Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2)

by Danielle Girard

  “Will do.”

  Hal ended the call.

  Standing at the sink, Schwartzman splashed water on her face.

  “Are you okay?”

  She pulled paper towels from the dispenser and wiped her hands slowly.

  Of course she wasn’t.

  “I need some air,” she said, patting her face with the towels.

  “Let’s go,” Hal said.

  She looked at him as though the idea of getting outside was his. Then she looked around the office and gave a curt nod. She took her coat off a rack on the wall and pulled it on. Her movements were slow, unsure, as if her legs were partially numb.

  Hal peered down the corridor before stepping out into the hall. No sign of Roy as they left the building. Had the police already arrested him? It couldn’t have happened that fast, but he saw no sign of Roy or any officers.

  Surely Roy knew he was out of a job. Maybe he’d taken off.

  As they reached the street, Hal’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The lab.

  “Hang on.”

  Schwartzman stopped walking.

  “Hal,” he answered.

  Naomi didn’t bother with hello. “I’ve got that info. The ProCall account that Ben Gustafson visited last is registered to a Trent Trina, and I’ve got an address for Mr. Trina. I’ll text it now.”

  “You know who lives at the address?” Hal asked.

  “It looks like a business. No Trent Trina in the listing. The title is registered to Anika Bouchard. I found the number for Bouchard online, but there was no answer.”

  “I’ll head over there. Cross-reference the address with the employee list at the cancer center and call me if you get a hit.”

  “Will do,” Naomi said. “And I’m still waiting on Gustafson’s ProCall history—that should give us the address of his last call.”

  “Won’t that be Trina’s address?”

  “Not necessarily,” Naomi said. “Trina could’ve requested Gustafson at an address that isn’t his record address.”

  “Got it,” Hal said.

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  He ended the call and turned to Schwartzman. “You want to come follow up on a lead?”

  She was nodding slowly. “Posner case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I do,” she said. The anguish that had been in her expression when he’d entered the morgue had shifted to something more distanced, more measured.

  Good. He had no intention of leaving her alone. Not after the news she’d gotten and the threat from Roy. They walked together to his car.

  “I thought maybe Spencer sent him,” she said after a while.

  “Roy, you mean?”

  She nodded.

  Of course. Spencer could have arranged that from jail. He wouldn’t have access to a computer, but he could have had someone else do it for him. Hate was an easy commodity, especially these days.

  “But then he said he didn’t know any Stephen.”

  “Stephen?” Hal repeated.

  “That’s what he called Spencer.”

  Roy had wanted to intimidate her. If Spencer put him up to it, wouldn’t he want to tell her? Wouldn’t Roy want to torture her with the idea that he still had access to her, even from behind bars? Certainly that seemed like Spencer’s MO.

  “I’m like a magnet for crazies,” she whispered as they reached his car.

  He studied her over the top of the car, searching for something to say.

  “Come on,” she said as if anticipating a pep talk she didn’t want. “Let’s go find the guy who killed Posner so at least one good thing can come of this day.”

  Hal parked in front of the address Naomi had texted. The address took them to a French restaurant. The proprietor, Anika Bouchard, had never heard of Trent Trina and seemed to have nothing to do with the case.

  Another dead end.

  Hal texted Naomi to let her know.

  Dots appeared on the screen and a few seconds later, her response: Into Gustafson’s records. Working on getting location for last call. Back ASAP. He was always amazed at how quickly Naomi could text. Though he was younger than most inspectors, when it came to keyboards, he was still of the hunt-and-peck generation.

  To kill time Hal and Schwartzman ordered sandwiches from the deli next door. He got a meatball sub. It was an Italian delicatessen, after all. Schwartzman ordered an egg salad sandwich. His opinion of her selection must have showed in his face.

  “It sounded good,” she said defensively.

  They took the sandwiches back to the car, and Hal cracked his window. That egg salad was going to stink up the car, but right then he couldn’t smell it over the meatball sub.

  Suddenly hungry, he ripped the paper off one end of the sandwich and took a bite.

  “Well, that sucked,” Schwartzman said, pulling a piece of bread off the corner of her sandwich.

  “I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy,” Hal said, feeling a little better with some food heading toward his stomach.

  “Seems like we’re due for something to be easy,” she said. She ate a piece of the crust, then took a small bite of the sandwich.

  Hal thought again of Spencer. Out of jail. Walking free down the street. Any street. Spencer in San Francisco. Would he have the balls to show up here?

  He’d have to.

  She wouldn’t have to go back to South Carolina—that was the one positive outcome from her decision not to testify. There would be no more tricks Spencer could pull. Of course, even if he were in prison—convicted and sentenced for the murders—Schwartzman would never truly be free. Even then Spencer might still be able to get to her. She would only be free when he was dead.

  A dark thought crossed his mind.

  Let Spencer MacDonald show up in San Francisco. This was Hal’s city. All Hal needed was for the bastard to take one wrong step . . . but he already had. He’d gotten Roy hired in the morgue. No way that was a coincidence.

  Had they arrested that punk? He hadn’t heard from dispatch. But he hadn’t told them to call him, just to put Roy in holding for him until he could get there.

  Schwartzman stared at her sandwich, wrapped it up, and set it in her lap.

  “You okay?”

  “Lost my appetite.”

  He pointed to her chin, where there was a small piece of egg salad. “You have a little . . .”

  Blushing, she wiped her mouth with the napkin. He realized how close he’d come to wiping it away for her, how intimate the gesture was. He thought of the way Justin had cared for his aging mother, a woman plagued by breathing problems and mysterious rashes. He wondered again what was killing her.

  On his phone Hal found the picture he’d taken of Ruth Finlay, handed it to Schwartzman. “Any guess what that is, on her face?”

  She zoomed in the picture. “What am I looking at?”

  “See the skin around her mouth? I can’t tell if it’s a scar or some sort of skin disease.”

  “The pigmentation is different, too.” She zoomed in more, tilting the phone at him. “The skin is lighter in some areas than others. But it’s not like vitiligo where the skin loses pigmentation in some areas.”

  “Psoriasis?”

  She shook her head. “Psoriasis is usually reddish and bumpy or inflamed. It doesn’t look like that either.” She stared at the image. “It’s not like any skin condition I’ve ever seen.” She zoomed in further. “I never saw her as a younger woman, but it looks like maybe she had some sort of cosmetic surgery. See how her chin is uneven on the left side.”

  Hal stared at the image. It was hard to tell. The quality wasn’t good enough to make out the details clearly.

  Schwartzman looked over at him. “What’s the theory? You think her son’s hiding her away because of a rash?”

  Hal gave her a look and took his phone back. But the truth was, he had no idea. No theory. Nothing.

  A text buzzed on his phone. Naomi.

  Gustaf last call to 321 Union. No match to employees of
cancer center or hospital personnel involved with Coleman.

  He showed the text to Schwartzman.

  “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “It means we haven’t got shit.”

  “Maybe we should drive by, take a look,” Schwartzman suggested.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” he agreed. That gave Hal an idea. “Maybe they put in a neighboring address instead of their own.” He texted Naomi. Any suspects on Union? Or close by?

  The response was almost immediate. No.

  Hal groaned. He looked down at the remainder of his sandwich and wrapped up it up for later. He turned over the engine. “Not looking good, but what the hell. It’s only a few blocks.” He paused before pulling from the curb. “Unless you need to get back to the morgue.”

  She checked her phone. “I’m okay.”

  Schwartzman normally got antsy about being away from the morgue. She loved it there, but today she didn’t seem anxious to go back. Roy. He’d deal with Roy as soon as he got to the station.

  Hal drove north on Grant through the slow North Beach traffic and turned right on Union. He could have used his siren and lights, but he didn’t know where he was going, so there was no rush. He passed over Varennes Street and Sonoma, small streets that he rarely had occasion to visit. Living and working on the other side of the financial district, he was seldom in this part of town. As he crossed Kearny, he realized he’d been here recently. Castle Street.

  He turned right.

  “Wait,” Schwartzman said, pointing. “I think 321 was on the next block.”

  But Hal didn’t slow. Instead he drove fifty feet down Castle Street and parked in the red zone across from Ruth Finlay’s house.

  “Who lives here?”

  “The woman in the photo.” Hal tossed his police pass on the dash and cracked the car door. Gustafson’s last call was a hundred yards from Ruth Finlay’s home. Maybe it was a coincidence. But he didn’t believe in those. He wondered if Williams was in the house today. If so, he’d like to talk to her again.

  Schwartzman got out, too, and they crossed the street together. As they approached, a woman came out the front door. Alice Williams.

  “Ms. Williams?”

  She spun around as he approached, jumping at the sight of him. “You scared me,” she snapped.

  “I’m Inspector Hal Harris,” he said, drawing out his badge. “We met the other day.”

  “I remember,” she said.

  “I have a few more questions. It won’t take long.”

  Her gaze shifted between his bulk and the badge he held.

  “Can we go inside?” Hal asked.

  Williams was staring over his shoulder at Schwartzman.

  Hal looked back. Schwartzman lagged behind on the stone walk that led to the front of Finlay’s house, and for a moment, Hal thought maybe she was feeling sick. The egg salad sandwich. But she hadn’t eaten much of it.

  “Hal,” Schwartzman whispered as she stopped at the foot of the concrete stairs.

  He studied Schwartzman’s face, keeping Williams in his peripheral vision. “Are you okay?”

  Schwartzman climbed the stairs slowly, focused on Alice Williams. “Look.” She pointed to the keys in Williams’s hand. He tilted his head and saw it.

  Hanging from Williams’s key chain was a small brown dog figurine with black ears and nose.

  “May I see that?” Hal asked, reaching for the keys.

  Williams’s gaze tracked to her hand as though she didn’t know what he was asking for. “Oh, this,” she said, handing him the key chain. “It’s a puppy.”

  Hal studied the small dog, rubbing his thumb along the smooth clay. Like Play-Doh that had hardened. Roger had said the same thing about the piece of clay found in Todd Posner’s mouth. “Did you make this, Ms. Williams?”

  She shook her head quickly. “No, Ms. Finlay made it.” She motioned to the door. As she turned back, her expression fell as though she realized she’d said something wrong.

  Hal felt the dog. “It’s made of clay.”

  Williams nodded. “Yes. Like clay. She likes to make things with it.”

  “Like clay,” Hal repeated.

  “FIMO clay,” Williams said.

  A narrow collar ran around the dog’s neck. It was a pinkish color. Exactly the same color as the substance found in Todd Posner’s mouth.

  37

  Schwartzman took the clay dog from Hal, recalling the gum-like material from Posner’s mouth. It had looked flesh-colored at first glance. Then it was too pink, the consistency wrong for skin, even from the mouth, which was why she’d thought it was gum. But it was a strange color for gum.

  It was also the same color as the collar on the little clay dog. And the same material. FIMO clay. But what did it mean? Ruth Finlay had made it for Alice Williams. Surely an eighty-year-old woman wasn’t behind the death of Todd Posner. And Gustafson. And Denise Ross.

  “You’re going to need to let us in,” Hal told Williams.

  The woman’s eyes went wide. A flush reddened in her cheeks as hives trailed down her neck. Did she know something she wasn’t saying? Her fingers trembled as she tried to slide the key back into the lock. She found the slot, twisted the key, and pushed the door open, leaving the key in the bolt.

  Williams stepped into the hallway, glancing around quickly. Hal was right behind her.

  Schwartzman paused to pull the key from the lock and followed. She tucked the key, with its clay dog, into her pocket to give to Hal. Roger would be able to compare the clay against the other sample.

  Hal halted in the foyer and emitted a sound like a gasp.

  Schwartzman moved in beside him, her gaze following his to the stairs.

  “Schwartzman,” Hal whispered. “That is Ruth Finlay.”

  There, coming down an elegant stairwell, was a woman with a striking resemblance to the woman in the photograph Hal had taken the day he’d interviewed Ruth Finlay. Only it couldn’t have been Ruth Finlay. Finlay was in her eighties. This woman certainly was not. Mrs. Finlay’s full head of gray hair had been replaced by a short, stubby ponytail. Dark brown. What had appeared as loose skin around her chin and nose, as well as the wrinkles beneath her eyes, were gone. Without them, Schwartzman saw the square jaw and the prominent Adam’s apple.

  The woman on the stairwell was clearly undergoing gender reassignment.

  The woman’s eyes opened wide, and her hand flew to her throat. Her fingers hovered over her Adam’s apple the way a teenager might cover a hickey.

  “You’re not Ruth Finlay,” Hal said. “Who the hell are you?”

  The woman nodded slowly and turned to Williams, who stood in the corner of the foyer. “You can go, Alice. We’ll see you tomorrow.” The voice still had the husky edge of masculinity. To Hal, the woman said, “We weren’t expecting company.”

  Alice Williams slipped from the room, and a moment later, the front door clicked closed.

  “It’s you,” Hal said. “You were dressed up as Ruth Finlay the other day. You’re Justin’s brother. Or I guess sister now.”

  Schwartzman studied the woman. “How did you know?” she asked Hal.

  “When I was here the other day, I saw that birthmark,” Hal said, indicating a rich brown stain on her left arm, about the size of a half-dollar. It stood out against her pale skin. “I thought it was a bruise.”

  “It’s called a cafe au lait stain,” Schwartzman said, her gaze moving from the mark to the woman’s face as she tried to put together what Hal was saying.

  “You pretended to be Ruth Finlay,” Hal said.

  “I was Trent Finlay,” the woman said. “Justin and I are identical twins.” She moved slowly down the stairs. “I’m Trina. Well, I’ve always been Trina, but now it’s official.” She added a little swoosh with her arms for emphasis.

  Just then a door slammed at the back of the house.

  Hal put a hand on his weapon.

  “That’s Justin, coming home,” Trina Finlay said.

  “Trent?
” came a voice from the other side of the house. “Are you here? We need to—” His voice broke off as he reached the entryway and saw Hal and Schwartzman.

  Justin’s eyes tracked his brother, now sister, as she stepped down the last stair.

  “It’s okay, Justin,” she said calmly. “Now we don’t need to hide it anymore.”

  Justin Finlay froze. His gaze swept across the three of them, his shoulders reared and tensed like a cornered cat. “What is going on?” He aimed his glare at Trina. “What did you tell them?”

  “They just got here,” Trina said.

  Schwartzman watched Justin Finlay. Could he have killed Posner? One of them was involved. She tried to fit the pieces together. Posner had been on the board of the foundation. Ruth Finlay had liked him. She was the only one.

  Hal’s gaze was narrowed on Justin Finlay, his stance wide, stiff. Ready to move. He was suspicious, too.

  “Why don’t we all sit down,” Trina suggested, motioning toward the living room.

  Hal glanced at Schwartzman, who nodded. The answers were here.

  “I’m afraid we can’t talk,” Justin said, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “We’ve got a family emergency.”

  “What type of emergency?” Hal asked.

  “It’s our mother,” Justin said after a slight hesitation. “She’s back in the hospital. We need to go.”

  Trina stared at him, her mouth dropping open. Justin looked away from his sister. His gaze flicked across Hal’s face and then hers. He was lying.

  “Maybe we should all go,” Hal said. “We can take my car. I have some questions for your mother.”

  “The doctors won’t let you see her, I’m afraid,” Justin went on. “That’s why I had Trent dress up as Mother the other day. She’s too sick to see anyone.”

  Where was Ruth Finlay? And why prevent Ruth from seeing Hal?

  “What does your mother have?” Schwartzman asked.

  Justin turned to her. “Huh?”

  “What is she suffering from? What’s the diagnosis?” she clarified.

  “Dr. Schwartzman is our medical examiner,” Hal explained.

  Justin’s gaze went from Hal to Schwartzman. He shook his head. “We really don’t have time. I’m afraid she might not make it.” He looked at his sister. “Please, Trent. We have to go.”