“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” Christine hitched up her bag on her shoulder and turned to go. “It’s what happens, though, when people go around accusing others without evidence. The whole thing turns into a giant mess. People get hurt.”
Gin watched her walk back toward the hospital, wondering how things had gone so terribly wrong.
26
That night, Gin waited until the dishes were done and her mother had gone up to her room, and then knocked on the door of her father’s study.
He seemed surprised, but invited her in. Gin couldn’t remember a time either she or her mother had ever dared to interrupt him when he was working. It wasn’t that she was afraid of angering him, exactly, though he’d made clear his preference not to be disturbed; it was that Richard Sullivan at work was wholly absorbed, his entire focus on what was in front of him, and Gin instinctively knew it would take considerable effort to find that focus again if interrupted.
Lily, of course, had barged in whenever she felt like it. Lily could never remember rules like that; she was a creature of her impulses, and hence people tended to forgive her.
“Dad.” Gin took in the neat desk, the lowered blinds, the pipe resting in its onyx stand, a thin curl of fragrant smoke wafting toward the ceiling. Richard had given up actually smoking the thing long ago, but he liked to light it now and then and contented himself with the secondhand smoke, a pleasure even as a pale shadow of itself.
“Hi, honey. How was your day?” he asked, as though she was back in high school again, as though he were waiting to find out how she did on her English paper or that they’d got new music in Concert Band.
“I’m okay, I guess. I saw Mom’s press conference today. I thought she did well.”
“Oh, yes.” Richard removed his glasses and polished them on his shirt, frowning. “But I didn’t see you there. Did you come by yourself?”
“Yes, I stood near the back . . . Dad, listen, something’s bothering me.”
He looked instantly wary. “Yes?”
She prepared to tell him what she’d learned from Stephen Harper, chagrined that she’d now shared confidential information with several people. A measure of how much she was willing to sacrifice for the sake of the truth, perhaps. But also, she didn’t believe any of those people would talk. Tom, Jake, Christine, now her dad—each of them had their own complex web of connection to the case.
Connection . . . or culpability?
She took a deep breath. “At Lawrence’s autopsy, the pathologist found evidence of heart failure. Thrombosis caused by recent plaque rupture in otherwise healthy arteries. If that’s true, you know that there was no way he shot himself—he would never have been able to pull the trigger.”
She watched her father carefully, but his only reaction was a slight frown and a shake of his head. “God help him.”
“Dad—I have to ask you. Please. I know how you feel about Jake. I know how badly you need to feel like Lily’s killer has paid.”
“So you want to know if I killed Lawrence?” He shook his head, the lines on his brow deepening. “Absolutely not. Virginia, I haven’t hurt anyone, sought revenge, or interfered with the case. I give you my solemn vow.”
That was it, then, wasn’t it? As far as Gin knew, her father had never lied to her. His inflexible ethics were a matter of occasional teasing in the family; Madeleine sometimes became frustrated at what she termed his “rigidity.”
And yet, something continued to bother Gin, on a level too deep for her to put her finger on. Things between her parents had been strained, and Gin thought it was more than the terrible revelation about Lily.
“You were his physician,” she pressed. “You know they’re going to want to talk to you.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Richard said curtly. “They won’t see my records, however. Patient confidentiality is a serious matter.”
“They can subpoena you, Dad.”
“Let them.” Richard leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Until then, I know my rights very well.”
“Would you let me look at them, at least?” Gin tried. “If there’s something there that would raise an eyebrow, it would be better for us to be prepared.”
He was already shaking his head. “Virginia, I am very well aware that you are among the best in your field. Your mother and I couldn’t be any prouder of your accomplishments. But the fact remains that your patients, for lack of a better word, are dead. When it comes to interpreting the information in my patients’ records, I must insist that I am the best authority.”
He wasn’t going to let her see anything. Gin wasn’t surprised, but she wished her father would change his mind. Doing so would allow her to clear at least one of the layers of doubt that seemed to be enshrouding everyone she had ever cared about.
As she gently closed the door to her father’s office, he was already bending over his blotter again, the pool of golden light cast by his desk lamp accentuating his wrinkles and making him look older than his years.
Another dead end, at least for now. Gin stood motionless in the hallway, listening to the faint creaking of the old house’s foundation, wondering where to turn next.
And realizing there was only one person she wanted to talk to as the threads of the investigation knotted ever more tightly.
***
Shortly after midnight, Gin was standing at the end of her parents’ driveway, a breeze off the river lifting the ends of her hair from her shoulders. For the umpteenth time since calling Jake earlier in the evening, Gin wondered if she was making a mistake. She’d made the call with no agenda other than to talk through the latest development—but Jake had other ideas. The way he had outlined his plan, there was no risk to either of them, no risk of getting caught. But even if that was true, she was still betraying her father’s trust.
She’d dressed in a sundress she’d found in her closet. It was at least a decade old, a spaghetti-strapped cotton shift in shades of emerald green and turquoise, and it was perfect for the humid, warm night.
Headlights bounced toward her on the uneven pavement. Gin hopped in the passenger seat of Jake’s truck, and he made a wide U-turn at the end of the street.
“Thanks for picking me up,” she said.
“Well, the way I see it, I owe you.” He sounded only slightly less irritated than he had when she called him after talking to her father. “You didn’t have to share with me what you learned about Dad’s autopsy. And you definitely didn’t have to agree to help me break into your father’s office.”
It was only her certainty of her father’s innocence that led her to agree. But what if that trust was misplaced? It was almost too wrenching to consider.
They rode in silence out past the town limits, up onto a sloping, wooded stretch of land where only a few cabins lined the fire road. Jake drove carefully on the switchbacks until they were nearly at the top, then parked next to a simple wood-sided cabin. A light glowed golden through the windows.
A man came out onto the porch, holding a mug in his hands. Jake let the engine idle, and Gin rolled down her window and called to the elderly retired policeman. “Lloyd?”
“None other. That you, princess?”
She moved over on the bench seat, her hip touching Jake’s, making room. Lloyd set his coffee mug on the porch railing, picked up a small gym bag, and clambered in next to her. “You sure are a pretty sight.”
“Careful, Lloyd, I think she’s covered by worksite harassment rules now,” Jake said.
Lloyd just laughed. “Good thing I’m retired, then. How long’s it been, sweetheart?”
Gin squeezed his hand and smiled. “Too long, and I’m to blame. I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch.”
“Ah, well, I’ve been busy, too. There’s only so many hours in the day to throw money into the lake.”
“That piece of junk still afloat?” Jake inquired drily.
“Hey, buddy boy, I’ll race my boat against this tin-can truck any day.”
The two men bantered most of the way to the hospital, and Gin was grateful for the levity. She knew that Lloyd, who had been Lawrence’s partner for many years before Lawrence was promoted to chief, would do anything to help solve his friend’s murder.
She, however, was about to betray her father’s trust in the most serious way imaginable. If he ever found out she’d broken into his office, she would fear his anger more than any legal consequences.
“Pull around back there, son,” Lloyd said, directing them on a fire road that led behind the hospital to where the dumpsters were located. “Now remember, I don’t want to know exactly what you’re looking for. All I’m going to do is get you in without showing up on the security feed. After that it’s up to you.”
Jake looked at Gin significantly. “What did you tell him?”
Gin had given Lloyd few details, mindful that she’d already told too many people about the evidence of damage to Lawrence’s heart. “Only that the records may contain information that will clear Dad from suspicion in Lawrence’s death,” she said, which was more or less true. If Lawrence had already been diagnosed with recent heart damage, it would weaken her theory. “He won’t release them because of patient confidentiality rules, but I feel like his future is more important than any rule right now.”
“Or, your father’s records might implicate him. One way or the other, we’re going to find out.” Jake got out of the truck, slamming the door.
Lloyd whistled softly. “Never seen that boy so worked up. Not for years, anyway. Gin, I can’t believe your father did anything like this.”
“Me either. Lloyd, I really appreciate your help. I just can’t afford to come under scrutiny, and Dad absolutely cannot know I was here.”
They got out of the truck and followed Jake to a cluster of willow trees on a landscaped berm. At the bottom of the slope was a small, plain metal door on the south wall of the hospital. Above were windows to patient rooms, but nearly all of them had the drapes closed.
Lloyd explained, “Reason I picked this door is, it’s only got one camera on it. I’m betting that door’s only there for legal egress. You can see there hasn’t been much foot traffic.” He shone a small flashlight down on the concrete pad outside the door. It was covered in leaves. “This won’t take but a minute, but don’t follow until I signal, hear?”
He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head, covering his face, suddenly transforming himself from an old man to a figure who could be anyone, and handed Jake his keys.
“That there’s a laser,” he said, pointing to the key chain. “Cost me twenty bucks. Now you can buy ’em for half that. Anyway, you need to keep it focused on that camera lens. See, bolted over the door?”
“Yes, I see. That’ll disable it?”
“Well, enough so nobody’s watching me, anyway.” He picked up his gym bag and started down the hill. Jake pointed the beam at the lens, and Lloyd gave him a thumbs up. He took something out of his bag and knelt in front of the door.
“What’s he doing?”
“Well, whatever that thing is, it looks an awful lot like a cordless drill.”
They watched in silence for several moments. Lloyd returned the object to his bag and got to his feet slowly, massaging his joints, and came back up the hill.
“I’ll take over,” he said, taking the laser from Jake. “Once you get in, I’ll shut it off until you get back. With any luck, no one’s noticed yet. This might not even be on the main feed.”
“What did you do?”
Lloyd shrugged. “Just drilled it out, is all. It was a simple deadbolt. One thing I learned from being a cop—you don’t really have to be all that smart to commit ninety percent of the crimes I investigated. It’s just lucky that most crooks are stupid.”
“Wish us luck,” Gin said.
“Aw, hell, you kids won’t need it.”
Jake followed Gin down the slope. She could smell the burnt oil scent of the drilled metal, and when she tried the knob, the door swung open effortlessly. Inside, she switched on the flashlight Lloyd had given her. They were in some sort of basement utility room. At the far end, she could see light seeping under the door.
She held her breath as she tried the knob. Another deadbolt, which she easily turned—and then they were standing in a windowless hall.
She chose a direction at random and walked quickly, Jake following silently. They arrived at a set of stairs and took it up to the main floor. No one saw them as they entered the hall and studied a sign showing directions to various departments.
“This way,” Gin said, quickly calculating the fastest route to the physician’s offices.
There was always the chance they would run into another physician, but she was counting on the late hour to keep the wing empty, and as they reached the first of the offices, she was gratified to see that they were all darkened. It didn’t take long to reach her father’s office.
“Well, here goes,” she said, taking her father’s keys from her pocket and stifling a stab of guilt over having lifted them from the hook once she was sure he had gone to bed.
Inside, the office looked the same as it always had. Walnut desk and expensive ergonomic chair. Beige sofa and small conference table. Computer, shut down for the night. Filing cabinet, bland mass-produced art, single houseplant nurtured by the office manager. Photos of her and her mother arranged on the credenza.
Gin had seen her father write prescriptions at home many times. An eye infection, a bout of strep, her mother’s occasional UTIs—like many physicians, he wrote the occasional scrip for family and friends. Unlike others, however, he kept scrupulous records. She’d seen him save the duplicate sheet from the prescription pad, and once, in his office, he showed her where he kept them. At the end of the year, he stored them with his other important documents.
Digital prescribing was beginning to catch on elsewhere in the world, but in the United States it was still rare, and Gin breathed a sigh of relief as she got the black cardboard file box from the shelf behind her father’s desk and lifted the lid. The square of paper on top was dated just today.
She paged through the sheets, squinting at her father’s near-illegible handwriting. A dozen pages in, she found what she was looking for.
For a moment she just stared at the prescription, her heart thudding, heat blooming behind her eyes. It couldn’t be . . . She just couldn’t believe it.
On June 2nd, Dr. Richard Sullivan had prescribed 400 mg of Doxorubicin. The name of the patient was illegible. But a pharmacist wouldn’t be blamed for overlooking that, as Doxorubicin, a medication used in cancer treatment, wasn’t commonly abused and wouldn’t raise red flags.
It was regulated, however, to make sure that a patient didn’t exceed cumulative thresholds, because of the likelihood of heart damage—specifically, the buildup of dangerous plaque in the arteries.
If Gin remembered correctly, 400 mg was almost the lifetime limit. And taken all at once, the results could be disastrous: heart failure immediately, or in the hours or days following, even if the patient had no other history of heart problems.
She read the damning words three times, then finally looked up. Jake already knew; she could see it in his eyes.
“That’s what killed Dad, isn’t it.”
“This doesn’t necessarily mean—”
“Gin. When you got to town, you basically accused me of killing your sister. So don’t act like I don’t have the right to draw my own conclusions,” he said angrily. “Look. Your father has blamed me ever since Lily disappeared. I’ve never understood why until just now. It’s because he was the one who killed her.”
“What?”
“I’m such an idiot.” He looked like he wanted to smash something, fists clenched at his sides.
“Even if this was what killed Lawrence—even if, for some unfathomable reason, my father wanted your dad dead—how can you say that means he killed his own daughter? That’s insane.”
“You don’t underst
and. She came to me that week. She wanted to talk.”
“Your famous ‘brotherly’ conversations,” Gin snapped, immediately regretting her sarcasm. “The ones you conveniently forgot to tell anyone about until there was proof you were with her that night.”
Jake went still. “I thought we were past that,” he muttered. “If you still think—if you have even the least suspicion that I killed her, then I’m walking away right now.”
She could hear his breathing, harsh and ragged in the dim, silent building. Shame mixed with anger and other emotions she couldn’t untangle. “No,” she finally said tightly. “I don’t . . . think that.”
“Then listen to me. Call those talks whatever you want, but Lily had something she wanted to get off her mind. Only she never quite got around to telling me what it was.”
“Convenient—”
“Damn it, Gin, listen to me. She said that she’d started to question the meaning of family. Frankly I had no idea what she was talking about. Hell, I was eighteen, I probably wasn’t a very good listener. I think I told her to just have faith that it would all work out.” He shook his head in disgust. “I may have been the reason she never came out with it. But don’t you get it—whatever she was going to reveal caused her a lot of agony, or she wouldn’t have taken so long to work up to it.”
“You’re accusing my father of—of—” Gin couldn’t bring herself to say it. The unspeakable thing that Jake was saying her father had done to Lily.
“I’m not saying he necessarily molested her,” he said. “But whatever it was, he obviously wanted it covered up, and the shame was overwhelming her. I’m sorry, Gin, but look—I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? She’d finally gotten the nerve up to tell—maybe threatened him that she would tell—and if she’d had a little more time, maybe she would have. But he stopped her. Silenced her for good. And then what better way to protect himself than to accuse someone else—someone who already had a strike against him. He knew that people would jump to conclusions if they knew Lily was spending time with a guy who wasn’t her boyfriend. He used me. And when my dad figured it out, Richard had to make sure he didn’t tell, either.”
Dark Road Home Page 19