She reaches into the pocket of her pants and pulls out a cell phone. She taps the screen a couple of times and then starts swiping. After a moment she shows us the screen. It’s a picture of a group of people, one of whom I see is Toby. There are four other guys and two girls who look to be Toby’s age, and one middle-aged man. Two of the four guys I recognize as Liam Michaelson and Mitch Sawyer. I gather one of the remaining two is Alex Parnell, and based on the knowledge that he’s a swimmer, I guess it’s the taller, leaner fellow with the broad shoulders standing behind Toby.
“That’s Toby’s gaming group,” Lori explains. “He sent that to me two days before he broke up with me. Why would he do that?” She looks at us with red-rimmed, tear-stained eyes, searching our faces for answers because we have no verbal reply.
“Can you forward that picture to me?” I ask Lori.
“Sure.” She hands me her phone. “Just do it.”
“Send it to me, too,” Bob says to me, and I nod. “You have my number, right? Mattie gave it to you?”
I nod and go about forwarding the photo to both of our phones.
“Did you know any of Toby’s close friends?” Bob asks Lori.
“Some of them,” she says. “Mostly guys from the house, though he did have a couple of other acquaintances on campus, more classmates than friends, though, I think. You know, study buddies . . . that sort of thing. He hung with that gaming group more than anyone.” She lets out a humorless chuckle and shakes her head. “I never got their interest in the gaming thing. The degree of it, that is. They practiced all . . . the . . . time.” She widens her eyes and adds an impatient emphasis to the last three words. “Toby told me that the competitions offered money prizes, so if they won they’d get cash. Yet despite all that practice, his team almost never won the official competitions. I sometimes wondered if he was really practicing, or . . .”
“Or what?” I urge.
“Do you think he was seeing one of those girls from the gaming group? Do you think that’s why he broke things off?” she asked.
All we have to offer are shrugs of ignorance and sympathetic looks.
“Did you ever see any of his friends do drugs?” Bob asks, steering Lori away from the topic of the girls. “Or did he talk about any of them doing drugs?”
Lori makes an equivocal face. “It’s college,” she says, sounding apologetic. “So, yeah, some of the kids use weed, there’s often some pill popping going on to get revved up for long study sessions or to wind down after a test. And I know some people who do coke now and again. But no one in my circle does any hard stuff or even uses regularly. And as far as I could tell, no one in Toby’s circle did, either. But I didn’t spend a lot of time around his frat brothers or his gaming buddies, so . . .” She shrugs, looking sad. “I certainly didn’t get the sense that Toby was into that. If I had, I never would have gone out with him. It’s not my thing.”
Bob takes out his cell phone and taps at the screen a few times. At first, I think he’s checking to see if I sent the picture to him as promised, and I feel a glimmer of annoyance at his doubt. But then he shows his phone to Lori and asks, “Does this look familiar to you?”
I catch a brief glimpse of the screen as he turns it toward her and see that he’s showing her a picture of Toby’s bridge drawing. I’m surprised he has it. When did he take it?
Lori stares at the picture, a thin smile forming on her lips. “Toby drew this, didn’t he?” she says, looking at Bob. He nods, and she looks admiringly at the drawing. “I’d know his work anywhere. He’s very talented.” Her eyes dart back to Bob then and the smile drops off her lips like a lead weight. “Was . . .” she says, her voice hitching on the word. “He was very talented.” She hands the phone back to Bob and I slide her phone back across the table to her.
“What about the bridge in the drawing, the setting? Does any of it look familiar to you?” Bob asks.
Lori shakes her head slowly, staring at Bob. “No, sorry,” she says. Then her eyes grow wide. “Oh my God,” she says. “You’re a cop.”
Bob, looking a bit puzzled by this outburst, says, “Yes, I told you that.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner,” Lori says, staring at Bob with an expression of pain dawning. “Toby loved life, he had his future all planned out, and he told me once that he was afraid of death. I know he didn’t kill himself. And Toby didn’t use drugs, so how could he have overdosed, and on something as hard-core as heroin?” She shakes her head vigorously. “Nope, it makes no sense. If you’re looking into his death this hard, it’s because you don’t think it was an accident or a suicide, do you?” Bob opens his mouth to answer but Lori doesn’t give him a chance. “That only leaves one other possibility. You think someone killed him, don’t you?”
A strained silence builds between us. Then Bob answers Lori’s question with one of his own. “Do you know of anyone who would want to kill him? Or any reason someone would want him dead?”
“God, no,” she says, looking horrified. “But it makes sense.” She lets out an ironic chuckle. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before.”
“What makes sense?” Bob asks, leaning toward her eagerly, his eyes narrowing.
“When Toby broke up with me, he kept saying it was for my own good. And when I wouldn’t stop pleading with him to give us another chance, he got mean.” She looks from Bob to me, and then back to Bob again, a big smile on her face. “Don’t you see? Toby was never mean, not to anyone, and particularly not to me. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now it makes sense. He was trying to protect me. He wanted to make sure I stayed away.”
As far as jumped-to conclusions go, this one ranks right up there. To say it is far-fetched would be reasonable. Plus, it wouldn’t be unusual for a confused, heartbroken, jilted lover to try to rationalize or sugarcoat being dumped by coming up with an explanation like Lori’s. Yet I’m inclined to agree with her.
Lori then surprises me, and judging from the way he jumps, Bob, too, by shoving her chair back, standing, and reaching across the table to grab Bob’s wrist. She does it all in one rapid, fluid motion, demonstrating that gracefulness even now.
“Someone killed Toby,” she says, her voice suddenly steely. “I don’t know why, but I’ll do whatever I can to help you figure it out. You catch whoever did this. Promise me you’ll catch whatever scumbag did this.”
The vehemence in her voice is frightening and makes me look at her in a new light. But it also reaffirms my sense regarding her feelings for Toby. Lori Davenport might look like a delicate flower and have a voice as soft and sweet as a baby’s coo and a face that would give Helen of Troy a run for her money, but beneath it all is a steely edge and a take-no-prisoners resolve if she, or someone she cares about, is done wrong. Toby Cochran managed to find himself one hell of a woman.
It makes the whole situation all that much sadder knowing that the two of them will never get a chance to be a couple.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bob’s phone starts dinging like crazy on the way back to his car. This makes him walk even faster for some reason, and I struggle to keep up, my pace an awkward mix of running, power walking, and a speed I’ve nicknamed please-cut-my-legs-off-because-they-hurt-so-bad. I start to think that if I hang out with Bob long enough, I won’t need to go to any gym for exercise. Just keeping up with him will be exercise enough. Once we’re settled in the front seat, I breathe a sigh of relief, and then look over at him, brows raised in question.
“What?” he says, swiping and tapping at the screen of his phone.
“What’s next? Where do we go from here?” He reads something on his phone and starts swiping some more. I wait as patiently as I can, though I’m itching to get moving. “What are you doing?” I ask finally, leaning over and trying to peek at the screen. “Are you reading emails? Is there more info about the case?”
The corner of Bob’s mouth twitches up ever so slightly, not quite a smile, but bordering on one. “Yes,” he say
s finally, though I’m not sure which of my questions he’s answering. “I got a text from Jonas. He and Arnie analyzed the trace amounts of heroin and other substances that were left in the syringe we found in Toby’s arm and they figured out the percentage of each one present in the sample. They put it out for a search.”
“Put it out for a search?” I say, not sure what he means.
“To see if it matches other samples collected by other jurisdictions. And we just got a hit. It seems the ingredients and their concentrations exactly match a heroin sample taken from a dealer in Pardeeville who the sheriffs there have arrested.”
“Does that mean we’re going to jail?” I say, sounding much more chipper than those words would generally imply.
Bob glances at his watch. “We can. It’s an hour’s drive to Portage from here. But I’m thinking it might be time to grab some lunch first. I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since early this morning, and I’m getting hungry.”
“Let me settle something right now,” I tell him. “Stopping to eat is always fine by me. I can eat anytime, and pretty much anywhere. I don’t do organ meats, and I’m not big on raw fish, but other than that, I’m good to go.”
“Got it,” Bob says with a smile.
“I thought you said the death occurred in Pardeeville. Why are we going to Portage?”
“Because that’s where the jail is. Are you up for Chinese? I know a place not far from here in Madison.”
“Yum,” I say, licking my lips. “Shrimp lo mein, here I come.”
Twenty minutes later we are seated in a booth in a typical Chinese restaurant, our orders placed, waiting on our food. It’s quite warm inside, and as I slip out of my jacket, I hear and feel something crinkle in one of the pockets. Puzzled, I look inside and see one of the individually wrapped marshmallow and chocolate bunnies that was in the dish on the foyer table in Lori’s house. I have no memory of taking anything from that dish, and I know no one offered me anything. Feeling a flush of shame and embarrassment, I shove the candy deeper into the pocket, sneaking a glance at Bob to see if he’s noticed what I’m doing. He hasn’t; his attention is focused on his phone, where he’s slowly but methodically texting away. He has broad, stubby fingers, I note, and judging from the muttered curses and the frustrated frown on his face, texting isn’t one of his strong suits.
My phone dings then, letting me know I have a text message, so I check to see who it’s from and what it is. I don’t get a lot of texts that aren’t either work-related or from P.J., and as expected, this one is from P.J. There is a picture of Roscoe attached, holding a big stick in his mouth.
See what Roscoe caught! reads the text message. I smile at it, and then another text follows. Should I walk him for you this afternoon again?
I text P.J. back saying yes, and thanks.
When I’m done, I set the phone on the table and realize that Bob is watching me. I smile awkwardly at him, wondering if he knows about the candy in my pocket after all and is using some silent staring technique to get me to confess.
“There’s something you should know,” he says just as I’m about to seize the candy from my pocket and toss it to him while throwing myself at his mercy. “I have an ulterior motive for letting you come along with me today.”
“Do you?” I say, breathing a sigh of relief even though my heart is still clipping along at a fast rate. That’s because I think Bob is about to confess his undying love for me. Or at least his mild interest in me, though truth be told, I’d settle for a smidge of curiosity.
“I do,” he says. “Chief Hanson loves to apply for grant funding. The last one he applied for got us our video cameras and eventually a full-time videographer. It’s a very state-of-the-art, advanced practice for any police department, much less a small one like ours. It comes in very handy when we’re processing crime scenes.”
I feel my hopes sink like the Titanic. Unless he’s using the videography thing as a lead-in to a kinky sex suggestion, I don’t think his “confession” will have anything to do with his romantic interest in me. Since I have no idea where he’s going with this, I sit back and listen, trying not to look too disappointed, and wishing the food would arrive so I would at least have something else to look at, something else to do besides twiddle my thumbs. I shove my hands down between my thighs to stop the twiddling.
“Anyway,” Bob goes on, “the chief has applied for several more grants, one of which recently got approved. And that’s why I invited you to come along with me today.”
“Invited?” I scoff. “I had to practically beg and then blackmail you into letting me come along.”
“Well, no, you didn’t have to do that,” he says with a sheepish smile. “But I let you, because I wanted to see how interested you really were.”
Fortunately, our food arrives . . . fortunate because I have a sudden urge to rip Bob’s head off his shoulders. A few choice comments bubble up in my throat, but I manage to both quell my urge and squelch my words, smiling as our waiter places the dishes on the table. I see Bob’s expression when he looks at me once the waiter is gone and I know my eyes aren’t reflecting the calm I’m trying to display with my body language and general absence of speech. Bob looks like he wants to get up and run, or maybe pull a gun on me.
“Let me get this right,” I say in a low but seething voice. “You made me beg and barter to ride along with you even though you’d already decided I could?”
“You make it sound meaner than it was,” Bob says with a frown. He ignores the chopsticks and takes up his fork, making me wonder if it’s his preference for eating, or if he thinks that the fork is a better weapon for self-defense. His eyes follow my hand as I pick up my own fork, his expression wary. “It was something of a job interview,” he says.
I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but it wasn’t this. I’m momentarily stymied as I feel my balloon of anger deflate. “What do you mean, job interview?”
“The chief got funding for a trial program involving the use of a ride-along social worker for patrols. There are any number of situations cops encounter where a social worker would come in handy for things like on-the-spot counseling, child placement, community resource referrals, that sort of thing. Even counseling for the cops themselves at times. The chief put together a proposal for what he’s calling the Helping Hands Program. He just informed us of the approval and funding at our staff meeting two days ago, and he plans to start looking for someone to fill the social worker role right away.”
I gape at Bob, wondering if I’m being punked. “Are you serious, or are you playing some kind of joke on me?”
“I’m very serious,” he says. “In fact, I spoke to Chief Hanson about you last night.”
“You did?”
He nods, having just forked a mound of rice, beef, and broccoli into his mouth.
Still reeling, I take a stab at my own plate, embarrassed to find myself slurping a lo mein noodle seconds later. I chew contemplatively, staring at my plate because I’m afraid to look at Bob.
“It’s only on a trial basis to start with,” he says once he’s swallowed, and I risk a look at him. “You wouldn’t necessarily have to quit your job at the hospital, because the chief wants to try out the program on the night shift in the beginning, maybe some weekends, times when other resources tend to not be available.”
I nod my understanding, trying to swallow. My mouth is dry suddenly. I grab the teapot that our waiter placed on the table when we first sat down and pour myself a cup. Even though the tea has been sitting out for a while, it’s still boiling hot, and I manage to scald my tongue and the inside of my mouth. It does help me swallow, though it’s more of a half gasp that nearly chokes me, and I set my fork down to grab my water as a chaser. My eyes start to water, and I blink rapidly to try to quell the flow.
“You work a Monday through Friday day schedule at the hospital, don’t you?” Bob says, seemingly oblivious to my current suffering. Apparently, the question is a rhetorica
l one, because he continues without waiting for me to answer. “I’m not sure it will work given your hospital schedule. You wouldn’t want to ride around all night long with a police officer and then have to work all day at the hospital. But I’m also sure you wouldn’t want to quit your job at the hospital for one that might only be part-time and temporary.”
“Of course,” I manage to say after a swallow of water cools down the inferno that is my mouth. The response is an automatic one, but in my mind, I’m thinking I can do it. I can sleep in the evenings, ride with the cops at night, and work at the hospital during the day. I kept a similar schedule when I was going to school, and it isn’t like I have a life I need to worry about. I’m single, childless, and dateless, and my social life consists of coffee and cookies with my grief support group one evening a week and a movie and popcorn night with P.J. on the occasional Saturday night because I have cable and her parents don’t.
“I could make it work,” I tell Bob. “And I’d be very interested in doing something like that.”
“You wouldn’t be doing a lot of investigative stuff like you and I are doing now,” Bob cautions. “I mean, you’d likely be present at crime scenes, probably one of the first people on site, in fact. But your job would be to help the police deal with the people who are involved, not investigate the crime.”
“Of course,” I say again with a smile, making a face that suggests I can’t imagine it any other way. Though I can. He’s not fooling me. Helping or dealing with the people at a crime scene could easily end up being a part of the investigation. They’d go hand in hand.
Needled to Death Page 19