Catherine watched Warrick as the young woman got a smile out of him with her sassy, smart attitude. With the barest nod of her head, Catherine signaled Warrick.
Without missing a beat, Warrick said, “Ms. Jones, you’re right. We are here looking into it. Which is why we need your help. You were on duty, when she coded?”
“Yes,” Kenisha said, adding emphasis with several nods. “I looked in on her, then went down the hall to check on Mrs. Jackson. Vivian was fine when I left her, and less than ten minutes later…damn. She coded, all right. All the way.”
Catherine and Vega were hanging back now, letting Warrick talk to the young woman, who seemed to feel as comfortable with him as he did with her.
Warrick asked, “And what’d you do then, Ms. Jones?”
“ ‘Kenisha.’ Your name’s what again?”
“Warrick.”
“Warrick, the whole damn crash team came in. First team, off the bench and in the game—Doctor Whiting, myself, and the two staffers from the other wing, Nurse Sandy Cayman and Doctor Miller.”
Vega checked his notebook and put in: “Doctor John Miller?”
“Yes.”
Warrick resumed the lead. “So, Kenisha—what happened next?”
“Well, I was the closest,” Kenisha said. “Got there first. Only…she was already gone, poor thing. Only ‘poor thing,’ that’s not right, really…. Warrick, that woman was healthy as a horse. No way she shoulda died. Vitals were strong just, what…ten minutes before. She was one of the handful, ya know.”
“Handful?”
“The handful who had a future. The handful who walk outta here into some more life. No walker, no wheelchair—under her own damn speed. We savor those. This…this…should not have gone down like that.”
“Place like this,” Catherine put in. “Don’t these things happen?”
Kenisha’s eyebrows rose. “Little too many of these things are just ‘happening’ round here, you ask me.”
Catherine said, “We are asking you, Kenisha. And I’m Catherine.”
“All right, Catherine. I’m just saying, I had my suspicions, way before this.”
Warrick picked it up again. “Then why didn’t you call us in, Kenisha? Or say something to that assistant coroner who comes around?”
“And say what?” Kenisha asked, her voice rising now. She did a mocking voice: “ ‘Too many old folks dyin’ out here at Sunny Day, come runnin’ ‘?”
Looking sheepish, Warrick said, “Well, yeah—I see your point.”
“In a world of malpractice, you learn not to make waves, unless you are very damn sure of something.” She shook her head. “You point the finger, then they’d be all…where’s your proof? And what do I have to offer, except a feeling in my gut.”
Gently, Warrick said, “And what is your gut telling you, Kenisha?”
“Telling me, something’s wrong here, only…nobody seems to know what it is, or how to stop it.”
Warrick’s expression was somber. “Kenisha, if something wrong is going down here, I promise you: We’ll find it.”
Her eyes were moist. “You know it’s so easy to hide a murder in a place like this—another old fogey dies, and who the hell cares? Well, I care.”
Catherine said, “Kenisha…trust me. So do we.”
Kenisha’s face showed that she wanted to believe her.
Before they left, Kenisha gave Warrick her cell phone number, “In case you need to contact me…about the case.”
Warrick gave the nurse his cell, too.
On the way out, Catherine said, “Wow, very thorough…that exchange of phone numbers. You’re really trying to stay on top of this.”
Warrick gave her an uncommonly shy grin for such a confident man. “Cath—don’t even go there.”
Her chin crinkling with amusement, she raised her hands in surrender as they walked out of one Sunny Day into another.
At the office, they split up.
Vega went right back out, this time to interview Mabel Hinton about her visit to Vivian Elliot the morning she died. While the lab techs worked on the evidence, Warrick and Catherine, each pursuing separate courses, concentrated on doing background checks on the doctors and nurses who worked at Sunny Day.
Catherine had been at it for hours when finally Greg Sanders interrupted. Probably the brightest among the rising stars of the crime lab, Greg was young, ambitious, if sometimes scattered, his streaked blond hair giving him the appearance of a man who had just stepped off a Tilt-A-Whirl.
“Hey, Catherine,” he said, hovering over her desk, his hands behind his back.
Catherine scooted her chair back and looked up at him. “So Greg—spill.”
“I…found…your…murder weapon.”
She grinned. “Really?”
A quick nod, and Greg explained: “We went through everything in the biohazard bag you brought in.”
“We?”
He gestured with a thumb over one shoulder. “I had help from a couple of interns. Just a small tip? Any time you gotta go through the contents of a biohazard bag? Call an intern.”
“Noted.”
“When your vic coded, they gave her a thrombolytic agent.”
Catherine nodded that she understood. “To break up a clot if there was one.”
“Exactly. Streptokinase, in this case. They also gave her dopamine and nesiritide—Natrecor as it’s called.”
“Natrecor?”
“It’s a vasodilator. It’s the synthetic version of BNP, a hormone manufactured in the heart.”
She’d followed this for a while, but now was lost. She’d become a CSI, not gone to medical school.
“Oh-kaaay,” she said finally. “So the murder weapon was…?”
“After going through all the different syringes,” he said, “I found this homeless puppy.” He produced a plastic evidence bag from behind his back.
She took the bag from him. Within, a large, nasty-looking syringe looked as clean as when it had come out of its protective wrapper.
“How can you know it was this specific needle?” she asked.
Greg held up one finger, said, “Ah!…That’s why you come to an expert for an opinion. Because you’ll get an expert opinion.”
“Greeeggg…?”
“There were traces of both blood…Vivian Elliot’s, by the way…and saline from her IV on the needle.”
“And on the inside?”
“Not so much as a molecule of dust—not…a…particle.”
Catherine frowned. “But there should have been traces of something, right?”
“There were in all the others,” Greg said, with an affirming shrug. “And in every syringe I’ve ever looked in. This one? This one has never held anything more than…air.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Not on the plunger, not on the tube, not on the needle, nothing.”
Catherine said, “All right—maybe we can track it some other way.”
“Just let me know if you need anything,” Greg said. “Always happy to solve your cases for you.”
“Do you want me to say it?”
“I wish you would.”
“Greg—you’re the best.”
He was gone less than a minute when Warrick rolled in, Catherine still staring at the plastic evidence bag.
“And what have we here?” he asked.
“You know that old cop expression? All we’ve got in this case is a pound of air?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“We’ve got it…only we’re happy to have it.”
She held up the bag and explained what Greg had said.
“Murder weapon,” Warrick said. “Always nice to have.”
“So far it’s a dead end, though.”
“Plenty other leads.”
Catherine nodded. “So. How go the background checks?”
“Kenisha Jones came up clean.”
Catherine laughed once. “And Warrick Brown’s heart skipped a beat.”
“Ca
th…I said don’t go there…. As for Kenisha, she went to UNLV, put herself through school. Hard worker, and never so much as a parking ticket. What’d you come up with?”
“Meredith Scott?” Catherine said.
“Third shift nurse?”
“Right. She wasn’t so lucky.”
Warrick pulled up a chair, his eyes perking with interest. “Really?”
“Really. Got busted just after high school for shoplifting. Then, while she was still in college, there was a petty theft beef with the boss of the restaurant where she worked. He said she was pocketing money out of the register.”
“How did that one turn out?”
“Scott pled to misdemeanor theft, repaid the money. At the time, she claimed she’d intended to pay the money back. Just a youthful error of judgment. And truth is, other than that, her jacket’s clean. Since college? Solid citizen.”
“How about Rene Fairmont?” Warrick asked.
“I’m passing her off to you. Plus, you’ve still got the doctors to do, right?”
“Yeah, but now that we established my plate’s full, what are you gonna be up to?”
Catherine leaned back in her chair. “I’m taking that proverbial fine-tooth comb to Vivian Elliot’s finances…. If our killer is picking these people because they have no family, to me that signals a financial-gain motive.”
Warrick nodded. “Can’t argue that. What about the other vics?”
Catherine heaved a sigh. “Bodies long gone, crime scenes cleaned up past the point of no return. Only thing left is the records of those that have died over the last eight months. Vega’s over there picking them up for me now. Once I’ve gone through Vivian’s finances, I’ll start on those.”
“Never a shortage of fun things to do around here,” Warrick said, putting his feet up on the edge of her desk. “How do you like dayshift?”
“In this heat? Is it fair to have an opinion?”
Warrick, staring at the ceiling, said, “You’ve seen the security out at Sunny Day.”
“Yeah—Deputy Dawg. Not exactly the vault at Mandalay Bay.”
Warrick looked at Catherine. “What if our killer’s not one of the staff?”
Shaking her head, Catherine said, “Then he or she better screw up soon, or we’re gonna have trouble making a collar. If this isn’t about money, how does the killer pick a victim? If it is about money, and the killer’s not one of the staff…the neighbor, maybe…she or he’s got to have an accomplice on the inside.”
“You sure about that? An outsider with medical knowledge might’ve shot that air in that IV, right?”
“I don’t think so. This syringe matches the ones from Sunny Day…. Maybe somebody doesn’t like old people…and their hobby is taking one out every now and then…and I don’t mean for lunch.”
“Ah, Cath, you can’t—”
“I can. It’s always a possibility, you know.”
“What is?”
“Being up against a killer who is well and truly around the bend.”
Warrick had no response to that.
After he ambled out, Catherine began going through Vivian Elliot’s personal papers.
The CSI had brought in all the things she’d found at the Elliot house. The checkbook, with more than a thousand dollars in it, hadn’t been used since the morning before Vivian’s car wreck. Looking through the register, Catherine saw that Vivian had purchased a brake job, radiator flush, and oil change with check #9842. That had been from the dealership that had sold her her 1999 Chrysler Concorde.
The next day, Vivian had been traveling south on Nellis Boulevard when the drunk ran the red light and plowed into her. Since the woman hadn’t written a check thereafter, the top check in the book should be #9843. Flipping past the register, Catherine saw the correct check on top.
She wondered why Vivian hadn’t carried the checkbook with her on the day of her accident. Thinking it through, she thought she had the answer: Catherine knew that many older folks, especially those raised during the Great Depression, believed in paying most things with cash. Three hundred dollars, the price of Vivian’s auto repairs, was probably more cash than the woman liked to carry…hence the check.
Vivian’s financial advisor was Christian Northcutt, whose office was in a new complex on Robindale near Las Vegas Boulevard, the same office park as Newcombe-Gold, an advertising company Catherine had investigated just last year.
Looking through the statements from Northcutt, Catherine discovered that Mrs. Elliot had a money market with about three thousand dollars, a mutual fund program with a shade over fifty thousand, and an annuity valued about forty-five thousand dollars. In no way could Vivian Elliot have been considered rich, but she hadn’t exactly been standing in the government cheese line, either.
If someone wanted to steal Vivian’s estate, how would they go about it? Was there a will? There was only one way to find out: Catherine would have to talk to Vivian’s lawyer.
Before Catherine could take that thought any further, however, Vega entered her office, hauling a monstrous cardboard box, the sleeves of his suit straining to contain his biceps as he brought the thing over and dropped it unceremoniously on her desk.
“The hospital records,” he said. Fit as he was, the heat had him sweating and even panting a little.
“What took so long?”
He cut her a look. “Court order, Cath—you know how it is.”
“Yeah, I sure do. Doctor Whiting give you any trouble?”
“Naw. Once he saw the paperwork, he pretty much fell all over himself trying to help. He would’ve been fine without it, personally, he said—but Sunny Day’s a business like any other.”
“I think,” Catherine said, gesturing to the financial records spread out elsewhere on her desk, “we need to talk to Vivian’s lawyer.”
“Do we know who the lawyer is?”
“Yeah—Pauline Dearden.” She handed Vega an invoice the attorney had sent Vivian. “Know her?”
“No.”
“Me either.”
“Let’s get acquainted then,” Vega said.
Next thing Catherine knew, she was riding in Vega’s unmarked Taurus, headed south on Boulder Highway. She filled him in on the news of the murder weapon, and he was pleased, though frustrated that it didn’t seem to lead anywhere.
Just north of Flamingo, Vega waited for a break in traffic and turned left into a strip mall parking lot. A two-story stucco building, the mall was home to a variety of offices. The bottom floor included an insurance company, a loan company, a bail bondsman, and a pawnshop; top floor held another insurance company, a baseball card and comic book store, a vacant storefront, and, at the very end, PAULINE DEARDEN, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
They went up the stairs and entered the office. Catherine expected to find the firm of Drab, Dreary, and Dubious practicing here; to her surprise, the office was spacious and the decor bright and cheery—blond furniture, light green walls, waiting area with mini-sofa covered in a floral pattern, three chairs, and a coffee table scattered with glossy magazines. Beyond was a good-sized desk, two client chairs, and a high-back leather number for the attorney—the one who didn’t seem to be here. A computer sat on a smaller desk next to the main one, and beyond that was a closed door, from behind which came the sound of a flush and then running water.
That door opened and a tall, wide-shouldered woman in a high-collared navy blue jacket and skirt stepped out, patting her hair, as if it could be out of place. Catherine knew the latter was unlikely, as the woman wore enough spray to shellac her obviously dyed red hair into a tight helmet. The blue-eyed redhead wore a great deal of scarlet lipstick, too, and when she saw her guests, the woman looked up and smiled with bright, white teeth—something slightly predatory about it, but then…this was a lawyer.
“May I help you?” she asked cordially enough.
Vega showed the badge and introduced them both. The woman studied the IDs carefully before handing them back. Then the attorney shook hands with t
hem and gestured to the client chairs. “I am, as you’ve surely guessed by now, Pauline Dearden. What’s this all about, Sam?”
Catherine glanced over toward Vega, to see how this no-nonsense professional was taking this woman he’d just met using his first name.
Vega let the comment pass without a ripple in his impassive expression. “We’d like to talk to you about one of your clients—Vivian Elliot.”
Pauline Dearden leaned forward a little. “Within bounds of client confidentiality, I’m of course happy to help the police. But why Vivian?”
“Haven’t you heard, Pauline?” Vega said. “She’s been murdered.”
The attorney’s eyes opened wide, then she sagged a little. “Hell…. No. No, I hadn’t heard anything about it. I seldom read the paper and almost never watch television.” She sat for a long moment, her manner suddenly morose.
“Ms. Dearden?” Vega prompted.
“Sorry…. Vivian was a good client, and a nice woman.”
Catherine asked, “Can you tell us a little about her?”
The Dearden woman opened a drawer and withdrew a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “What…what would you like to know?”
“What legal work had you done for her recently? I noticed an invoice from your office among her financial records.”
A humorless laugh coughed out of her. “Normally, I’d have to rail on and on about attorney-client privilege…but since she’s been murdered…”
Catherine waited.
Gathering herself, the attorney said, “She was considering suing Doctor Larry Whiting for malpractice.”
Catherine blinked. “Doctor Whiting? First we’ve heard of that.”
“Well, it’s true.”
Vega was still trying to wrap his mind around this. “Doctor Whiting at Sunny Day?”
“Uh huh—the very one.”
Catherine sat forward. “Why did Vivian stay under his care, then—if she was considering suing him for malpractice?”
A grunt of a laugh preceded the attorney’s answer: “She thought all the other doctors at Sunny Day were even bigger problems than Doctor Whiting!”
Catherine said, “She could have moved to another facility, if she thought the care was subpar. It’s not like Sunny Day’s the only game in the valley.”
“She was an old woman,” the attorney said matter of factly. “Set in her ways, and not willing to listen to anything I had to say.”
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