“What does this have to do with the murder?” Hal prompted, exhaustion weighing on him.
Fraser’s eyes flashed wide at murder. As though he hadn’t considered it a murder before now. He glanced at his phone, tightening his grip on it. He looked angry. At his son? At Posner? “I’m trying to explain.”
“Go on, Dr. Fraser,” Schwartzman said.
“Patrick went to Berkeley undergrad. He was a little wild his first year. He’d gone to a small high school, and it wasn’t easy for him. He didn’t quite fit in.”
A small high school. Small meant “private.” Expensive. Hal was growing impatient. “Dr. Fraser, as interesting as this is—”
“He came out of the closet the summer before his senior year of high school,” Fraser said in a quick rush.
So what? So the kid is gay. “And?” Hal asked.
Fraser dropped his head. “His mother and I didn’t handle it as well as we should have. It was hard to know if it was a phase. Kids these days try this sort of thing, so we urged him not to label himself one way or the other.”
“I’m still not following you, Dr. Fraser, and to be honest, it’s getting late. What does your son being gay have to do with Todd Posner?”
“Pictures,” he said.
Hal’s gaze tracked to the phone.
“There are pictures of Patrick.” Fraser’s voice cracked as he spoke his son’s name. “From freshman year. Horrible pictures. If Stanford got hold of these . . .”
“You’re afraid he wouldn’t get in to medical school,” Hal said.
“It’s not a sure thing, of course,” Fraser said in a rush of air. “Stanford is never a sure thing. But he’s a brilliant student. He has a great chance of acceptance. And it’s not just Stanford. It’s all the schools—”
“Dr. Fraser,” Schwartzman broke in. “I’m sure medical schools don’t discriminate based on an applicant’s sexual orientation. Maybe twenty years ago, but certainly not now.”
Fraser took his phone in both hands, shifting in the headlights. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, and a sheen glistened on his forehead. He looked ill. “Patrick didn’t want me to see these, but he had to show me. I had to know what Posner had, why Patrick was so distraught.”
He turned the phone so the screen faced Hal and Schwartzman. “I know in your job you’ve seen things much worse than this.”
Schwartzman stepped in beside Hal. “Worse than—” An image filled the screen, and Schwartzman stopped midsentence.
A white male stood, facing the camera, naked. His light hair was wavy and hung over his ears. He had a rounded, boyish face. His arms were spread wide, his head tipped back, mouth open as though he was laughing. Visible over his shoulder was his companion’s head, as well as his hairy chest and one shoulder. He, too, was smiling, his focus downward. The other man’s forearm was covered with hair that reminded Hal of bear fur. The furry arm was wrapped over the younger man’s shoulder from behind, and it crossed his chest diagonally. Near his fingers were four red lines across the skin of Patrick’s abdomen, marks, Hal suspected, from where the man had raked his fingernails across the skin.
It was hardly a shocking image. Not by a long shot. But it was made worse by the fact that there were two other men on their knees in front of Patrick. Like the first man, these two had their hands on Patrick. One man wrapped an arm across Patrick’s legs and around his back. His hand was visible behind and between Patrick’s legs. Both men were also hairy and larger than Fraser’s kid, their faces invisible to the camera, their heads blocking his genitals. They might have been eighteen, or they might have been forty. The image was uncomfortably pedophiliac as the three men groped the boy. Patrick could only be called a boy. Hal waved the phone away. He’d seen enough. “Patrick was eighteen when this was taken?”
“Yes. That’s his dorm room. He was eighteen in April of his senior year of high school, so he’s definitely eighteen.”
Good. That was good.
“This isn’t the worst of them,” Fraser said. “If anything, it might be the best.” His mouth curled in distaste over the word best.
It was obvious why Fraser didn’t want these images made public. Hal also knew stuff like this was all over the Internet. Kids were dumb about sex and drugs and drinking. And dumber about photographing and recording every stupid decision.
He didn’t envy kids these days. How many crazy, stupid things had he done at that age without considering what would happen if someone found out? Not just found out. If someone had a picture of it. Or video. A hundred? More? There’d been pranks, dares from idiot friends, bad decisions driven by his own curiosity—the list was long. And today every single one would be on permanent record.
Hal felt for the kid—and his father—but he didn’t understand what Fraser wanted, and more specifically why he’d come to Schwartzman.
“I can understand why you’re upset, Dr. Fraser,” Schwartzman said.
“What do the pictures have to do with Posner?” Hal asked again.
“Posner sent the images—five of them—to my son from an anonymous e-mail,” Fraser said, drawing each word through clenched teeth.
“Just the pictures?”
“No. The pictures came along with text, which warned Patrick that the images could get out.”
“An anonymous e-mail,” Hal clarified. “So how do you know they’re from Posner?”
“He said something about me. ‘Hope your dad doesn’t do anything he’ll regret.’”
Hal thought about their conversation earlier in the day. “Anything you would regret, like kick Posner out of the practice?”
“I assume,” Fraser said. “Who knows? Posner probably had a hundred things he wanted to use them for. It wasn’t just the acceptance into Stanford. If those came out, it would be—”
“Embarrassing,” Hal said before Fraser could use his own word. Hal didn’t want to hear Fraser say that the images would be devastating or the end of Patrick’s life. Kids like Patrick, with dads like Norman Fraser, did fine. They recovered. They succeeded. They had all the resources they needed. This was an embarrassment, nothing more.
Unless there was more.
Fraser himself looked embarrassed. “Posner knows I’d do anything for Patrick.”
“And now Posner is dead,” Hal said carefully, watching Fraser’s reaction.
“Yes.”
“So you think the pictures are somewhere in his house or on his computer.”
“Yes,” Fraser said again.
And Fraser wanted them back. It wasn’t possible. “Everything Posner owns is evidence in his murder,” Hal said.
“I know. I thought if you happened upon them . . .”
Hal shook his head. “Dr. Fraser, I don’t think you understand the situation.”
“I do. He’s been murdered, and that is the priority. Of course.”
“It’s more than that. When did you find out about these pictures?”
Fraser looked confused. “Patrick called me at work today. He came by the office about an hour ago. Cindy can’t know—his mother. It would break her heart.” He glanced at Hal and turned to Schwartzman. “She doesn’t need to know, does she?”
“Patrick still has the e-mail?” Hal asked, ignoring Fraser’s question.
“Yes. I think so.”
“When was it delivered?”
“Over the weekend—Friday night or early Saturday.” Fraser looked back at the phone. “Patrick said he saw them on Saturday.”
“And he just brought them to you today.”
“Yes,” Fraser agreed again, beginning to sound impatient. “But I don’t understand why that matters—”
“It matters, Dr. Fraser,” Hal interjected. “Because those pictures give Patrick a motive for murder.”
Fraser seemed suddenly small and frail. “Oh, God.”
10
He took in the spectacular view of Angel Island across the bay, his gaze sweeping across the blue water, its white crests. He’d seen sharks out ther
e. More and more they came into the bay. One had attacked a seal fifty feet from the edge of the pier across from his building. And, once a year, two thousand idiots swam from Alcatraz to the Marina Green in the Escape from Alcatraz Triathlon. Every year he waited to hear that one of them had been picked off.
Today the bay was quiet, and the view was spectacular. That was one of the benefits of being in charge—well, being in charge and having money. These days there wasn’t much else to spend money on, so the private office was a splurge. Eventually it would be different. He’d have money and freedom.
Another year maybe.
And if they made it through the next three weeks, he could get Trent out of his hair for a month. Maybe a little longer.
He rolled his shoulders in an effort to release some of the tension. This morning his brother had had the nerve to ask him if he knew anything about Posner’s death, and the question still pissed him off. It was all he could do not to lash out at him. How badly he had wanted to. What did Trent think? How did he imagine this was all working? But this wouldn’t be forever. It would just feel like forever.
First order of business was the three days of video to catch up on. A few weeks ago, he’d hardly bothered to watch these videos, happy to pass them off to his assistant. But recently it seemed important that he pay attention.
He opened the plastic container of take-out sushi. Lifted a pea-size mound of wasabi between two chopsticks and spread it on top of a piece of salmon nigiri. Dipped the whole thing into the soy sauce and put it into his mouth. The wasabi seared his nostrils and burned his eyes, and a rush of fire filled his head. He chewed slowly, savoring the heat before swallowing.
He loved sushi.
Trent hated it.
Of course. Too spicy. Too slimy.
But Trent loved raw oysters. Like they weren’t slimy. Aphrodisiacs, he would say. Everything was more appealing if it related to sex. Trent was a whole box of contradictions.
With the computer booted, he logged in to the security system and opened the first video file. Clicking the space bar three times set the play mode to the fastest speed. Watched this way, he could view the entire twenty-four hours in about ten minutes. He scanned the faces as people appeared, slowed and sped up to watch what they did.
All normal activity.
Sitting next to the computer was the list of who should be there. Beside each name was a thumbnail picture. The faces were all familiar by now.
A few more days, he might pass this job back to his assistant. But so soon after Todd, it seemed smart.
He was nothing if not smart.
His brother being an idiot meant he had to be very smart.
He took another bite of salmon as the first video ended. A little extra wasabi this time. To get the same rush required increasing amounts. His nose threatened to run. He sniffed deeply, blinking back the tears.
His phone rang as he launched the third video—the one from last night. The house number. His brother.
“Hello.”
“I’m bored.”
Trent.
He gritted his jaw, took a breath. Sound chipper. “How about if I bring home pizza and a movie?”
“I want to go to the stables, visit Ribbon.”
That was a terrible idea. The last time they’d been to visit Trent’s horse, he’d thrown a fit over some comment one of the stable guys made. What did he expect from a bunch of redneck cowboys?
“I want to leave,” Trent went on in his whiny voice. “I don’t need to be here.”
He clenched and unclenched his fists. His mouth was suddenly dry from the wasabi. “Just for a few more weeks.”
“I can’t leave the house,” he went on. “I could do the same thing from Athens . . . or Barcelona.”
How many times had Trent uttered those same words? And how often had he responded to his brother with the same lame encouragement? He was desperate to shout, “Go. Go and see how you manage, you fucking moron.”
You cannot do that. You need Trent. For a little while longer.
Another breath.
“I know this sucks, Trent. I don’t know how you’re managing it,” he said slowly. Not very well, he thought. Like a big baby, really. “Maybe there is another way,” he added, offering his brother a little dash of hope. He’d learned at their mother’s death that threatening Trent was a sure way to make him more difficult. String him along. Once the paperwork is signed, we are home free.
“So I can go?” Trent asked.
“Why don’t you pick a few places you want to go? Then we can see how easy it would be to make it happen?”
“You’re putting me off.”
“I’m not,” he said in a quiet voice. His patient voice. “I’m doing what is best for both of us—for the long term. We need the paperwork completed.”
“Why don’t we just tell the lawyer we want it now?”
“You know why, Trent.”
Trent was quiet. He knew he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“I’m not staying. Not for three more weeks,” Trent warned.
“Okay. We’ll try to make the appointment for sooner.”
“This week.”
“I’ll call and see—” He caught movement on the screen, stopped the video. The pharmacy was dark. In the center of the room was a familiar redhead. Denise. What was she doing in the pharmacy? He stopped the video. Heart pounding, he scanned the list of names of those who had access to the pharmacy. No Denise. Of course there was no Denise. She was not supposed to be in there. She did not have access to the pharmacy.
“Hello?” Trent demanded.
“Sorry. Something going on here. Can we talk about it tonight? Over pizza?” He backed the video slowly.
Why was it dark?
The time on the button of the screen read 11:49 p.m.
Midnight. She was there at midnight. He backed the video by an hour, then two hours.
His brother’s voice in his ear again. “Yes, but I want it from Orgasmica,” Trent demanded, referring to the pizza place way out on Filmore Street.
His phone pressed to his ear, he played it forward until she came into view. Then he slowed it, watched frame by frame. Each time it stopped, the time stamp quivered on the screen.
“Sure,” he told his brother. “I can get out there.”
On the screen, Denise continued to move forward in tiny, stiff motions. Through the pharmacy. Alone. At midnight. “Text me the order, and I’ll pick it up.” He minimized the video and double-clicked on the log folder, scanning for the file that would show which badges had been used to enter the pharmacy in the past twenty-four hours.
“How soon?” Trent asked.
“I’ve got a couple of hours of work left.”
“Forget it. I’ll get an Uber to pick it up.”
On the log file, the entry at 11:48 p.m. was Sarah Washburn. He returned to the video. That wasn’t her. Sarah was a ditzy blonde who lived in one of the ugly industrial apartment buildings within walking distance from the office. A good thing because she liked to go to the bar straight from work and drink until she could hardly walk.
“Good-bye,” Trent said.
Trent’s voice echoed in his head. Something about getting an Uber. Trent was leaving the house? He hadn’t been listening. “Wait,” he said, tearing his focus off the screen. “Don’t hang up.”
The line was silent.
“Trent!” he shouted.
“What?”
“What did you say?” His gaze was drawn back to Sarah’s name on the log.
“I said I would get the pizza myself,” Trent snapped.
“No.” He turned his back to the computer screen. Deal with Trent first. He could not have his brother going out. “Don’t you understand, Trent? You have to stay inside. Unless you want to move out of that house and find a job flipping burgers or drying women’s hair.” He was breathless, trembling.
“There’s no reason to be so testy,” Trent said as if he hadn’t just been baiting him.
Trent said nothing. No doubt he was pouting.
“Okay?” he said softly.
“Fine,” Trent replied with flat disinterest.
The line went dead. He pounded his fist into the desk. Damn. Damn. Damn.
He stared at the log entry, at Denise’s face. Backed up the video and watched again in slow motion. Only Denise. No sign of Sarah at all.
The two were friends. He’d seen them together at one of the few office parties he’d attended. Sarah, the office alcoholic, and Denise, the office slut. He’d never talked to Sarah more than to say hello. Denise had flirted with him from time to time, in between her boyfriends. She preferred the married doctors. He recalled walking past Sarah in the parking lot. He’d noticed because it had seemed odd that she’d driven since she lived so close. In the back of her cheap Honda station wagon were four black boxes. At first they’d looked like shoe boxes. He didn’t recognize the brand and figured they were something cheap. Which explained how she might have afforded four pairs.
It was only some time later that he’d remembered where he’d seen boxes like that before. In the aisle of the grocery store alongside the wines. Not shoes, boxes of wine. Four boxes of wine. No doubt her self-medication of choice.
The video rolled forward. Denise opening the refrigerator. His breath caught in his throat as she pulled out a bottle. He recognized the white-and-yellow label, the bright-red liquid. Adriamycin. She stared at the label.
Red Devil. The toxin he’d used to kill Posner.
How did she know?
She looked over her shoulder, the slightest smile on her face. In that moment, he was certain she was alone. But he had no idea what she was doing. Sarah was surely passed out somewhere, and Denise had stolen her badge to enter the pharmacy. He watched her pocket the bottle.
Was she going to confront him? Was this some sort of blackmail scheme?
Would Sarah be in on it, too?
He doubted it. Whatever she was up to, Denise would be working alone. He watched the video until she had left the pharmacy.
Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2) Page 9