The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

“What kind of people?” D.D. asked with interest.

  “Murderers. Dr. Deaths or Angels of Doom.”

  “Medical caretakers who convince themselves that their patients—i.e., their troubled young charges—would be better off dead?” D.D. volunteered helpfully.

  Karen glared at her. “Myself, my staff, we are committed to healing children. Not hurting them.”

  “People change.”

  “No!” Karen blazed. “You don’t get it. This is a pediatric psych ward. We work as tightly together as any trauma team. And we succeed precisely because we know one another that well, we believe in one another that much. I’d trust anyone here to hand me a drink right now and I would down it without hesitation.”

  D.D. waited to see if anyone would take Karen up on that offer. No one moved.

  “Maybe that just proves you’re the guilty party,” D.D. said.

  “I was the first to help him.”

  “Maybe because you already knew something bad was going to happen.”

  “How dare you! I’m a nurse—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” D.D. interrupted. “So you’ve said. Fact remains, someone drugged Lightfoot’s iced tea, and I’m guessing that someone is standing right here, unless you believe the unit’s negative energy suddenly grew a pair of hands.”

  No one said a word, which D.D. took as a sign of agreement. She continued briskly: “Now, seems to me, problems here are growing bigger, not smaller. Meaning, it’s time for my team to take a crack at your team, and meaning no one’s allowed off this floor until personally cleared by a member of my squad. No trips to the cafeteria. No five-minute break to catch a smoke. Are we clear? Let’s get this party started. And candidate number one will be …” D.D. glanced around the common area, spotting her target of choice: “Gym Coach, follow me.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Greg didn’t look happy. The big guy trailed down the hallway toward the BPD’s makeshift command center, his gaze glued to the carpet, his high-top sneakers dragging. It made D.D. feel warm and fuzzy all over. Always nice to know she wasn’t losing her touch.

  Inside the classroom, Alex had set up the pizzas across one table. The scent of melted cheese, fresh-baked dough, and spicy pepperoni made D.D.’s stomach growl. There was probably something ironic about stuffing one’s face right after watching a grown man get poisoned, but D.D. was starving. Alex and several of the other guys had already dug in, munching away. They looked up with interest as D.D. closed the door behind her and Greg then headed straight for the pizza. She found the fully loaded pie and slid two cheesy slices onto a paper plate.

  “Want some?” she asked Greg.

  He shook his head.

  “Soda, water, iced tea?”

  He gave her a look. “No. Thank you.”

  “I bet the food’s safer in here than out there,” she told him.

  “I’m with Karen on this one,” he answered stiffly.

  “Loyal to the Corps?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “ ’Course not. Cops. Hell, what could we possibly know about the importance of teamwork?”

  The classroom door opened. Danielle walked in.

  “Not your turn, chickadee,” D.D. informed her, through a mouthful of pizza. “Go back and play with your other friends.”

  “Can’t,” Danielle said. “I’m on leave, right? Can’t stay out there, so Karen sent me in here.”

  “Wanna talk? Fine. Alex will take you next door. Alex.” D.D. gestured to him, just as Danielle said:

  “Nope.”

  “Yes.”

  “Nope.”

  D.D. frowned, set down her paper plate, and strode over to Danielle. She stood right in the nurse’s face. Heightwise, D.D. had only an inch on the woman, but she knew how to use it. “This is a private party. Out.”

  “No.”

  “What the fuck is your problem?”

  The nurse shifted edgily. “You. Him.” Danielle jerked her head toward Greg. “The whole fucking unit. You think you need answers? I need them even more. Meaning Greg has got to start talking.”

  D.D. snapped around to glare at Greg. “Do you know what she means?”

  He shook his head.

  “Yes you do,” Danielle said, eyes still on D.D. “I heard you with the boy. You know Evan. From off the unit. How can that be, Greg? How do you know him, and why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Danielle—”

  “For God’s sake!” Danielle exploded. “Two families are dead, Greg. And Lucy. Plus, now Lightfoot’s hospitalized. How many more, Greg? Something’s terribly wrong. Someone’s hurting our kids. You need to start talking. How do you know Evan?”

  D.D. stuck her hands on her hips. “Might as well confess now, buddy boy. Because none of us are letting you out of this room until you do.”

  Greg remained standing there, lips thinned, face unreadable. He stared at Danielle. She stared back at him.

  “I knew the families,” Greg said abruptly. “All of them. Outside of the unit. I’m the missing link.”

  “I started respite work couple of years ago,” Greg was saying five minutes later. He was seated at the table, Danielle next to him, D.D. and Alex across from him. Despite his earlier refusal, he and Danielle were now both armed with cans of soda, which they had opened themselves and tasted carefully.

  “At first, I worked for just one family. I’d met them here; their four-year-old daughter suffered from schizophrenia. They were talking about how hard it was to get a break, to have a date night, go for a walk, buy groceries. Neither of their families were equipped to handle Maria, and there was a waiting list for trained help. I felt bad, especially for the mom. You could tell she was losing it. So I offered to watch Maria while the parents had a night out.

  “I didn’t accept money.” He said this more to Danielle than to D.D. and Alex. “I did it as a favor. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  Danielle nodded, tensely, her expression still guarded.

  “But then they called me up again. They could use more help and they were willing to pay. Thirty bucks an hour. That’s more than I make here.”

  “Thirty bucks an hour?” D.D. repeated.

  “There’s a shortage of respite workers,” Danielle said, looking at D.D. and not Greg. “Not enough training available, not enough people suited for the work. Given that families with special-needs children can’t exactly hire the teenager down the street, the families end up held hostage. They have the highest burn job on the planet and can never take a day off. Meaning the ones who have means …”

  “Pay well,” D.D. filled in.

  “Very well,” Greg supplied, a tad self-conscious this time. “And they network with other families with special-needs kids, and once the word gets around …”

  “You got a pretty good gig moonlighting as a respite worker.” D.D. frowned at him. “Why the secrecy, though?”

  “It’s considered a breach of protocol. Like a conflict of interest. I’m already being paid to help with kids here. To set up a side deal with the parents …”

  “Double-dipping?” D.D. asked.

  “More like … I think in the past, there were situations where an individual MC might have seemed aggressive about it. Like he or she was preying on overwhelmed parents to get work. That led to some rules.”

  “You’re not supposed to work with the families outside of the unit,” D.D. translated.

  “Exactly.”

  “But you have been. For years.”

  Greg flushed, looked down. “I swear, I’ve never solicited the work. They call me, not the other way around. I wouldn’t prey. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “So why are you breaking the rules?” D.D. asked. “You claim you’re a good guy, but clearly you’re not coloring within the lines.”

  “Money,” he said softly, not looking at Danielle. “I need the money.”

  “Need the money? Or want the money?” D.D. pressed.

  “Need.”
<
br />   “Why?”

  “My sister.”

  “Feel free to extrapolate.”

  “She’s institutionalized. Will be for life. And the hospital the state’s willing to pay for is more like a prison than a mental health facility. She’s my sister. I couldn’t leave her there.”

  “So you found her a new place?”

  “Private institution. But that means more money. State pays some. I make up the difference. To the tune of twenty grand a year.”

  “Twenty grand?” D.D. asked incredulously.

  “Matter of economics. Supply versus demand. When it comes to mental health, we don’t have enough supply, and every year, we have more demand. Ask Karen about it sometime. We used to see a handful of genuinely psychotic children a year. Now we make those same numbers within a month. We don’t know what the hell to do with these kids; how are the parents supposed to know?”

  “What about your parents?” D.D. asked. “Can’t they help with your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Again, feel free to extrapolate.”

  But Gym Coach Greg suffered from a sudden attack of muteness. He stared at the table, fidgeted with the beveled edge.

  “Hey, Danielle,” D.D. said after another minute. “Take a hike.”

  “No,” Greg spoke up. “She stays.”

  “Then you talk.”

  He sighed, seemed to be debating something inside himself. “My parents are dead,” he said abruptly.

  “When?”

  “Eighteen years ago.”

  D.D. did the math in her head. “You’d be, what? Twelve?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Okay. Parents die. It’s fourteen-year-old you and your, what … mentally ill older/younger sister?”

  “Older. Sixteen.”

  “She take care of you?”

  “Couldn’t.”

  “Because she was mentally ill.”

  “No.” He looked up, sighed again, seemed to finally reach some kind of decision. “Because she was under arrest for my parents’ murder. She’d poisoned them. With strychnine.”

  “Look, I don’t know all the details,” Greg told them. “I was a kid and my sister … I don’t know. I’ve heard a lot of different stories over the years. At her trial, her attorney argued self-defense. That my father had abused her, and my mother didn’t intervene, so Sally killed them to escape. Then she suffered a breakdown. The experts diagnosed her with severe depression, as well as borderline personality disorder. My sister’s attorney argued the borderline personality was a result of the abuse; it all got very complicated. Eventually, the state agreed to waive the charges as long as my sister was institutionalized. My grandparents were serving as our guardians at the time. They made my sister take the deal and that was that. My sister went bye-bye, and we all pretended it never happened.”

  “Where was this?” D.D. asked, making notes.

  “Pittsburg.”

  “How’d your sister get the strychnine?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “How’d she administer it?”

  “Don’t know. I was at a Boy Scout camping weekend when it all went down.”

  D.D. eyed him skeptically. “I want dates, place, and at least two corroborating witnesses.”

  Greg rattled off dates, place, and the name of two former Boy Scout leaders. The guy had apparently been asked to supply that information a couple of times before.

  “You believe your father was abusing your sister?”

  “I never saw any signs of abuse.”

  “So maybe your sister simply wanted to off your parents?”

  “I never saw any signs of violence.”

  “Well, which is it, Greg? A or B? Your whole family history comes down to two choices, an abusive father or a homicidal sister. You can’t tell us you’ve never considered the matter.”

  “Consider it all the time,” he said matter-of-factly. “Still don’t have an answer. Welcome to mental illness.”

  “But you’re breaking your back—not to mention a few rules—to fund better housing for your sister. That’s gotta mean something.”

  Greg fell silent. When he spoke again, he didn’t look at D.D., but at Danielle. “There are answers about my family I’ll never have. But maybe it doesn’t matter. My sister either killed my father because he was doing something terrible, or because she was suffering from something terrible. Either way, not her fault. Either way, she’s the only family I have left.”

  Danielle didn’t say anything. Her expression remained shuttered, her body language tight. Apparently, the nurse wasn’t the forgiving type.

  “Your grandparents?” D.D. asked Greg.

  “Died several years back. The murders, the trial, my sister’s hospitalization … it took a lot out of them. They never recovered.”

  “So you’re on your own and working here. Then you decide to upgrade your sister’s hospital, which means you need more money. A lot more money. Good news, the world is filled with desperate parents overwhelmed by their psycho kids, so revenue opportunities abound. You take the first respite job, then what?”

  “They referred me to another family, then another. And sometimes, on the unit, maybe it would come up in conversation.”

  “So maybe,” D.D. filled in for him, “you did prey on vulnerable parents.”

  “No.” Greg said it firmly. “They might ask. It’s a natural segue. Here I am, qualified to assist with their kid, and there they are, needing assistance. They ask, I answer.”

  “They ask,” Danielle confirmed quietly. “I’ve even heard parents pester Karen to make staff available to babysit. Parents are desperate for options.”

  “How did it start with the Harringtons?” D.D. asked.

  “I knew them from the unit. Ozzie was a very active kid and, you know”—Greg shrugged—“I don’t have a problem with that. We can wrestle and chase and I can keep a handle on things. That’s my job. And Denise and Patrick Harrington wanted that. So we arranged that one morning each week—it depended on my schedule here—I’d come over and take Ozzie to play. We’d go to the park, maybe bike. Something physical. They’d get time to themselves, Ozzie could blow off steam. It worked for everyone.”

  “When did it start, when did it end?”

  Greg had to think about it. “September last year. Couldn’t give you an exact date. Soon after they discharged Ozzie. It lasted nine months, then Patrick lost his job, and respite wasn’t an option anymore.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They fired you,” D.D. stated impatiently. “What’d you do?”

  “Fired me? They ran out of money. Not their fault. Frankly, I felt bad for them. Life was already tough. But they were good people. And Ozzie was doing a lot better by then. I figured they’d be okay.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Ozzie was doing a lot better’?”

  “You know, with Andrew.”

  D.D. cocked her head to the side. Studied Danielle and Greg. “That’s right. The Harringtons were using services from both Gym Boy and Healer Boy. Any other additional services?” She stared at Danielle.

  Danielle shook her head. “I’m a nurse. Even to babysit, you couldn’t afford me.”

  Greg, however, had turned a deep, dark shade of red.

  D.D. leaned forward, regarded him steadily. “Come on, spit it out. Confession’s good for the soul.”

  “There, um, there might be a reason the Harringtons used both me and Andrew.”

  “Really? Do tell.”

  Danielle was staring at him, too, the expression on her face wide-eyed, the person standing on the tracks seeing the train coming.

  “Andrew found out about my respite work. Coincidentally, a family who hired me also hired him. He put the pieces together.”

  D.D. arched a brow. So Lightfoot had something on the good-looking MC. So much for Karen’s little spiel about knowing everything about her staff.

  “So, um …” Greg closed his eyes, ble
w out a breath. “Andrew suggested that when I worked with a family, particularly a wealthy family, I could recommend his services. If the family ended up hiring him, he’d then throw a little something my way. Like a finder’s fee.”

  “Cash, you mean. More money.”

  “Generally fifty bucks.”

  “My, my, my,” D.D. mused. She turned to Alex. “And here Lightfoot told us he was giving his gift away.”

  “Oh sure,” Greg said sarcastically. “To the tune of a hundred an hour.”

  “Anyone else in on this?” D.D. asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Other MCs moonlighting as respite workers? Other therapists asking you to refer their services?”

  “None that I know of. But again, not exactly something anyone can talk about on the floor. Maybe other staff members work outside the unit. Maybe not. You’d have to ask them.”

  Alex spoke up. “Wait a minute. First the Harringtons are paying you thirty an hour to take Ozzie to the park. Then they’re paying Lightfoot a hundred an hour for counseling. They didn’t have that kind of money.”

  “They’d submit the bills to the state, which generally covers a couple of hours of respite care a month. So the state paid for half my time, with the Harringtons making up the difference. As for Andrew, I don’t know, but I’m betting they put it under ‘psychiatric services.’ I saw paperwork once, on the kitchen table. It didn’t look like an invoice from a spiritual healer, but more like a clinical doctor. Andrew had initials after his name and everything. I’m guessing that was his way of finessing the system for people like the Harringtons.”

  “People like the Harringtons maybe,” Alex said, still not sounding convinced, “but what about Tika’s family? No way they could afford even a fraction of your bill.”

  “No, they couldn’t,” Greg agreed. “And they didn’t. I saw Tika four times. Same deal. Established a rapport with her here, got to feel like she was making progress. When she was discharged, the dad asked if I could stop by from time to time. The mother was about to have a baby, she could use the break, yada yada yada.

  “So I stopped by. First time I entered the house, I about lost my lunch. The dad was passed out on the couch, obviously stoned, the mom’s ankles were so swollen from the pregnancy, she couldn’t get out of bed. I propped up her feet, got her some water, then I took all the kids to the park. Kept them for four hours. When I returned, the father seemed to have gotten himself together. He thanked me profusely and offered me a baggie for my troubles.”