Lotus Effect

by Trisha Wolfe

  Lakin: Now

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  I stare through the sedan’s windshield at the packed parking lot. We’re parked at the emergency wing of the hospital where Cam’s baby was admitted.

  Rhys’s hands are gripped to the wheel, the engine idling, as if he’s waiting for me to change my mind.

  “I need to do this.” I clasp the door handle.

  “I’ll go with you.” Rhys finally shuts the car off and opens his door.

  “Wait,” I say, but I’m not sure what comes next.

  Technically, we should be at the West Melbourne precinct. To feel them out, Rhys placed a call and spoke with Detective Right, inquiring about the cold case. As I suspected, the locals want to question me in relation to Cam, not the cold case. By coming here, one could claim we’re evading the police. Well, I’m evading.

  I was the one who went to see Cam yesterday. I’m the one who has been requested to make a statement to the case detective.

  And logically, I won’t be permitted access to Cam’s baby, anyway. It was born eight weeks premature—a C-section performed on a dead mother. It’s like a gruesome headline ripped from the tabloids.

  But I owe it to Cam to check on her baby, to make sure she or he is healthy. I never even asked her about the sex. Honestly, it’s more peace of mind for myself; a selfish need to know that my visit with Cam, at least, didn’t take the life of an unborn child.

  I need to see with my own eyes that it’s alive.

  I need to know if it’s a girl or a boy—I need to know the name.

  Most days, I like to pretend I’m a vigilante writer hunting killers to avenge the dead, but inherently, I’m a selfish person. Solving cold cases brings a measure of sanity to my otherwise disturbed and unruly world. It gives me a sense of control.

  I’m in control of nothing.

  “Okay. I’m ready.” I open the car door and step into the blistering heat. It takes my breath away.

  I drop my shades over my eyes and hike my bag onto my shoulder. Rhys trails behind as I walk through the double-doors of the ER. The whoosh of cool air blasts my face, and I shiver.

  That’s another thing about Florida. Residents keep the A/C at an equally opposite degree to the temperature outside. It’s always freezing inside any indoor establishment.

  As we approach reception, I push my shades up and note two uniforms positioned at the ER wing entrance.

  Rhys steps in front of me before I reach the desk. “This is a bad idea, Hale.” He nods to the uniforms. “You’re not going to get any information on Cam’s baby. The only thing you’re going to do is make the detectives more curious about you.”

  “I know but—” I stop short, his concerned expression shutting me down. There’s a note of apprehension in his voice. “You’re worried.”

  “I am.”

  But it’s more. Rhys has always been direct. He doesn’t try to placate me. So his avoidance to be candid in this moment is distressing.

  “Are you worried because you fear I had something to do with her death?”

  His gaze hardens. He takes my wrist and leads me toward a bank of seats, where it’s more private. “Did you really just ask me that?”

  A pang of guilt stabs my chest. I cross my arms. “I did,” I say. “I don’t know what any of it means. But I do know the only connection is me. You have to see that.”

  A muscle jumps along his jaw, gaze trained hard on me. “Joanna Delany isn’t connected.”

  “At a glance, it appears that way. But what if we’re wrong? We have to keep looking, even if that means implicating me.”

  He doesn’t like this answer, but it’s what we do.

  “Rhys, Cam was murdered because of me. Because I went to see her. Because—” I lower my voice “—whoever is behind the notes doesn’t want me dredging up the past. Cam must’ve known…”

  What?

  She admitted that she went to Drew that night. Which means, for some reason, Torrance the bartender lied to the police about being intimate with her. Because of his ego? Because she asked him to? That doesn’t make sense; she’d only just met him. He had no reason to cover for her.

  Everyone lies. This is the only truth that I know for sure. Everyone lies, and they do so, typically, for their own selfish purpose.

  What else did Cam know? Who else could she implicate? And what does any of it have to do with Joanna Delany?

  “Notes?”

  Rhys cuts into my thoughts, and I blink up at him. “What?”

  “You said ‘notes’. What other note?”

  Damn. I rub my forehead, stalling. I never told him about the anonymous letter I received before I left Silver Lake. When we reopened my case, I didn’t think it was relevant—but it was relevant when another letter showed up in the hotel room.

  “I should’ve told you,” I say.

  His expression morphs from confusion to anger. I’ve only seen him angry—truly angry—once before, when the belligerently drunk brother of a victim tried to impede our investigation. The brother had accepted money from a tabloid press, making false statements against his deceased sister to drum up more interest in her murder. Rhys shoved him up against a wall, his fist nearly making contact with his face.

  We were both rightfully disgusted.

  But Rhys was furious.

  Having his fury directed on me feels like a knife to the gut. A comparison I can accurately make. “Let’s go,” he says, voice level.

  “We can’t leave…”

  “We are leaving. You’re going to tell me everything about the notes before you make a statement.”

  I allow Rhys to guide me toward the exit.

  “Lakin Hale?”

  On reflex, I start to turn, but Rhys intercepts me and keeps us on course. “Keep walking.”

  “Ms. Hale? Wait—”

  We’re stopped right before the double-doors. A detective catches up with us and blocks our path. I know who he is by the cheap blazer and cop belt before he flashes his badge.

  “Detective Vale with the WMPD,” he says. “I believe you spoke with my partner not long ago. Funny. I didn’t expect to see you so soon, or here.”

  Rhys straightens his back. “How can we help you, detective?”

  The detective’s thick face blanches, flustered from either the heat or Rhys’s dismissive tone. He looks to me instead of replying to Rhys. “You wouldn’t be trying to avoid me, would you, Ms. Hale?”

  I rein in my nerves. “If I were, would I be here?” I glance around the waiting room, eying the uniforms. “I’m happy to speak with you, but I don’t think this is an appropriate place. Can I schedule a time to meet with you at the precinct?”

  “Schedule?” He chuckles. “Sorry, ma’am. I don’t work on schedules. As I’m sure you’re well aware, time is of the essence. First hours of a murder investigation are crucial.” He looks down at me and narrows his gaze. Apparently, he expects me to answer his rhetorical question.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Yes, I know this.”

  He stuffs his large hands into his pockets. “I do have the privacy of the ER, though. We can speak right through there.” He cocks his head toward the emergency wing.

  “I’m sorry. I think that’s far less appropriate.” I attempt to go around him, but he blocks my exit.

  “I can get you access to see the baby,” he says, and my heart knocks. “That’s why you’re here, right? To check on your friend’s baby girl?”

  Girl.

  I don’t have to glance at Rhys to know the likely disapproval in his expression.

  Detective Vale is a bargainer, a negotiator. Men like him, in his position, use manipulative tactics to get what they want. It’s dangerous to meet on a bargainer’s terms; they suss out your weakness and exploit it.

  I wonder how many bargains he’s made with himself.

  “All right,” I say, accepting his offer. Right now, for me, the benefit outweighs the danger.

  As I follow the detective
toward the large ER door, Rhys sidles closer to me. “You’re being impulsive. Don’t give him a statement here.”

  “Because I’ll be too emotional?” I look at him.

  His lips thin, his frown tight. “You sell yourself short,” he says, lowering his voice as the detective speaks with reception to have us admitted. “You can be just as emotional as the average person, Hale.”

  “Maybe so, but I present it differently.” A personality glitch I hope will perplex Detective Vale.

  The door opens, and the detective makes sure I follow him into the wing. He holds up a hand as Rhys attempts to step through. “I only need a statement from Ms. Hale at this time, Agent Nolan.”

  Rhys’s expression hardens, and I step between the men to diffuse the situation before it has a chance to escalate. “It’s fine, Rhys. I won’t be long.”

  He glances at the detective and then me, but says nothing. I watch him take a seat in the waiting room as the door slides closed, severing my view.

  “This way,” the detective says.

  He directs me past another cop in the hallway to a small, empty room. It’s stocked with bandages and harmless medical supplies. There’s a metal table and two folding chairs in the center. Either used as a nurse break room, or the detective had them brought in himself.

  The difference is decisive.

  “Is this your setup?” I ask.

  He offers me a seat first, his smile forced. “I suppose we’re in a similar line of work. You’re used to being the one to ask questions, but—” he slips a black notepad from his blazer inseam “—that’s my job today.”

  So it’s like that, is it. I decide this is his setup, and that he’s hovering around the hospital, close to Cam’s baby, because he has no other leads. I would do the same. The perpetrator went to great lengths to control his kill, not to harm the fetus.

  I wonder if Cam’s husband is here—whether or not he’s the prime suspect.

  Detective Vale clicks his pen, initiating the interview. “Ms. Hale, why did you and Agent Nolan come to West Melbourne?”

  I slip my bag off my shoulder and anchor the strap across the chair back. “We’re working the Delany cold case,” I answer simply, honestly.

  He doesn’t bother jotting the note. “Was the case selected for you, or do you and Agent Nolan decide which cases to take?”

  I flash a curt smile. “Detective, you know I’m not at liberty to discuss the inner workings of the FBI.”

  He matches my smile with a snide one of his own. “Okay then. Can you tell me if you noticed the similarities between the Delany murder and your attack before you signed on to the case?” He reaches down to a binder and plucks out a manila file.

  Marks, Cynthia is written on the tab.

  My shoulders tense. I’m not surprised that he connected the similarities. I’m alarmed that he went there so quickly. No preamble.

  “You’re not one for foreplay,” I say. I stole that line from Rhys. He used it on a cop we interviewed on a previous case, and it worked then, just as it’s working now.

  Detective Vale cocks his head, annoyed. “I like to get to the point. Again, time is of the essence, Ms. Hale. Or should we cut the shit completely and I refer to you as Ms. Marks?”

  “Hale is my name now, detective. And no,” I say, propping my elbows on the table. “I didn’t read the whole case file prior.”

  The truth.

  He looks dubious at my response. “So you’re saying that you just blindly accept a case without first knowing all the details?” He shakes his head. “You must trust your partner very much.”

  “I do. Don’t you trust yours?”

  His gaze narrows, then he says, “At any time after you arrived in West Melbourne, once you were aware of the Delany case details, did you suspect Agent Nolan chose it because of the similarities to your attack?”

  His questions are going to keep getting longer and more detailed until he gets the answer he wants. “Again, I trust my partner. If he’d done such an obtuse thing, he’d have discussed it with me beforehand. What is the baby’s name?”

  This catches him off guard. “What?”

  “Cameron’s baby. The name?”

  He frowns. “Doesn’t have one yet. The husband claims the name they had picked out was her choice, and he can’t bring himself to use it now.”

  Elton. That’s her husband’s name. The fact that Detective Vale refers to him as “the husband” means Elton is at least a suspect, if not the prime.

  “When did you realize the parallels between the cases?” he fires back.

  About the time I was staring at my dead friend on an autopsy table.

  “Many cases that involve stabbings appear similar,” I say. He’s like a dog with a bone.

  “You don’t find it odd or…coincidental that Cameron was killed in nearly the same method that you were attacked?”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “Nearly?”

  He clears his throat. “Eight stab wounds. The murder weapon was measured to be the same width, inflicting similar lacerations. The only difference is that the victim’s abdomen was left undamaged.” He pauses a beat. “As I suspect you already know, seeing as you spoke with the ME this morning.”

  “Is that a question, detective?”

  “What were you doing at the medical examiner’s office this morning, Ms. Hale?”

  “Agent Nolan and I were there to interview Dr. Keller on the Delany case.”

  His dark eyes hold mine for a second too long, then he flips open my case file. “Would you consider yourself and Cameron Ortega friends?” He switches gears quickly.

  I hike an eyebrow. “You mean, did I consider us friends before she was murdered?”

  “Right.”

  I sit back. I don’t like where he’s taking this interview. “We were college friends.”

  Interrogation trick: Like being on the witness stand in court, never offer more information than what’s being asked.

  “Cameron’s phone records show a text message she sent you with her address, confirming a visit to her home yesterday.”

  That didn’t take him long to discover.

  “Were you friends yesterday?” he presses.

  “I’d like to think so. People fall away after college. They move on, get married, have a family.” I consider this a moment, then: “A friend is someone who gives you total freedom to be yourself.”

  “What…? Emerson? Nietzsche?”

  “Morrison. Jim.”

  This actually gets a smile from him. “Why did you visit the victim yesterday?”

  Two slow breaths. “I’d seen that Cam had moved to West Melbourne, and that she was expecting. I wanted to catch up with my college friend while in town.”

  If my phone or computer records are subpoenaed, he’ll see where I looked up Cam’s social media profile.

  He makes a note. “What time did you arrive at the Ortega residence?”

  The questioning goes on like this for a few minutes, where he gathers the facts. He repeats the questions, changing up the order and phrasing. A deliberate tactic to make me slip.

  But I have nothing to hide; I answer honestly. Until he asks me the one question that makes me hesitate.

  “Ms. Hale?” he says, and reiterates the question. “Did you notice anyone else near the residence yesterday?”

  The supply room door opens. Rhys walks in, escorted by an officer.

  Detective Vale stands. “Why is he here?” He directs this question to the cop in a blue uniform.

  “I’m Ms. Hale’s representation,” Rhys says as he takes up my side.

  “You know you can’t do that,” Detective Vale says.

  For the first time, the detective and I are in agreement.

  I look up at Rhys in question, demanding an explanation in our silent code.

  “I’ve never officially practiced,” Rhys says, planting his hands on the table. “But I have the degree to back it up. From this point on, Ms. Hale will have council present during a
ny interviews.”

  Detective Vale looks dejected about this development, but he takes his seat, resuming the interrogation. “I’m making some calls. This better check out.”

  “It will,” Rhys assures him.

  I sit in stunned silence. Why didn’t he tell me?

  My initial reaction is anger. I feel betrayed. Rhys has always been adamant about being truthful…but in retrospect, that was directed toward me, to open up about my past for my case.

  Anger is a defensive reaction to the source. The truth is, I’m hurt.

  How much about one another do we really know? Other than our cases, we don’t see each other outside of work. I don’t have much of a social life in Missouri. And because I’m guarded, I haven’t ventured to know anything about him other than he was terminated from fieldwork.

  “Do I need to repeat the question?” Detective Vale says.

  Rhys kneels beside me so that we’re level. He gives me an apologetic smile, but one that says now’s not the time—we need to get through this first.

  I nod, then direct my attention on Vale. “Yes.”

  “Did you notice anyone around the Ortega residence yesterday?”

  “I’m advising my client not to answer that,” Rhys says.

  Vale glares across the table, then dips back into my file. “It says here that Torrance Carver was interviewed in connection to your attack.” He looks up at me. “Did you recently question Mr. Carver and his brother, Mike Rixon, while investigating the Delany case?”

  Rhys lightly brushes my leg beneath the table. “I’m advising my client not to answer.”

  “Christ,” the detective whispers harshly. “Can I assume this is how the rest of the interview will go?”

  “Unless you’re willing to disclose what your intent is with Ms. Hale, then yes. She has cooperated and has nothing further to say.” Rhys stands. “We do have the matter of Joanna Delany’s case to discuss, though.”

  Detective Vale stands to match Rhys. “I’m a little busy with the current murder investigation, but you’re welcome to get a copy of my case notes.” He pulls out his phone and sends a text. “It will be waiting for you at the precinct.”

  “We appreciate that,” Rhys says.

  A thick current of tension hums in the air between Rhys and Vale, regardless of their professional etiquette. I push my chair back, making a loud scraping sound to disturb the silence.