Cover Shot (A Headlines in High Heels Mystery Book 5)

by LynDee Walker

  “Sorry, friend. You’re my only eyewitness. I need you in front of the jury.” She tucked the envelope into my bag. “November twelfth, nine a.m. Do not make me send the sheriff after you.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her and turned back for the door.

  “You mad?” she asked.

  “No. You’re just doing your job. I get it.”

  “Thanks. Enjoy your weekend.”

  I wished her the same and tossed my bag into the passenger seat.

  A subpoena.

  Because I didn’t have enough to worry about.

  I did a double-take when I walked through the revolving door at St. Vincent’s. The smiling candy stripers at the front desk had been replaced by two guys who had to moonlight as bouncers. In a rough part of town.

  I smiled. “Good morning. Heading up to visit a friend.”

  “Which floor?” The gruff baritone came from the one on the left. His cohort gave me a once-over and returned his attention to the door.

  “Five.”

  “Patient name?”

  The narrowing of his eyes told me dropping Amy Ellinger’s name would get me shuttled right back out the door.

  “My friend is a nurse, actually.” I kept my tone even and bright. “Alisha Royston.”

  He checked a clipboard and nodded, waving me toward the elevator and wishing me a good day.

  I punched the up button, wondering if this place would ever get back to normal. And how long it would take. The talking heads on the national cable channels were having a field day with yet another gunman—in a hospital, no less. Every TV station had a shrink talking about post-traumatic stress disorder and how it could affect medical staff at inopportune times. Probably a sad commentary on the world when only one victim meant it wasn’t big enough news for the networks to send reporters to Richmond, but I was glad they hadn’t. My story had been picked up by the wires, which meant notoriety for the Telegraph and fewer phone calls for me. They didn’t have to call me, they could just use my copy. Bonus: it also meant Andrews would stay in his office.

  I stepped off the elevator on five, turning toward the nurse’s station. A dozen steps down the hall, and I could see Alisha’s golden-brown bun glinting under the fluorescents.

  I stopped at the counter, scanning the hallway as I waited for her to finish making notes. Remnants of crime scene tape clung to the doorways, but the cops and forensics folks had cleared out. Probably worked all night.

  “Hi there.” Alisha’s voice quavered slightly and I pasted on my brightest everything-is-going-to-be-okay smile and turned to her. She laid her clipboard on the counter and offered me a quizzical look. “Can I help you with something?”

  “I was just hoping I could talk to you a little more. About yesterday. And maybe a few other things, too.” It was the oncology ward, after all. She had to know who Maynard was.

  She pulled in a deep breath and managed a smile. “All’s well that ends okay, right?” She stepped behind the desk and waved for me to follow her. Closing the door to a cluttered little office a few feet away, she gestured to a chair and waited for me to sit before she took the other one.

  “You had the gun last night,” she said. “You got it away from him?”

  “He wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He had turned it on himself. He just doesn’t want to lose his wife.”

  She nodded, her eyes shiny with tears. “He stays right by her side all day, every day. Reads to her. Talks to her. The pain meds keep her pretty out of it, but he doesn’t waver.”

  “There’s no chance?”

  “The federal government says I can’t answer that.”

  The tear that slipped down her cheek was all the answer I needed. Damn.

  “He’s desperate. Maybe even a little crazy because of it. But no one’s going to turn up a manifesto in his home or anything. This isn’t your typical I’m-going-to-kill-them-all scenario. No matter what CNN is saying.”

  “I heard that on the radio this morning.” She shook her head, another tear escaping. “It’s been so hard for him to face the fact that no one can help them. The chaplain’s been in there every day for two weeks, and he says he’s never seen someone cling so stubbornly to hope.” She sniffled. “He loves her so much. Every woman wants to be loved like that. I know I sure as heck do.”

  Amen, sister. “He’s convinced there’s someone who can help. Or there was, anyway.”

  Her brows shot up in such a look of pure surprise, I couldn’t believe she knew anything about what Maynard might have been into.

  “Maybe he is crazy. There’s no…Well. I think he’s wrong about that.”

  Strike one.

  “Do you know a Dr. David Maynard? I know he worked at the university hospital, but it can’t be such a big circle of people.”

  “Everyone knows Dr. Maynard. He’s kind of a legend around here. But he left the hospital and went into private practice. Really private. I’m not sure I’ve heard much about him for the last couple of years.”

  Huh. Now what? Truth or consequences. Maybe both. But if I wanted an answer, I had to ask the question. “Mr. Ellinger down the hall there, he met someone online who told him Maynard could cure his wife.”

  Her jaw landed next to her sensible white shoe on the yellowed tile. “What?”

  If she was pretending, her acting chops were going to waste. I nodded.

  “That’s what he wanted to tell me yesterday. He wanted Charlie to bring a camera in here so he could go on TV and demand that Maynard come treat his wife.”

  “But he can’t—no one could—that’s insane,” she stammered.

  Strike two.

  “I’m having trouble finding much information on Dr. Maynard’s work. Do you happen to know where he went or what he was doing after he left the university? Or maybe know anyone who does?”

  She tipped her head to one side, biting her lip. “Not personally, but one of our physicians might…” She trailed off, then snapped her fingers. “Oh! You need to talk to Wesley.”

  Her face brightened as she nodded. “Dr. Maynard’s research assistant—a few years ago, anyway. He was in the medical program when I was in nursing school. Brilliant guy. If anyone could help you, Wesley could.”

  Jiminy Choos. “You don’t happen to have a phone number for him?”

  “Sure.” She pulled out her iPhone and jotted it down for me.

  This day was looking up again.

  I smiled a thank you and tucked the Post-it into my pocket.

  “I don’t suppose I could talk to Mr. Ellinger? I don’t want to bother him, but I have a few more questions.”

  “You’re welcome to give it a shot. He hasn’t done anything but stare at his wife since last night. They have police officers outside her door, but I don’t think he even realizes they’re there.”

  She led me to Amy Ellinger’s room, and I nodded at the two uniforms Aaron had parked outside the door. I recognized one of them as a patrolman who’d worked a bad accident about a month back.

  “How are you this morning, Miss Clarke?” He didn’t look happy to see me.

  “Doing well, Officer. Yourself?”

  “Wondering why we have to babysit this looney tune instead of locking him up. Rumor is, it has something to do with you.”

  Alisha pursed her lips, her flashing eyes already telling him which bridge his lack of compassion could take a flying leap from. I put up a hand and smiled my best southern belle smile. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

  I turned from them without another word, and Alisha patted my shoulder as she turned back to the desk. “Good luck,” she whispered.

  The flood of memories that smacked me in the face with the smell when I opened Amy’s door almost knocked me to the ground. The sharp bite
of industrial-grade cleaners covering the sour-sweetness of illness, the air heavy and poorly circulated—I could practically hear my mom’s wispy voice. I paused to let my knees find their strength, surveying the space.

  Typical ICU chamber. The bed sat opposite the door, the slip of a woman in it tethered to six different machines by various tubes and wires. The blue plaid armchair looked comfortable, but wasn’t if you actually sat in it.

  Tom Ellinger half-laid in the chair, his face another day shaggier, his eyes a millimeter more sunken. He clung to his wife’s small, pale hand while she slept.

  I cleared my throat.

  He didn’t look up.

  The scene was one I remembered so well I hated myself a tiny bit for interrupting it. I wanted to help him. But I also wanted the story. And that made my skin feel a size too tight when I tried for a smile.

  “Tom? Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  He just stared.

  I took two steps forward. “Please? I need you to help me understand what happened yesterday.”

  He blinked twice and looked around. “Yesterday?” His lips moved like they had to remember how to work.

  “With the gun? You asked the police to let you talk to me?”

  His eyes narrowed before a look of horrified realization broke over his thin face.

  “A gun. I was going to scare them. Make him come see her. I wanted to talk to the press, but the girl from the TV station didn’t come in. Was that yesterday?” He blinked at me. “You came. You were here.”

  I nodded. “You sent me messages.”

  “I wanted Maynard to help her.”

  I smiled. “What does ‘LCX’ stand for?”

  “My lacrosse number.”

  I wouldn’t have gotten that in ten million years. Somehow, that made me feel better about failing to stop this before it started.

  I nodded, changing my focus to the bed. “This is Amy.” I didn’t bother with a question. “May I say hello?”

  He nodded, a sad smile showing his teeth, which could stand a sandblasting. Alisha wasn’t kidding when she said he hadn’t left this bedside. “She’s so beautiful,” he said. “Isn’t she? Always so beautiful.”

  I nodded, stepping closer.

  “Amy, baby, this is Nichelle. The lady from the newspaper. Remember, I told you about her? She came to help us. Dr. Maynard can’t help, but we’ll find someone. I promise.” His chin trembled on the last word and a tear slipped off his lashes, following the path of hundreds of others before it.

  I smiled, a swallow sticking around the lump in my own throat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Amy. I hope you’re resting comfortably.”

  “She seems to be. Not as much noise today.” Tom shrank into the chair. “I don’t want her to hurt. But I don’t want her to leave me. What am I going to do?”

  Go to prison, especially if he really killed that woman. I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag, writing his comment down.

  “How did you get here, Tom?”

  He shook his head. “We were so happy. Always. So happy. She’s been my whole life since I was nineteen. How do I just let her go? There has to be a way to fix this. I fix everything—it’s what I do. Making her happy makes me happy. Without her…” His shoulders started to shake and I laid a gentle hand on one of them as the flat unfairness of life socked me in the gut.

  Isn’t this what most people are looking for? That kind of forever love I’d always thought lived only in romance novels and fairy tales? These two had managed to find it, and here the proverbial rug was being snatched from under them in the cruelest way possible.

  Not. Fair.

  It broke my heart.

  And the fact that there was less than nothing I could do about it pissed me right the hell off. I like to help people. It’s one of the reasons I almost get myself killed poking around sticky stories on a pretty regular basis.

  So how could I help these folks?

  By finding the truth. Twelve hours of over-analyzing every word of my last conversation with Tom had left me with a list of questions—most of them about David Maynard.

  I tapped the pen on my notebook. “Tom, can you tell me a little about Dr. Maynard? You said last night you found his name in an online forum. Do you remember the address? Or even the name?”

  He shook his head, his eyes still on the floor. “I searched. I searched and searched so many different things. Something clicked and there was this chatroom. They didn’t say things outright, but there was this undercurrent of something. Like a code.”

  I scribbled. “You don’t remember anything about how you found it?”

  He scrubbed at his eyes with both fists. “Survivors. They were all survivors, and one post was from a woman who’d had the same thing Amy does, and she got better. I sent her a private message.”

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “I didn’t get it. Just her handle. DaisyMae.”

  I jotted that down. Needle, meet ginormous global information haystack.

  “And she told you to call Maynard? Eventually?”

  “It took a while, but yeah.”

  “How many conversations did you have with her? Do you think some of them might still be on your computer?”

  “Just three or four over about a month. And no.” He shook his head. “My Janie spilled juice on my laptop and fried it. I had to get a new one, and none of the web history is there.”

  Damn damn damn.

  He raised his head, his eyes dark with remorse.

  “I saw the news,” he said. “The woman who died…” He glanced at Amy. “Is her family okay?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “The PD is waiting for ballistics. While I can’t think of an entirely logical alternative, I’m hoping one of your shots didn’t hit her.”

  His brow furrowed. “Shot.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “One shot. I fired one.”

  No. “I heard two.”

  He shook his head. “I had two shells. I never really wanted to hurt anyone. I figured two was enough to scare them. I only fired one.”

  I arranged my face into a neutral expression and nodded. “All that adrenaline. Maybe I heard an echo.” So not likely.

  A soft moan came from the bed, and Amy wriggled, then quieted when Tom squeezed her hand.

  I took a deep breath and leveled my voice. “My mom had breast cancer.”

  He sniffled, sitting up a little. “Is she alive? Who treated her?”

  “The staff oncologists at Parkland. I was lucky to get her into a gene therapy trial there. It’s been gone six years now, but the fear of a recurrence lives in the back of my mind every minute,” I said. “I know how you feel.”

  He nodded. “Cancer fucking sucks.”

  “You can say that again. And again.”

  He met my gaze and held it for a second, then dropped his head back and laughed. It rolled from deep in his chest in waves, filling the small, sticky room. Amy’s eyelids fluttered. “Tom?”

  He hit his knees next to the bed, squeezing her hand. “I’m here, baby. Right here.”

  “You laughed. In my dream. I miss you laughing.” Her voice was heavy, thick with the narcotics.

  “I did laugh. I can’t remember the last time I did that.”

  “Do it again.” She licked at her lips to no avail. The painkillers gave my mom cottonmouth, too.

  His eyes promptly filled and spilled over. “I can’t.”

  She opened her eyes—a brilliant blue—and pulled her torso off the bed. “You must. My babies…you must laugh with them. Please.”

  He nodded, his tears still pattering onto the bleached sheets.

  Jesus.

  “Fuck you, cancer.” The words tumbled out before I could stop th
em, the scene in front of me wrenching my heart such that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. My hand flew up to cover it.

  Amy started, then fell back to her pillows with a pained sigh. She stared at me for ten seconds before she started to giggle. Her face betrayed the fact that it hurt, but she kept on. I grinned.

  “Blunt, but no less true,” I said. “I’d beg your pardon, but I don’t think it’s necessary in this case.”

  Amy giggled harder.

  Tom met my eyes and smiled, still more tears welling up in his as he mouthed “thank you” and laughed with her.

  I nodded, backing toward the door. Adding in what I hadn’t used the day before, I could write the story Bob wanted.

  Their happiness, however fleeting, followed me all the way to the elevator.

  Tom’s assertion about the rifle shells followed me out of the building.

  One shot.

  But he’d been half out of his mind—still was, really. Could he accurately recall such detail?

  One more piece for the puzzle. Now to fit a few of them together.

  I climbed into my car and pointed it toward the university hospital. I didn’t have time to call Wesley for an appointment. If Maynard had a research assistant who knew why Tom Ellinger thought my murder victim could cure cancer, by God I was going to know it too.

  16.

  Money train

  The atmosphere in the lobby was subdued here too, the people milling about clearly shaken by what had happened across town not twenty-four hours earlier.

  I stopped at the front desk (still staffed by bright-smiling baby boomer candy stripers) and touched the screen to pull up the automated physician’s directory. Digging out my notebook, I found Dr. Wesley’s last name (Goetze) and punched the keys. A photo and directory information appeared on the screen.

  Young. Handsome. I scrutinized his perfectly styled bronze-gold hair and too-white smile. He looked smarmy. Maybe this photo wasn’t a great one.

  “Suite twelve-twenty-one?” I asked, meeting the smiles of the women behind the desk. They nodded in unison, the taller one’s fire-engine colored hair so teased and shellacked it didn’t stir. The soft gray of the shorter woman’s hair brushed her shoulders as she turned toward the bank of elevators and pointed.