Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2)

by Danielle Girard

  Hal pulled out his phone, his other hand resting on the holstered weapon. “Which hospital?”

  “What?” Justin’s voice was breathy.

  “Your mother?” Hal said. “Which hospital is she in? I’ll give them a call, see how she’s doing.”

  “They—they won’t tell you,” Justin stammered.

  “They will,” Hal assured him.

  Justin stared at the floor, the wheels of his mind clearly spinning.

  Trina moved toward him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s tell them, Justin. It’s not that big a deal.”

  Justin shrugged off his sister’s touch and shook his head. “No, Trent. Don’t. Don’t say any—”

  “Our mom died,” Trina announced.

  “Shut up,” Justin said, speaking through gritted teeth.

  Trina winced at her brother’s tone but kept talking. “She died in her sleep.”

  “Shut the hell up!” Justin shouted.

  “Justin, for God’s sake, it’s not worth it.” Trina crossed to the living room and sank onto the couch. “Our mother died,” Trina went on from the couch, leaning over to adjust a vase of peonies on the side table. “Justin was worried that the will would cut me out, that I wouldn’t have the money to finish my transition.”

  “From male to female,” Schwartzman said, heading toward the living room. She’d had a few transgender victims on her table, in various stages. Unless the transition was started before puberty—which few were because of the required parental consent—it was a lengthy process that involved many surgeries.

  “Yes,” Trina confirmed.

  Justin seemed to shrink. He eyed Hal’s gun as he moved to the living room and took a seat on the love seat next to the fireplace. Hal moved in close to sit on the edge of the chair beside him, positioning himself between Justin and the door.

  Schwartzman sat down on the couch where Trina was, imagining the old woman she’d seen on Hal’s phone. “You used the clay to create the wrinkles, the lowered jowl.”

  “Yes. Uncooked FIMO clay and rubber cement. The color is never exactly right. That’s a problem.”

  “Aren’t there other materials?” she asked. “Things that are designed for theater makeup?”

  Trina’s eyes widened. “Oh, there are, but the FIMO clay is so much less expensive and easier to get,” she added with a dramatic wave of her arm. “An old lady and her son can’t have fifty pounds of theater makeup delivered every month without raising some questions.”

  “You’re very talented,” Schwartzman said.

  Trina beamed proudly.

  “You have to understand,” Justin said, his voice low and raspy. He sounded exhausted, raw. “Trent needed tens of thousands of dollars of treatments. And she cut him off. Her own son.”

  “It was harmless,” Trina agreed. “Mother passed away, and we decided to use her identity for six or eight months to finish up my work. The foundation does its good. No one was harmed.”

  Justin stared into space.

  Hal and Schwartzman exchanged a glance. Was it possible that Trina didn’t know about Posner? Or Gustafson? And what about Denise?

  “And what was the plan after that?” Hal asked.

  “We’d bury mother in a quiet service,” she said as if she were discussing rearranging the furniture. “I could be Trina. And if they took the money then, we’d be fine.”

  Justin rubbed his face. “It was supposed to be simple, straightforward.”

  “But something happened,” Hal said, watching Justin.

  Justin eyeballed the door as though judging whether he could make it. As he moved, the light from the front window highlighted his profile. There was a slight sheen over a patch of skin just above his shirt collar, the coloring slightly off. Schwartzman could see ridges beneath the cover of makeup.

  “You’ve got scratch marks,” Schwartzman said.

  Justin’s head spun toward her. “What? No.”

  “I can see them—under the makeup,” she went on. “From where Denise Ross scratched your neck.”

  “It was a cat,” Trina said. “I covered it up with makeup.”

  Schwartzman turned to the sister. “Trina, a cat did not do that.”

  “It was a cat,” Trina said again. “Justin told me.”

  “It was,” Justin said, covering his neck.

  Schwartzman shook her head. “The scratches are too far apart, the nail marks too wide to belong to a cat. Those are human.”

  Justin stood quickly.

  “Sit down,” Hal demanded.

  Justin sank but shifted in his seat, the worry clear in his expression. He was involved. Was Trina, as well?

  Trina looked at Hal with narrowed, suspicious eyes. “It was a cat,” she said again.

  “Justin, we’re going to be able to prove what you did,” Hal said, perched on the edge of the chair. “You can make things easier on yourself by telling us.”

  “What are they talking about, Justin?” Trina said. She, too, was edging forward in her seat.

  Schwartzman thought about the evidence at the scene. Without Denise Ross’s fingers, they couldn’t match the DNA to Justin Finlay. But what about the wipes? Surely he would have some of those around. The FIMO clay, the single fiber, a horse sedative.

  If Justin was the killer, there would be evidence somewhere.

  “We can do this at the station,” Hal said, standing. “We’re going to be able to link you to these crimes.”

  Justin shook his head. His gaze had shifted toward the fireplace. The stack of wood. Was he thinking about something? The past? The mistakes he’d made?

  “Justin!” Trina shouted. “What is he talking about? What crimes?”

  Justin shifted on the chair, staring at the fireplace.

  “What happened to Todd Posner, Justin? Do you know something?” Trina’s voice grew shrill.

  Schwartzman saw something pink on the hearth. She leaned in, remembering the single pink fiber on Posner’s body caught in the burn mark left by the Taser. Folded on the stone hearth was a pink square. A silk handkerchief. Silk like the fiber that they’d found on Posner’s body, the same fiber Naomi had retrieved from Gustafson’s car.

  “That’s Dad’s handkerchief,” Trina said. “Alice said she found it when she was cleaning today.”

  Justin lunged toward the fireplace. Schwartzman was closer. She grabbed the handkerchief before he was able to reach it and turned back to Hal. “It’s the pink—”

  Hal took one step toward her as Justin shot past Schwartzman and picked up a small silver spray can that had been sitting beside the handkerchief. A second later his arm was a bar across her neck, the canister in her face. “Cyanide,” he said. “Touch that gun and she’s dead.”

  Hal froze, three feet away.

  Too far.

  Schwartzman went rigid.

  “Justin, what are you doing?” Trina asked, her voice rising in pitch.

  Schwartzman glanced at the pink handkerchief, which had fallen to the floor.

  “What is in that can?” Trina asked. “Alice said it was behind the stack of firewood. Why was it there, Justin?”

  Justin clenched tighter on Schwartzman’s neck. He didn’t answer his sister.

  Schwartzman knew what was in the can. The spray that had killed Ben Gustafson. Cyanide. She understood the chemistry well. The poison acted as an irreversible enzyme inhibitor, preventing electrons from being transported to oxygen in the process of aerobic cellular respiration. Cyanide poisoning would make her dizzy and weak. She wondered if, after the confusion, she would feel a sense of suffocation as her blood pressure dropped, her heart slowed, and she finally lost consciousness. Within minutes, she would experience respiratory failure.

  Trina rose from the couch. “Justin, what did you do? What’s going on?”

  “Shut up,” Justin said. “You ruined everything.”

  “Let’s stay calm,” Hal said. “No one else needs to get hurt.”

  “What do you mean ‘no one else�
��?” Trina pressed.

  Hal didn’t respond.

  “What did you do, Justin? What did you do?”

  Silence.

  “Nothing,” he said emphatically. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re lying!” Trina shouted, her voice undeniably male. “Stop lying to me.”

  “Trent! Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

  There was a moment of quiet before Trina Finlay began shrieking.

  38

  Hal watched the canister in Justin’s hand. Was it a foot from Schwartzman’s face? Closer? How close did it have to be? How powerful was the spray?

  Surely it was close enough to kill her.

  If Justin’s finger hit that trigger, Schwartzman would inhale cyanide. She would die. No chance he could get his gun unholstered fast enough to save her, let alone aim it and shoot. And that was if he had a clean shot, which he didn’t.

  Her eyes found his. Pleaded. What could he do?

  Trina had stopped screaming and was huddled on the couch, sobbing.

  “Let her go,” Hal said. “There’s no way out of this, Justin.”

  Schwartzman’s fingers gripped the arm braced around her neck. Could she drop and free herself? Spin out of his grip? Justin might spray her. And if she ended up on the ground, he might still spray her before Hal could shoot.

  Hal wanted to scream, to jump across the room and tackle Justin Finlay. Instead he raised his hands. “Trina,” he whispered.

  She looked up from the couch.

  “Talk to your brother. Tell him to put the can down.”

  Trina wiped her face with large palms. “He’s right, Justin. You haven’t done anything. We didn’t kill Mother. Don’t make this worse.”

  “You only pretended to be your mother, right?” Hal asked.

  Trina nodded quickly. “Yes. Right.”

  “What about seeing your mother’s friends?” Hal asked like it was a casual conversation. “Didn’t anyone realize that you weren’t her?”

  “We didn’t see them,” Trina explained. “Other than the surgeries, I stay here. Inside.”

  “What about Alice Williams?” Hal asked.

  “What about her?” Trina said.

  “She didn’t know my mother,” Justin cut in.

  Schwartzman jumped slightly, and Hal leveled his palm at his waist, pressing down to try to communicate that it was going to be okay. Tried to promise her he would get them out of this.

  But how? Distraction. Focus on distraction.

  “Alice takes care of Trent,” Justin added.

  “But you were calling her ‘Mother,’” Hal continued. “Surely Alice has figured out that she’s not—” Hal stopped and looked at Trina. “Your mother.”

  “She knows. Alice thinks I’ve got some dementia, that I’m brain damaged,” Trina said with a little smile.

  It made sense. If Trina had some sort of mental illness, she might actually believe she was Justin’s mother, and Williams might play along, keep her mouth shut. Trina could want to make herself up as an older woman and stay secluded in the house, and Williams wouldn’t say anything as long as she got paid.

  “But Todd Posner figured it out,” Hal said.

  “What are you talking about?” Trina asked. She turned to her brother. “What does he mean?”

  “It’s nothing. He’s lying.”

  “You’re lying,” Trina snapped. “I can tell you’re lying. Tell me what happened. Tell me what you did!” she shouted, rising from the couch.

  Justin said nothing.

  Trina moved toward her brother. “Stop treating me like a child, Justin. Like a moron. Tell me what is going on!”

  “Stand back.”

  “No. This isn’t only about you,” Trina said.

  “What a fucking joke!” Justin shouted, spit flying through the air. “It’s never about me. It’s only ever been about you. Every damn thing, for our entire lives, has been about you.”

  Trina’s mouth dropped open in shock.

  Hal eased forward, focused on the can. Again he wished he knew how far it would spray, how much would kill them all.

  “Screw you, Justin. I don’t need you.”

  “Like hell you don’t!” Justin yelled. “You don’t have a fucking clue. You never have. You live in a wonderland, worried about hair and nails while I am out there protecting you.”

  Her brother’s words seemed to knock Trina backward.

  Hal eased forward again. Surely Justin wouldn’t spray the canister where it could strike Trina. Not after all he’d done for her. And the human body could survive some cyanide. But Schwartzman’s chemo meant she was compromised. Would the effect be stronger on her?

  “You think it, too,” Trina whispered.

  “Think what?” Justin spat at her.

  “You think I’m a freak,” Trina said, her low, masculine voice cracked high. “Just like Mom, just like Dad.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’ve stood by you every step,” Justin said, his voice dropping, too, slowing down. “I fought Mom to put you back in the will. I fought for them to let you do the surgery when we were in high school. I’ve been here, Trent. Me.”

  “Trina,” she said fiercely. “Trent is dead. I. Am. Trina. You always call me Trent. You don’t listen. You say that you’re protecting me, but you’re hiding me. You’ve never accepted me for who I am.” Trina’s eyes narrowed. “Todd was a better friend to me than you are.”

  “Bullshit.” Justin jabbed his finger toward his sister.

  Schwartzman started to duck, but he caught her. Yanked her against his chest.

  The canister in her face again.

  “Todd Posner was only in it for himself,” Justin said, his jaw tight as he spoke. “He didn’t give a shit about you.”

  Trina’s mouth dropped again, her palm pressed flat to her chest. Long pink nails rested on her neck.

  “It’s okay,” Hal said, not wanting to make Justin angry. The angrier he got, the higher the probability that he used that spray. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  “What did you do, Justin?” Trina’s voice cracked.

  Justin shook his head. “We have to leave, Tre—Trina.”

  “It’s over,” Hal said. “You can only make things worse. You’ve killed three people.”

  “No!” Trina shouted. “Oh, my God. Todd. You killed Todd.”

  Justin pivoted toward his sister. Schwartzman’s face was still in the V of his arm, motionless against his chest, the canister too close to her face.

  Hal waited for an opportunity to pull his gun, take the shot.

  Justin glanced at him, eyed the gun in his holster.

  Hal raised his hands. Surrendered. He wasn’t going to make a move. Not until he knew he could get her away.

  Trina backed away. Damn. He wanted her up in her brother’s face to make sure Justin wouldn’t risk spraying the cyanide.

  Trina had been angry, but now she was crying again. Tears streamed down her cheeks, creating a trail through her makeup. “You did it, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  Justin didn’t answer.

  “Why? Why did you kill Todd?”

  “He was going to out you.” Justin’s voice rose. “He was going to tell people that Mother was dead, that you were an imposter.”

  “So what?” Trina said. “I wasn’t going to be Mother forever.”

  “Shut up, Trent,” Justin snarled, stepping backward. Schwartzman stumbled back with him, struggling to keep her feet on the ground. “You don’t understand. We needed time. To get things in order.”

  “Todd called that night,” Trina said, sinking back down. “We were out at the stables.”

  “No,” Justin shouted. “Stop talking.”

  “What did Todd say to you?” Trina asked.

  “Not now, Trent.”

  Trina’s lips made a thin, angry line.

  “I mean Trina,” Justin said. “Posner was an asshole. You’re better off.” He nudged Schwartzman forward. “Now, we have to get out of her
e.” He turned to Hal. “You’re going to let us go, or I’ll kill her.”

  Hal said nothing.

  Schwartzman gave him a little nod as she worked something out of her pocket.

  “You think Todd Posner was an asshole?” Trina shouted at her brother, rising again from the couch. “You’re the asshole, Justin. You were out there protecting yourself. Your reputation. What people thought of you. I couldn’t have cared less. I would have gone through the transition slowly, but you couldn’t have a freak brother slash sister. You wanted me ‘fixed,’ so I could be presentable for public, so you didn’t have to be ashamed of me.” She reached out and grabbed her brother’s arm.

  Hal stepped forward.

  “Stay away, Trent!” Justin shouted. “If you get sprayed, you’ll die.”

  “What do you care?” Trina moved forward.

  Justin pulled back. “I mean it, Tre—ina. Stay back.”

  Trina moved in again, reaching for the canister. “It would be easier if I died, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to deal with me.”

  Justin’s gaze flitted between Hal and his sister, trying to focus on both. He struggled to pull Schwartzman away from Trina.

  Schwartzman’s hand was on her thigh, the small dog key chain resting against her leg. Three fingers extended, the other two curled into her palm.

  On three.

  “Trent, get away.”

  She tapped one.

  “Call me Trina!”

  Two.

  Schwartzman raised her right hand and, on three, drove the key into Justin’s thigh.

  Justin howled.

  Hal drew his weapon.

  Trina shrieked.

  The hiss of the canister filled the room.

  Schwartzman dropped to the ground.

  Hal fired.

  Justin fell backward, gripping his leg and screaming. Trina dropped to the floor beside him. “Justin. Justin!”

  “Schwartzman!” Hal shouted.

  No answer. He hurtled the table to reach her. She was on the ground, hands over her face.

  “Schwartzman.”

  She waved her hands in her face, her mouth pinched closed. The spray. She’d been sprayed.