by Nancy Bush
“I’m not responsible for her. She’s under Dr. Egan’s care.” He seemed delighted to be able to throw that out.
Gretchen didn’t hesitate. She dropped Denby cold and strode to the fourth-floor nurse’s station, asking for Jessica Maltona’s room number. Denby was torn between the desire to charge after her and get in her way some more, or turn on his heel in a show of pique and disgust.
He chose the latter, practically clicking his heels as he stalked down the hall in the opposite direction.
“Dr. Egan is Ms. Maltona’s doctor,” the nurse at the station said.
Gretchen showed her badge. “I need to talk to her. Just tell me which room.”
The woman bristled, but another, older nurse dropped the file she was perusing and came to the first one’s rescue. “That’s for Dr. Egan to decide.”
“Then find him.” Gretchen stared at her and she stared back. After a moment, she picked up the receiver, practically shoving the younger nurse aside, and punched in a number. “Please call the fourth-floor nurse’s station,” she clipped out.
“There’s a policewoman insisting on seeing Ms. Maltona.” She hung up and said, “It’ll just be a moment. . . .”
A moment turned into five minutes and Gretchen said, “You can turn this into a war, or you can work with me. Either way I’m going to see Ms. Maltona.”
The younger nurse was gazing at Gretchen with a sort of fear mixed with awe. “Dr. Egan usually answers his page fairly quickly.”
The older nurse flashed her a look of fury, as if she’d given away state secrets. Gretchen simply nodded and turned her back on them.
A few minutes later a good-looking doctor with dark hair and eyes came their way, his lab coat billowing behind him. He had a smile on his face and he looked at Gretchen, then September, then back to Gretchen. “You wish to speak to my patient, Ms. Maltona?”
“That’s the plan.” Gretchen’s eyes narrowed as she sized him up. He appeared more genial than Denby and she was feeling her way.
“She’s in room 505. We’ll take the elevator.” He’d already turned toward the bank of elevators, which was a short walk further down the corridor. “I’m not sure what good this’ll do you. She’s surfaced once or twice since yesterday’s surgery, but she hasn’t completely come back to consciousness.” He gave them a considering look as they crowded into the elevator car. “The bullet did extensive damage to her heart. You understand she may not recover.”
September’s stomach did a slow somersault. She swallowed and nodded as Gretchen said soberly, “We understand. We just want to see her.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened and Dr. Egan led them down a hall and around a corner to Jessica Maltona’s room. She lay white-faced against the white pillowcase, barely a shade’s difference between her flesh and the pillow. A bandage wrapped around her chest was visible as the gown gapped in the front. Her eyes stayed closed and her breathing seemed low and faint.
She’s not going to make it, September thought.
They only stayed a few minutes then headed back to floor three, street level and out to Gretchen’s Jeep. Once inside, September asked, “What do you think?”
“I got nothing. Upjohn’s sad about his son and worried about his company. He wants to talk to his accountant, and maybe there’s some book-cooking, or something, but he didn’t act like a man who felt real danger.”
“He doesn’t think whoever did it is going to strike at him again, while he’s laid up in the hospital,” September clarified.
“That’s my hit. What about you?”
“I don’t know. If Camille Dirkus doesn’t call me back soon, I’m going to have to track her down.”
Gretchen made sounds of annoyance low in her throat.
“What did you think about Jessica Maltona?”
Gretchen sent her a sideways look as she drove out of the lot. “What did you think?”
“Doesn’t look good.”
“If the shooting had anything to do with her, she’s paying a heavy price. Maybe her squirrelly boyfriend got her into something. I don’t know.”
“Could the boyfriend have done this, do you think?”
“My opinion? Not a chance. Jaffe’s hiding something, though. I don’t know what yet. I’ll figure it out, but it doesn’t feel like it’s germane to the killings. We’ll see.”
“So who does that leave?” September asked.
“I don’t know. De Fore? One of the gamers? Olivia Dugan?”
“Auggie’s with her.” September felt that same faint touch of betrayal that her brother hadn’t contacted her. “And what about Trask Martin?”
“Somebody killed him right outside her door.” Gretchen considered that. “I don’t believe in coincidence, do you?”
“No,” September said.
“Then Martin’s death is related to the Zuma shootings, too. You said the girlfriend blamed his death on Dugan.”
“Jo. Yeah. But D’Annibal doesn’t believe that.”
“Only because your brother texted him that he was with Dugan,” Gretchen said. “Man, Auggie sure didn’t get any time off between the task force and this job, did he?”
“No.” September felt irrationally irked.
“Huh,” Gretchen said, “I asked D’Annibal about him, but he fobbed me off some more.”
September didn’t want to talk about Auggie. He was her twin and she sometimes felt closer to him than anyone else in the universe, but at other times he was beyond annoying. What the hell was he doing? She’d known his work with the task force was winding down. Though his cover hadn’t been blown, he’d said he needed to get out while the getting was good, and besides, he’d gathered as much intel as he could, or so he’d told her.
She knew Gretchen had hoped he would come back and partner up with her, but she’d gotten the feeling that would never happen. September suspected Gretchen had a little bit of a thing for him, but she kinda thought Gretchen wasn’t his type. As if she’d asked the question, September said aloud, “My brother tends to go for damsels in distress.”
Gretchen made a retching sound. “Sounds like Olivia Dugan’s right up his alley.”
“Yeah . . .”
Detective August Rafferty was in a quandary. He’d managed to plug in his car charger for a few minutes while Liv was inside Hathaway House and text his lieutenant, but then Liv had come out and he’d scrambled to hide the evidence, to no avail. The wires had been in plain sight.
She hadn’t said anything about it much, and he’d driven them both back to the “safe” house after filling the Jeep’s tank and now . . . what? What should he do next? He wanted to follow along the path of Liv’s zigzag investigation because this whole thing seemed to be morphing into something different than what it had first seemed. Did he think it was all about her? Not completely. But he did believe something was going on. Whether it was part of the massacre at Zuma Software, or something else entirely, he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t truly the investigating officer on the Zuma case; D’Annibal had told him his sister and Gretchen Sandler were in charge.
He was just an extra player. He wasn’t even really supposed to be working. This time was supposed to be his own, a decompressing period after the infiltration of Cordova’s gang. In a perfect world he’d be back at his duplex, getting ready for football season and evicting his aggravating next-door tenants.
But instead . . .
He glanced at Liv, who was sitting at the kitchen table. He’d asked her if she’d like a sandwich, but she’d shaken her head and was just staring straight ahead, involved in some inner pathos. He’d made a sandwich for himself and felt like he’d been eating them forever, even though it had only been a few days. Even this morning’s Egg McMuffin hadn’t been much of a break.
“Maybe I’m wrong and it doesn’t have anything to do with me,” Liv said as Auggie grabbed the seat across from her and bit into a mouthful of turkey and mustard. “Maybe Kurt Upjohn’s involved with military games, or his company’
s in debt, or he’s a gambler or a thief, or something. Or, maybe they were after someone else there. Paul de Fore, or Aaron . . .” Her throat closed. “Or Jessica, or one of the computer wizards. Or Phillip Berelli.”
“Phillip Berelli?” Auggie mumbled, reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth. “There’s a name you haven’t mentioned.”
“He’s the firm’s accountant.” She waved an arm. “Oh, yeah. It’s definitely him. He’s probably laundering money and hiding it in the Cayman Islands, or something.”
He fought a smile and took a couple more bites, making short work of the sandwich half. Then he wiped his fingers and looked squarely into her hazel eyes. There was mistrust there, and a kind of simmering rebellion, as if she felt he were going to school her for her actions.
“Okay, let’s say it is about you. For argument’s sake,” he added quickly when she looked about to protest his sudden change of tactics. “You think someone’s after you and you ran from Zuma because you think this someone—the shooter—found you and your place of work.”
“The lawyers found me. They called me on the phone,” she reminded him. “I don’t know how the shooter found me, exactly.”
“Well, how did the lawyers find you?”
She spread her palms upward. “Trial and error. They were looking for Olivia Margaux Dugan and they got my home number. It probably wouldn’t be that hard. I mean, I have a phone . . . electricity . . .”
“Did the package come to your apartment?”
“No, I asked them to send it to the office. The lawyers messengered it to Zuma.”
He thought about that a moment. “And you’re pretty convinced the package set off the massacre.”
“I . . .” She exhaled, thought a moment, then said, “Convinced . . . I don’t know. But it’s the one thing that’s different in my life.”
“What was in the package that would have threatened the killer?” He could hear how carefully he was choosing his words and hoped she wouldn’t think he was simply humoring her. He wasn’t. Not really. But he also wanted to lead her down a logical path. Maybe there was some truth buried in what she was saying. If so, he wanted to mine it.
“Nothing, really. There were just some things there that my mom apparently wanted me to have when I turned twenty-five.” She made a sound of impatience. “The more I talk about it, the more I realize how crazy it was to run. I was just—scared.”
“I know you don’t think so, but the police will get that.”
“I’m not ready to go yet,” she said firmly.
He picked up the other half of his sandwich. “Back to the package. Your mother put it together and set it up so that you’d receive it when you turned twenty-five. That’s a lot of foresight . . .”
“Yeah.” She half-laughed. “What was she trying to tell me? What was happening in her life, that she felt the need to put the package together? I’ve asked myself these questions, believe me.”
“What was in the package, specifically?”
“Pictures. A personal note from my mother. My birth certificate with the names of my birth parents.”
“You were adopted.” She nodded, and he added, “You knew you were adopted. It wasn’t a secret.”
“It wasn’t a secret,” she agreed.
“What were the pictures of?”
“People. My mother. And my father. And some other strangers who looked like maybe they were my parents’ friends? There’s one man who was stalking angrily toward the camera who I think is the doctor my brother was remembering. I showed the photos to Hague, and he said the man in the picture was the zombie.”
“Zombie?”
“It’s what he called him when he was two. He talked about the zombie. And then . . . last night, when he saw that picture, he said he was the zombie. Maybe this guy is a doctor, who either treated him, or me. I went to Hathaway House this morning to see if I could talk to my old doctor, Dr. Yancy, but she’s no longer there and Dr. Knudson, the director, won’t be in till Monday.”
He munched on the second half of the sandwich and asked, “You sure you don’t want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Something to drink?”
For an answer she got up to pour herself a glass of water. “I can get it. Want a refill?” she asked him, as he’d nearly finished his drink.
“Sure.” She picked up his glass, filled it from the tap, then set it down in front of him as she retook her seat. Her own glass was full and though she placed it in front of herself, she didn’t immediately take a swallow.
“Who else saw the pictures?” Auggie asked.
“My father and his wife, my stepmother, Lorinda. And Della, she lives with Hague.” She paused, thinking a moment. “And my neighbor saw the picture of the stalking man, too.”
“Your neighbor?” he asked.
“In the apartment next to me. He stopped by at lunchtime on Thursday and I had the pictures out. He just noticed the guy looked angry and that the pictures were old.” She finally picked up the glass and took a delicate swallow. “Trask,” she said.
Auggie lifted his brows, and she added, “My neighbor. He lives with his girlfriend, Jo, in 21B. They were there before I ever moved in. They’re not involved with this.”
Auggie finished his sandwich, then carried the plate to the sink and rinsed it off. Turning around, he leaned against the counter, curling his hands around the edge. “Did the lawyers say when they originally received the package from your mother?”
“Umm . . . no, I guess not. I just assumed it was right before her death. I don’t know. . . .” She trailed off, her brow furrowing.
“What?”
“It was the blouse. She’s wearing the same blouse in one of the pictures that she was wearing when, when she died. I think she got it for her birthday. Or, maybe she was just wearing it on my birthday. . . .” She shook her head, as if trying to clear out the cobwebs. “But it was around the same time, so she must have given the package to the lawyers right before she died.”
“You’ve never really believed her death was a suicide.”
“No. At Hathaway House they really tried to get me to believe. I think beneath all the therapy, that was the real goal: Liv Dugan needs to face the awful truth of her mother’s suicide. I finally pretended like I did believe it. It’s what it took to get out of there. But it was a lie.”
“You think the serial strangler hanged her.”
She pulled her shoulders in when he put it like that. “There were some things that just didn’t seem to add up. The timing was such, that I’ve thought, off and on, maybe the killer had something to do with my mother’s death. Maybe he strangled her first and then made it look like a hanging. . . .” She shook her head. “But apparently there was no evidence to support that.”
“Your mother’s death doesn’t follow his m.o., at least not in the strictest sense.”
“Maybe they never really looked to see,” Liv said. “The police just took her hanging as a suicide. Maybe they never checked for other evidence. I don’t think they wanted to add her to their homicide list. They had their hands full and a lot of public pressure building.”
“Or, it wasn’t a homicide,” he pointed out.
“My mother’s death doesn’t fit the pattern,” she agreed. “She was inside the house and so was I, and so was my brother. And she wasn’t killed and left in a field. She was . . . hanged.”
“After her death, what happened to your family?”
“We moved to another part of town. Dad met Lorinda and they got married. Nobody talked about Mama anymore. And then we moved out of Rock Springs and then I went to Hathaway House, and later, Hague went to Grandview.”
“And your family didn’t talk about your mother’s death after that.”
“They didn’t talk about it at all. Until I got to Hathaway House, then it seemed like it was the only subject we talked about. Dr. Yancy thinks I saw something that I’ve repressed.”
“What do you think?”
&nbs
p; She lifted her hands. “Sometimes I think, if I could just reach a little further, I might get it. I don’t know.”
He thought that over, then asked, “Your neighbor, your father and his wife and your brother and his girlfriend were the only ones who saw what was in the package? That’s it?”
“Della’s my brother’s caretaker, not his girlfriend. Well, maybe she is. That distinction’s kind of fuzzy. But I don’t think any of them would say anything. And my neighbor, Trask, wouldn’t even know what he was looking at.”
“You’re completely sure about that?”
“Yes.”
“And your brother’s caretaker, Della?”
“Well . . . no . . .” she admitted. “Della’s been with Hague for years and she’s devoted to him. She’s older than he is, by about a decade. I think she met him at Grandview, and then later, when he was out, they kept in contact and he needed help and . . . there you go. Maybe she is just his caretaker. I really don’t know what their relationship is, but I do think, overall, she’s good for him.”
“You just don’t like her much,” he said, reading between the lines.
“I like her better than Lorinda,” she admitted honestly. She sighed heavily. “Maybe I should just go with the prevailing theory that the shootings were because of Kurt Upjohn. It was a massacre, for God’s sake. All of my stuff . . . is just maybe . . . my stuff.”
“I don’t know if you’re right, exactly. About Zuma. But I think with the timing of the package, and your own history . . .” He pressed his lips together a moment, not wanting to give her too much to believe in, but also needing to bolster her trust. “Count me in on the investigation.”
Liv’s eyes searched his face. He could see she didn’t trust him one iota; she couldn’t figure out his motivation. “Who are you?” she asked.
He thought about telling her. The words leapt to his tongue. But her mistrust of the authorities stopped him. “You picked me,” he reminded her. “I’m in between jobs. My ex-girlfriend’s still in Canada. Not a wife, but close enough. We lived together quite a while.” The lie tripped off his tongue. Lies he’d used when he was Alan Reagan. “We broke up and I’m starting a new life.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “Tell me from beginning to end, who saw the package.”