Expose

by Danielle Girard

  “What do you remember about his den?”

  “Nothing really stood out to me. I was kind of buzzed,” he said. “I remember Susan was outraged that the guy renting the place was using the den. A framed picture of him and three or four teenage boys sat on the desk. I didn’t recognize them, but she said one was the guy who was renting the place. She thought maybe it was his family. But she couldn’t believe he’d set himself up at the professor’s desk.”

  “What’s Susan’s last name?” Hal asked.

  “Susan Stone. No, Slate.” His brow pinched between his eyes. “Something like that.”

  Hal made a note. Schwartzman wondered about finding Susan. Surely, the university would have records of the TAs and addresses for their alumni. And if they found her, would she remember something about the man who had been renting the professor’s house?

  “Is there anything else you can remember about the den? Anything else on the desk?”

  Miller stared up at the ceiling, shaking his head slowly. “There was a plastic block—like a paperweight—with a beetle or something in it. And a couple of letters. Susan tried to read them.”

  Hal bent forward as though not to miss a single word. “Did you see an envelope addressed to someone? A name?”

  Miller shook his head. “It wasn’t English. It wasn’t even our alphabet. She said it was Russian or something.”

  “Russian?” Hal repeated.

  “I think she said Russian.” He shifted in the chair, growing antsy. “Anyway, I couldn’t make any sense of it.”

  Schwartzman scanned her memory for anything about the case that was related to Russia and came up empty.

  “But you don’t recall if any of the people at the party spoke in different languages? The man upstairs? Did he have an accent?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And how long did you wait for Bitty to come back?”

  “An hour,” Miller said. “Maybe a little less.”

  “But she never came back,” Hal said.

  “She never did,” Miller said.

  “Did you see her after that?” Hal asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I saw her one time after that. She looked like she’d been living on the streets. She was filthy and wide-eyed. When I said her name, I thought she’d jump out of her skin. At the time, I didn’t know what happened at the party. I didn’t actually find out until the police came to question me later that summer.”

  Hal glanced at his notepad. “And you didn’t recognize any of the ‘older’ people? Were they students?”

  “They might have been. They looked more like city people than Berkeley folks.”

  “How so?”

  “You know, dressed up. Kind of snooty with the drinks.”

  “Were they American?” Hal asked.

  Miller looked confused.

  “Did you hear accents?”

  “No. No accents and no foreign languages. Maybe they seemed so different because they were more mature. Like I said, we were lowly freshmen.” He touched the Apple Watch on his wrist, which illuminated the time. “I’ve got to get going. My folks are in town, and I don’t want to leave my wife with them and the kids for too long.”

  Hal pulled a business card from behind his badge and handed it to him. “In case you think of anything else.”

  Miller rose from his seat, tapping the business card against his opposite hand. “Will do.”

  “Thanks,” Hal told him.

  His back to them, Miller raised the card above his head and pushed through the side door.

  Hal stared down at the notebook and then slammed it shut.

  “Maybe you can try to find the grad student?” Schwartzman suggested.

  “Maybe. You ready?” Hal asked.

  She rose and led the way out of the building. The sun was strong and the air cold. Other than the wet sheen on the concrete, all signs of last night’s snow had vanished, as though she’d dreamed it. And for a moment, that was how it felt.

  “Harris.” Hal had stopped to take a call.

  She remained in place, giving him space. At the same time, her muscles tensed automatically as his did. Something had happened.

  “Where?” A second passed, and he lowered the phone. “We got a hit on our BOLO on Malcolm Wei. He was dropped off at the hospital two days ago—California Pacific.” Hal strode toward the car, talking into the receiver. “Get someone over there. I want an officer on his room twenty-four seven.” Hal ended the call, and they hurried for the car. “Malcolm Wei is alive,” he said, opening the car door for her. “Not conscious, but alive.”

  Schwartzman pulled the seat belt across her chest as Hal sat down in the driver’s seat. “There. Now you’ve got some good news.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s this damn case.”

  “Don’t apologize for the case. I want to find her, too.”

  Hal smiled at her as he started the car and then leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  “We should go to the hospital,” she said.

  Without a word, he turned the car around and headed for the freeway.

  44

  Spencer booked himself a coach seat to Miami, Florida, using his new passport. He hadn’t flown coach in years. Of course, he rarely flew. He had always been content to be in Greenville, where his reputation was established, where he was known. He was not wealthy enough to be someone in a new city, but he had achieved the right level of celebrity status in Greenville.

  He might have splurged on first class, but flight attendants tended to notice their first-class passengers. And he didn’t want to be noticed. He’d picked a Miami flight for this reason, rather than Tampa, which was much closer to Palm Bay and her nursing home.

  Certainly, he needed to stretch every cent. For now. Until he was settled in their new house. Until they were settled.

  For the first time in his life, he owned long underwear and a winter coat. While the climate in Thessaly was similar to Greenville, he had no idea how much they would be outside, or where he might buy a coat should he decide he needed one. Better to be prepared, he thought. He had purchased a coat for Bella as well. He’d bought quite a few things for her. Odd, as he wasn’t sure how long she would need them.

  But he was prepared. All their new things were en route to his home in Thessaly.

  He had hired a jet to take them, a private one that would leave from Edmonton after they’d spent a few weeks in the cabin he’d rented. They would be streamlined through Customs in Thessaloniki, where he would pick up his new car. A Citroen, a common car. Nothing too shiny, too expensive. To save money and to blend in.

  Once they had settled in their new home, then he would spend his money.

  And he had plenty of money. Money to live there, to travel after it was over, to come home if he wanted. Plus, he’d have his inheritance. Thanks to him, his mother’s investments had done well, and there would be more than $1 million once the will was settled.

  Of course, he would be out of the country when his mother’s assets were going through probate, but his partners had instructions to handle them for him. He’d set up the contingency years ago.

  More than ever before, he calculated each decision.

  He retrieved his checked luggage and rented a car. An hour later, right past West Palm Beach, he stopped for a bouquet of flowers. Yellow, of course. Roses and gerbera daisies and several lilies to mix it up. He had the salesperson tie them with a yellow ribbon, and he carried them like an infant to the car.

  The retirement home was set in the center of spacious grounds, plenty large enough to be a public park. And a nice one. He had never skimped on her. She’d had enough of that earlier in her life. He’d treated his mother well. He had loved her.

  Because she had loved him.

  Hadn’t she?

  All the years the two of them had lived under his father’s thumb, he’d thought of them both as victims. But she was an adult. He was the child.

  After he left prison, that dis
tinction took seed in his brain. And over the months, it grew. When she opted not to come home to Greenville for the holidays, when she told him it was okay if he didn’t come to visit, the doubt of her love sprouted . . . and flowered.

  In turn, his love for her, his generosity, had waned this past year. Schwartzman would be to blame for that, too. She had made him doubt love. All love. Certainly, his father had never loved him. That was clear. But his mother?

  It no longer mattered.

  He parked on the road that ran parallel to the home. After checking the wig and mustache in the mirror, he pulled on the gloves he had fashioned at home. They were thin latex, covered in a layer of flesh-tinted glue, and built up with bits of tissue to look knobby and old. He’d painted on veins and sunspots, and close up, they looked strange, obviously fake. But close up didn’t worry him. The cameras above each of the entrances and exits worried him.

  He pulled on the wool golf cap and walked with his head down. As he approached the building, he slowed his gait, adding a stiff limp on one side.

  Two young attendants were working to get an old man out of a wheelchair as he passed. Neither glanced at him. He was another old man in a sea of them.

  He knew where he was going. He wound his way through the empty corridors. Midmorning was a quiet time, he had learned. The physically fit would be at one of the craft or art classes or having treatments. The older crowd—like his mother—would almost certainly be resting or relaxing in their rooms before lunch. His mother had never been one for group activities.

  Only for the first few years had his mother used the amenities the home offered, the classes and outdoor activities—golf and tennis and shuffleboard and pickle ball, whatever that was—not to mention workout classes and yoga and water aerobics. And the spa for massage and manicures. What a waste, to pay for all of it when she simply sat in her room and read.

  But she was happy.

  He cracked the door and saw her in her chair, a blanket over her legs, a book in her hands. This was how he remembered her from the happiest times of his childhood.

  He entered the room unannounced and, standing silently, removed his wig, mustache, and gloves, tucking them under the blanket laid across the foot of the bed. As he moved into the room, she looked up, a smile on her face. The smile wavered a bit when she saw him, the edges of her mouth ducking before she dragged them upward again by force.

  Again, he felt the doubt. He’d seen fear in her face, not love. But, surely, love and fear could live together. He thought of Bella. She had always feared him, but she had loved him, too. He’d been certain . . .

  “Spencer.”

  He pushed Bella from his mind. “Hello, Mother. I brought you flowers.” He moved forward to kiss her.

  Her book dropped to her lap, and her fingers clasped the arms of the spindly chair where she sat. “They’re lovely.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Is there a vase I can put them in?”

  “No.” She licked her lips and rose from the chair, moving slowly, shakily, like a tiny seedling in a windstorm. “I’ll ring one of the nurses to bring one.”

  “No need,” he said, pushing her gently but firmly her back into the chair. “I’ll get one in a bit. We can visit first.” He drew the plastic vial from inside the bouquet and slipped it into his blazer pocket before handing his mother the flowers.

  “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

  He slid over the chair from the desk and sat. “I hope you don’t mind the surprise.”

  “Of course not,” she said, her voice pitching a little high. “I could find out what’s for lunch today if you’d like to join.” She fiddled on her wrist for her watch and squinted hard at the small numbers. “We eat at eleven thirty.” She frowned at the watch. “What time is it?”

  “A little before ten,” he told her.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Well then, perhaps we should go out?”

  “I’m comfortable here,” he said.

  She set her trembling hands in her lap. Her fingers fiddled with the cellophane wrap on the flowers. “Me too. Of course.”

  “Have you been well, Mother?”

  She moved a trembling hand to her shoulder and adjusted her blouse. “Yes,” she assured him, laying the hand back in her lap. “Very well.”

  He rose to stand behind her, and she flinched at his touch. “Is your shoulder bothering you?”

  “No, no. I’m fine, really.”

  He drew the syringe from his pocket. He bit on the plastic cover, pulling it off with his teeth, and set the syringe on the bed behind him before rubbing his mother’s shoulders again.

  She twitched beneath his hands. “That’s fine, Spencer. I’m quite all right.”

  He dropped the cover into his palm and returned it to his coat pocket. “You’re so tense, Mother. They have such a lovely spa. It’s a pity you didn’t use it more.”

  “Oh.” The word slipped from her mouth, and he sensed the speeding of her pulse, the quickening of her breath. “Well, I still might.”

  He leaned down, pressing her hard into the chair with his left hand. He grabbed the needle in his right and brought it down toward her head. She tried to turn her head, but he held it between the elbow of his left arm and the forearm of his right as he brought the needle closer.

  “What—”

  “Hush,” he said.

  “Spencer, you—”

  He jabbed the needle into the small dent behind her earlobe, clamped the plunger down to release the fentanyl into her flesh. Plenty of it.

  “Ouch!” she yelped.

  He dropped the syringe in his pocket, stopper first. “Oh no. I think you’ve been stung by a bee.”

  She covered her ear with a frail hand. The flesh like wet newspaper, the blue veins like headlines. “That wasn’t a bee,” she said, and her voice trembled. “Was it?”

  “It was. Hold still, Mother. The stinger may still be in there.”

  And he took his time inspecting her ear for signs of blood. He used a cotton swab from his other pocket, sucking on it lightly before dabbing it against the pinprick of blood that had leaked from the injection site. Would they search for his DNA in her ear? The idea made him chuckle.

  “What?” She tried to touch her ear. “Do you see it?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Oh my,” she said, cupping the ear. “My, that hurt.”

  Spencer stood behind her, drawing the syringe from his pocket and replacing the safety cap. He replaced it in his coat, along with the swab. Then he went back to the chair and sat, giving his mother a smile.

  She shuddered in response, and he found it difficult not to laugh at her expression. More shock than horror. Her gaze darted across his face as though scouring for some truth.

  “What, Mother? Do I remind you of Father?”

  “Your father was a fine man, Spencer.” She raised a hand and only then seemed to notice how it trembled. “You’re a fine man, too . . .” The words came out slowly. One side of her mouth began to droop.

  “My father was a bastard.”

  She flinched, her lips forming a word that wouldn’t come.

  “He was a cruel and selfish bastard.”

  Her hand hovered above her knee, flailing in her attempt to gesture.

  “And you were too weak to protect your own son.”

  Her face pinched in anger. How she wanted to speak. The desire deformed her face as she struggled against the drug that flowed through her.

  “You let him torture a child—your child—because you were too pathetic to stand up to him.”

  Her fingers curled into a fist as she stretched out to him. He gripped her hand and pulled it as she used the tiny bit of strength she had left to try to free herself.

  “I hope you burn in hell right beside him. Tell him I said so. Tell him that his son says, ‘Burn in hell.’” With that, Spencer released her hand. It fell like dead weight into her lap.

  He leaned back and put his arms behind his head, watching
as she struggled. Enjoying the show. The way her lips twisted and the drool seeped from the left corner of her mouth. Tremors rocked her shoulders and head, moving them in opposite directions like a pathetic bobblehead.

  The drug had her, and still she fought. She was fiercer than she looked. Her brow had settled low over her eyes, an expression he’d never seen on her before. He laughed, a big, rolling laugh.

  When was the last time he had laughed like this?

  His mother was angry.

  His mother, who had cowered around his father, who had hated conflict and avoided it at any cost. His mother, who only ever disciplined him by threatening to tell his father, was angry.

  He leaned in toward her, elbows resting on his knees. The flowers had dropped from her hands and rested across her lap, the cellophane whispering as she trembled. “Feeling helpless, Mother? Trapped?”

  Her eyes lost focus. The tremors weakened.

  “Die the way you lived, Mother. Afraid, frozen.”

  Her eyes rolled back into her head, and he leaned forward to catch the flowers before they fell out of her lap.

  He set the book back in her hand, letting it fall against the side of the chair as though it had slipped from her fingers.

  He took the flowers and checked the floor for any petals that might have dropped. Replacing his wig and mustache, his hat and gloves, he checked himself in her mirror. Satisfied, he exited her room, closing the door behind him, and made his way down the hallway in the opposite direction of how he’d entered.

  He drove the rental car to a strip mall and disposed of the syringe and some of the trash. Another half mile later, he threw away the mustache and the hat. When he reached a third destination, he tossed the gloves and flowers.

  To be certain he wasn’t being followed, he took a drive on smaller side roads. After about a half hour, he spotted a decent restaurant and ate an early lunch.

  He was ravenous. While he ate, he scanned the newest headshots. Halfway through his gumbo, he found it. The perfect one. He zoomed in on the head, the nose, the hair. Perfect, all of it. He finished his soup and ordered the check.