and Pollard seemed to come to a decision. She got out of her chair and crossed the room to a lateral wooden file cabinet in the corner. Taking a key from her pocket, she stared at it in her hand for a second or two, as though hardening her resolve.
Finally, she leaned down and inserted the key in the lock, where she left it hanging; then she straightened. “It would have been unthinkable if the intruder had gotten into my patient files. I always keep them locked up tight.”
She gave Claudia a long, meaningful look. “I’m going into the kitchen to make us some tea, Claudia. I’ll be about five minutes; you can wait right here.”
The instant the door closed behind Donna Pollard, Claudia leapt up from the love seat and dashed to the file cabinet. No question about the tacit message Pollard had telegraphed to her: Get Jessica McAllister’s file.
She found it in the bottom drawer.
Chapter 15