Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2)

by Danielle Girard

  “Yes.”

  “I know.” Get away with killing Ava. With killing Joe Strom and perhaps her father? Get away with tearing apart her family, isolating her? But she would not testify. She would not perjure herself. She would not risk her medical license. She would not let go of the life she’d built.

  She would not start over again.

  Even to keep Spencer locked away?

  Even for that.

  He might get away with the murders. No, he would. It felt almost certain. They’d already let him out of jail. For two weeks he’d been free. Every time the phone rang, she jumped out of her skin.

  Look forward. She could not change the past, but she could direct the future. She would. She had already begun to put the pieces in place, to put the past behind her. She had told Hal about the difficult conversation she’d had with Ken Macy, how she’d broken it off. Hal knew better than to ask too many questions.

  “I need your help,” she told Hal now.

  Hal raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms.

  “I can ask someone else,” she offered.

  “Spit it out.”

  “I need to learn how to shoot a gun,” she said.

  His hands fell to his sides. “You don’t have a gun.”

  “Right,” she confirmed. She thought of the gun Ava had left her and wished she hadn’t dumped it in the river. Would she have had the guts to shoot him? If she’d had that gun in that room, with herself projected onto the wall? She honestly didn’t know.

  But she knew now—for next time. Not if there was a next time. When. She would pull the trigger.

  “Schwartzman?”

  She took a breath and turned to Hal. “Right,” she said again. “I’ll need your help buying one first.”

  Hal’s frown deepened between his brows. “You are familiar with the statistics on guns.”

  “I am.”

  “So I can’t talk you out of this?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “And I can’t talk you into testifying?”

  “No,” she said again, going to stand beside him. She nudged him with her shoulder.

  They stood there, side by side, until she could feel his warmth through her sweater.

  Hal looked up at the house again. “You gonna have a guest bed in that extra room?”

  She stared at the little house where she would be living in three weeks’ time. “I don’t get a lot of guests.”

  “You’ve got three rooms. What else would you use them for?”

  “An office . . . a library.” She studied the house, picturing the two smaller bedrooms as they had been when she’d first toured the house. Each had a twin bed and a small dresser, and each had a little basket of toys. Things she would never need.

  “You’ll still want a guest bed,” Hal said. “With Spencer out of jail, you’ll need an extra bed.”

  “Because you think he’ll come live with me?” She said it as a joke, but it fell flat.

  Hal pushed off the car and started down the street. With some distance between them, he turned back. She’d hurt his feelings. It wasn’t only her anymore. Choices impacted him, her friends.

  “Okay, I’ll have a guest room,” she said. Her mother might visit. Stranger things had happened. “And I’m adopting Buster.”

  “Buster?”

  “Todd Posner’s dog. I can’t have him in my current place, so the vet is boarding him until I move in here.”

  A beat passed in silence. A dog was a good form of security. But she sensed that wasn’t what Hal was thinking.

  “He’ll come here,” Hal said, his voice barely a whisper. “You know he will.”

  Spencer. She couldn’t argue. Spencer hadn’t given up. Had it started with Joseph Strom? Were there victims before that? Would they ever know?

  “So a guest room is the answer?”

  “It’ll be a hell of a lot more comfortable than sleeping out on the curb in my damn car,” Hal barked.

  Schwartzman went silent.

  Hal rubbed his head and spun, heading farther down the block.

  She started after him. “Hal.”

  He halted. “What?”

  She closed the distance. “Will you help me?”

  “Get a gun?” His arms were crossed again.

  She nodded. “And teach me how to shoot it.” She put her hand on his arm.

  His stance relaxed under her touch.

  “Please.”

  “I will,” he said. “Of course I will . . .”

  She sensed the hesitation. “But?”

  “I wish you’d consider testifying.”

  “I can’t.”

  He exhaled, and she stepped closer, leaning her forehead against his chest. “I’m sorry.”

  His hands fell to his sides. Then, one at a time, they reached around her and pulled her close. “Damn.”

  After a few moments, she pulled away gently. “We should go get a drink.”

  “Sure,” he said, rubbing his face with both hands. “Let’s celebrate.”

  She smiled softly. “The house or the gun?”

  “The house,” he said.

  “Evan Williams?” she offered. She knew he wasn’t a big fan of bourbon. “You haven’t tried the good stuff yet.”

  “You’re offering single barrel?” he asked.

  “Single barrel.”

  “And you’re buying?”

  She laughed and threaded her arm through his. “I’m buying.”

  “Hell, yes, you are.”

  Arm in arm, Schwartzman and Hal walked back to his car.

  Despite it all, she was okay. She felt healthy and content. And not terrified. That was something.

  That was a lot of somethings.

  But she was ready for a glass of Evan Williams. Boy was she ever.

  41

  Spencer faced the mirror and retied his tie. The shoulders of his jacket were slightly loose, and there was a little extra fabric at the center. His belt was tighter by two notches.

  His hair was moist from the shower. He had stood under the scalding water until it went cold and stayed until his teeth threatened to chatter. He used four towels to dry himself, left them in a heap on the floor.

  To be thrown away.

  He tugged on the lapels of his silk suit. Everything he came into contact with for the next week would be thrown away until the prison was out of his system.

  He might have put this off until tomorrow night. Taken a night to sleep in his own bed, to settle in. But they wanted to celebrate him. His partners. They thought of themselves as friends. After all, hadn’t they worked together for more than a decade? They weren’t his friends. He didn’t need friends. It was a stupid concept, really, the giving part. The getting side he understood. That was the benefit of having people consider you a friend. They gave. He got.

  And he needed Bella.

  Hands flat on the countertop, he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Bella. Bella. Bella. The anger was still there. Raw and fierce. She would have to make things right before they could go back to normal.

  Patience. He could not rush the process. He had waited seven years, so he could wait another one or two. With everything that had happened, he and Bella would have to end up abroad now.

  He had started to research locations where women knew their place. The Middle East was appealing in that way, but he didn’t want to live among a bunch of terrorists. Parts of Eastern Europe might work. He had time to find the perfect place. Build it, if he had to.

  He opened his eyes and studied his reflection in the mirror. Some of the color had returned to his face. Bella had brought it back. She made his blood run hot. He turned his face left and right, studying his profile. He was thinner than he would have liked. He’d lost the weight on purpose. He’d wanted to look pathetic, but then the release had happened faster than he’d expected.

  Much faster.

  Not out of the woods. They could come back and arrest him, but it was unlikely without additional evidence. And
there would be none of that.

  He would be keeping a close eye on Harper Leighton, but she couldn’t touch him. A few more weeks and the dust would settle. His case would be filed away and forgotten. And then he could reconstruct his life.

  He studied his clean-shaven face. The weight loss made him look younger. Edgier. That wasn’t all bad. But the circles under his eyes stole from the edge and made him look weak. That wouldn’t do. Easy enough to correct.

  He’d applied a little concealer under the eyes and checked it carefully. Subtle, undetectable. He took a last look and shut off the bathroom lights, headed for the garage, and got into his Lexus.

  He was at the club in ten minutes. The others were already at the bar. He’d forgotten how old they all looked. Of course, all of them were older than he. Even those closest to his age looked a decade his senior.

  They turned toward him, and he put on his best smile, saddling up to the bar. They handed him a Manhattan, the office favorite. A drink for geriatrics. He toasted and clinked, backed up to the bar, and set the drink down. Then he tapped the bar beside the glass with his index finger.

  The bartender knew what to do.

  There were jokes about everyone going to jail. Shedding a few pounds. Spencer smiled and laughed. Fake.

  A few minutes later, there was a new glass on the bar. Neat. Willett single-barrel bourbon whiskey, aged twenty-two years. His own private stash was stored in a locked cabinet under the bar. Average price was fourteen hundred a bottle. He had it poured one inch at a time. Controlled, measured, refined.

  Like him.

  After a couple of drinks, the group moved to a table. He had just finished his first and requested a second for dinner.

  It took almost no time at all to be bored by their company, but he would not leave first—a sign of weakness after what he’d been through. He needed to come across as strong, as potent as ever. Midway through the meal, his phone buzzed in the pocket of his shirt. He slid it out as one of his partners continued with yet another story about his latest golfing trip to Scotland. He saw the number on the text and breathed through his teeth.

  “Everything all right there, Spencer?”

  He wanted to punch the guy in the face. “Potential client. Big money,” he lied. “I’ll only be a moment.” He rose from the table, holding his napkin in front of him until he could button his jacket. Beneath it, he was erect. Oh, how he wished he were alone at home for this.

  The message he’d been waiting for. The San Francisco area code. His contact there. His access to her.

  Bella.

  The word filled his mouth, though he didn’t speak it out loud.

  He gripped the phone tightly and walked to the men’s room. It was empty. He went to the last stall, closed the heavy wood door, and turned the lock. The club’s bathrooms were like individual changing rooms. Each had a sitting area and a small side table. Some of the older men spent hours in these stalls, sitting on the pot, reading. All the comforts of home without the bitches, he’d heard men say.

  Spencer sat on the small plush cushion across from the sink and toilet. He raised the phone and opened the text. There it was. The thumbnail loaded. He saw the dark hair, the long, lean form.

  After all this time.

  He double-clicked on the photo with anticipation, swallowing the saliva that collected in his mouth. Pressed his free hand on the rock-hard erection.

  The image loaded. Bella on the sidewalk. Behind her was a small bungalow home with a hideous, hippie-like yard. Not where she lived now. Was she visiting someone? Moving?

  Using two fingers, he moved in on the image slowly, surveying her legs, her torso, her fine shoulders . . . he zoomed in until her face filled his screen. She was pale, too thin. She was always too thin. He could help her. He would make her well again.

  “Oh, Bella,” he whispered, bringing the screen close. “I’ve missed you.”

  He imagined her face turning toward him, the look in her eyes as she recognized him. Terror like he’d seen in Ava’s garage? Or resignation? Some relief that the time had come? Surely she knew.

  He would have to wait to see, of course.

  Recapturing her love was not as easy as sending someone to dispose of a cop distraction. He could not delegate Bella. And she would not come back to South Carolina. Not on her own anyway.

  So he would have to go to her. And that would take very careful planning. That could not be rushed.

  “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ve learned to be patient.”

  With that, he dropped his pants and held the phone in his left hand as his right moved to relieve the pressure that had built in the few minutes of thinking of her. His eyes never strayed from her image. Even in those final seconds when it was almost impossible not to close them, he studied her, remembered her, felt her.

  “Soon, sweet Bella,” he whispered in that last climactic rush. “Soon.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As with every book, I am incredibly grateful for the generosity of those who helped make this book possible. The good stuff is thanks to them; the errors are mine alone; and I admit fully that I sometimes bend the truth to make for a better story. Even while taking liberties with the facts, I offer my sincerest gratitude and respect to the men and women who devote their lives to pursuing justice. You have the toughest jobs and the most important ones.

  For research, I am, as always, indebted to the invaluable resources at SFPD, who have been answering questions since book one. Thank you also to George Schiro, forensic scientist and crime scene investigator extraordinaire; Dr. Karen F. Ross, forensic pathologist at Ross Forensic Medicine and Pathology Consultations Inc.; Dr. Craig Nelson, associate chief medical examiner, North Carolina Office of the Chief Medical Examiner; Alison Hutchens, forensic services supervisor, crime lab unit, Durham Police Department; and Whitney Pritham NP, for her help in understanding chemotherapy and the treatment of breast cancer.

  A gigantic thank-you to Meg Ruley, Rebecca Scherer, and the team at JRA for everything they do. Thank you also to the fabulous Jessica Tribble for taking such good care of this author and Schwartzman; to Sarah Shaw and the incredible team at Thomas & Mercer; and to Leslie Lutz for her skilled guidance in the editing process.

  I am endlessly appreciative of those who support the process of writing a book and especially to Randle and Shawnee and to my wonderful proofreaders: Dani, Whitney, and Tiffany. Also to Mom, Nicole, Steve, Tom, and Dad—thank you.

  Most of all, my love and gratitude go to these three who put up with this insanity day and night: Chris, Claire, and Jack. For me, you guys are the moon and the sun and whatever lies beyond. I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2012 Janie Osborne

  Danielle Girard is the author of ten previous novels, including Chasing Darkness and Exhume, the first novel featuring Dr. Annabelle Schwartzman, as well as The Rookie Club series. Her books have won the Barry Award and the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, and two of her titles have been optioned for movies.

  A graduate of Cornell University, Danielle received her MFA at Queens University in Charlotte, North Carolina. She, her husband, and their two children split their time between San Francisco and the Northern Rockies.