by Sandra Block
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Unless he was just trying to cloud the picture. Throw us off the trail a bit.”
“And what trail is that?”
“The trail of his killing Charmayne, maybe? And maybe Andre knows about it?”
There is a long pause. “I should go ahead with my news. Because it may be more of an issue now.”
“Okay.” Out of the squeaky drawer, I grab a notepad.
“I couldn’t find anything on April Green. It’s not a real common name to begin with, and there wasn’t anyone linked to Abraham Green anyway. So I decided to be creative and try some other months.”
I tap my pen on the pad. “What do you mean, other months?”
“You know, how people are named May or July, for instance.”
“Okay, right. I got you.”
“It turns out there was a June Green,” he says, “who was married to Abraham ten years ago. In Atlanta.”
Footsteps sound down the hallway, then a knock before the door is opened. It’s Destiny with my next patient. I mouth, “One sec” to her through the crack of the door. “And what happened to her?”
“It was ruled an accident, Zoe. So do me a favor and don’t go jumping to any conclusions here.” Destiny is laughing politely at something my patient said.
“I won’t,” I say. “What happened to her?”
“We’re still looking into it. But it appears that June Green didn’t have a heart attack after all. She fell down the stairs.” He pauses. “And Abraham was the one who found her.”
* * *
Mike sips his sake. “You sure you don’t want any? I’m happy to share.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Stomach still off?”
“A bit,” I answer, eating a California roll. I hold off on my usual sashimi, as I heard it could hurt the cranberry bean. Though I’m still not sure if I’m keeping the bean, I figure better safe than sorry. We sit a while not talking, listening to Japanese music with rolling flutes.
“You seem quiet.”
“Just tired,” I say, which is in fact true. “Had a nightmare last night.”
“Oh, about the fire?” he asks, concerned.
“No, no. Not about that.” I had nightmares for most of my life about the fire that killed my mother. When I learned the truth of what really happened, the nightmares stopped. “I don’t even remember what it was about,” I lie. “Just a bad night.”
Mike frowns into his little white sake cup. “You sure you got that pepper spray?”
“Yes. Right in my purse.”
“I was thinking.” He reaches for a tuna roll. “Maybe this weekend we could go down to the gun range. Just for fun.”
“That sounds like the opposite of fun.”
He shrugs. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”
“Anyway, I have big plans to sleep all weekend,” I say with a yawn.
Mike pours another minicup of sake and assesses me. “Maybe you’re anemic.”
“I’m not anemic.”
He stares up at the soft recessed lighting. “Hard to tell if you’re pale in this light.”
“I wasn’t pale yesterday,” I remind him, dipping my roll in the soy sauce. “And my blood work was perfectly fine this summer.”
“Well, don’t get all defensive.”
“I don’t mean to be.” I offer a California roll in apology, which he accepts. “It’s just…I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Though part of me is chuckling. I may be a crap psychiatrist, but it turns out the ER doc is not much of a diagnostician either. The flute starts up again, and our phones ring at the same time.
“That’s weird,” I say, as we each look to see who’s calling.
“Scotty,” I say.
“ER,” Mike says. I scoot out of the seat and walk toward the lobby as Mike lowers his voice to take his call.
“What’s up?” I say, entering the vestibule.
“Got something for you on June Green. She…Wait just a second.” I hear yelling, then the phone is muffled. “They both look great,” he yells out. “Sorry, she can’t decide on a font for the invitation. She’s driving me nuts. The two look exactly the same.”
“Pick one.”
“Huh?”
“Pick one,” I advise him. “You have to at least feign some interest in it.”
“Oh,” he says, puzzled. “You think? Maybe you’re right, one sec.” The phone is muffled again. “I like the one on the left,” he yells, then after a bit returns to the phone. “Thanks, that did seem to work.”
“Good. Okay, back to June Green.”
“Yes.” I hear him rummaging around, the sound of paper flapping. “This wasn’t easy either. I’m losing my chops. Took a friend to help me hack into their system.” More papers are shifted. “Here it is. You want me to e-mail it to you, or do you want plausible deniability?”
“E-mail it. But tell me first, what am I looking at?”
“The cover page of her life insurance policy. Bought six months before her death.”
A couple walks into the vestibule, letting freezing air blow into the room. They peel off their scarves and stamp their boots on the rug.
“How much was it for?” The couple opens the door to the restaurant, and I catch a snippet of flute before the door closes again.
“I hate to admit it, but you might be onto something.”
“How much?” I repeat.
“A million dollars,” he says. “I just sent it.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It certainly is suspicious,” the detective agrees.
“Talk about motive,” I say. “But I’m surprised that they didn’t look into it. Wouldn’t that be the first thing they do? Check life insurance? That seems like Detective 101.”
“Usually,” he admits. “But it’s hard to make assumptions about someone else’s case. Who knows what investigation they did? I’m sure it wasn’t obvious, or they would have gone there. They always look at the spouse first.”
I shift lanes. “How about the latest text? Did you find out anything more?”
“Nope. Another burner phone.”
“Damn.” I speed through the yellow light. “Maybe you should talk to Abraham?”
“No,” he answers, definitively. “If he is the texter, which is a big if, we don’t want to spook him. We want to let them keep texting, until they make a mistake.”
“Or until they kill another patient. Or me.”
“That’s a leap, Zoe. It’s more likely this person is tormenting you over cases for some reason, rather than actually killing your patients. But we’re looking into it, believe me. The warden is taking this very seriously. He’s pulling the names of anyone who’s laid just one finger in those charts.”
“So what am I supposed to do, then, just wait?” I tap my hand on the steering wheel, softly at first, then smacking it with frustration. “Can’t we just arrest him?”
The detective sighs. “First off, we don’t even know that Mr. Green is doing this. Just because he may be involved in June Green’s death doesn’t mean he’s doing anything to Andre. Who knows? It could just as well be Sofia, or someone linked to her.”
“Though you haven’t found evidence of that.”
“No,” he admits. “Not yet. And the other thing is, he hasn’t actually threatened you, Zoe. It’s harassment at best.”
“Oh, just harassment.”
“Listen. I know you’re upset, and you have every right to be. But I promise you, we’re doing everything we can. I’ll put another call in to Atlanta. But that might take a while. I have no jurisdiction over there.” The sound of yelling breaks over the phone, then he is back on. “Sorry, it’s a bit crazy here today.”
“That’s okay. I know this isn’t your only case. And I appreciate everything you’re doing, I really do. I don’t mean to get riled up, I’m just a little…” I’m about to say hormonal but decide to let it hang at that.
“It’s okay. I’m on it, Zoe. Trust
me, okay?”
After we hang up, I realize I’ve accomplished nothing except possibly pissing off my one ally. The texter is still out there, taunting me, and I have no more information. I’ve already put June Green’s name through every search engine I can think of and found nothing. Photos from her gardening club, a black-tie event with Abraham, and her obituary. No kids that I could see. I drive a few more miles, dreading every inch of the way, until I finally pull into the parking lot. My stomach is in knots. Back to the reason I’m feeling hormonal right now.
“Time to face the music,” I say to myself, and cut the engine.
* * *
I try to focus on the mellow pink clouds outside the window instead of her hand reaching inside me or my heels in the rock-hard stirrups.
Dr. Marchand sits up suddenly, snapping off her rubber gloves and tossing them in the bin in a well-practiced maneuver. She shoves the stirrups back in, and I sit up with relief, though goo is leaking from me. I hate seeing the gynecologist. Even when I’m not pregnant.
“So what do you think?” I ask.
She leans over and taps off check marks on her tablet for my visit. Two paper-wrapped tongue depressors stick out of the breast pocket of her lab coat like bunny ears. “You’re probably twelve weeks by now, but we’d have to do an ultrasound to be sure.”
“Twelve weeks?” I ask with a gasp. “So that means an apricot, not a cranberry bean,” I say, thinking of the pregnantbabes.com illustration.
“A cranberry bean?” She gives me an odd look.
“Nothing, forget it.”
“Yes, well, we have to verify it, of course. But do you keep track of your menstrual cycle?”
“Obviously not well enough.”
Dr. Marchand turns to her tablet again. “And you were on all these meds before pregnancy?” She makes it sound as if I’m some kind of dope addict.
“Yes.”
“And you stopped them when?”
“Right after I found out.”
A frown pokes through her professional demeanor, and my stomach sinks. “Then I’d definitely recommend an ultrasound at this point to rule out any neural tube defects.”
She’s speaking to me doctor-to-doctor, which I appreciate. But don’t appreciate. Neural tube defects, meaning spina bifida or worse. “The thing is…” I begin, licking my suddenly dry lips.
Dr. Marchand looks up from her tablet. “Yes?”
“I’m still not positive I’m going to keep it.”
“All right.” She nods, businesslike. “You’re past ten weeks now, so we’d be talking surgical termination. You’re still in the window for an aspiration.” Her tone betrays no opinion on the matter one way or the other. I’m not sure what I expected. I see her every other year for a cervix check. It’s not as if we’re friends.
Of course she can’t tell me what to do. It’s my decision. I just never thought I would have to make it.
“You can talk with your…partner,” she says, uncomfortably. “And make your decision. Just give the office a call. Again, I would recommend sooner rather than later.”
“Uh-huh,” I respond, blankly. It might help if I actually told my partner. My gown crinkles as I sit there in shock. Twelve weeks.
“Anything else?” Dr. Marchand asks, briskly.
“No, I guess I’m good.”
“Fine, then I can send your prenatal script to the pharmacy and—”
“No, please. Just give me the hard copy, if you would.” The last thing I need is Mike finding it when he picks up his blood pressure medication. She scribbles it on a pad, and I am sent out to the waiting room, packed with more obviously pregnant ladies. Walking to the parking lot, I try to put the visit out of my mind and glance through my texts to make sure I haven’t missed anything. Again I come upon the riddler’s ugly text.
How about the boy with the bright-red gloves?
I sit down in my car, feeling low. But then it hits me. The detective may not want to meet with Abraham Green.
But that doesn’t mean that I can’t.
* * *
I stifle a yawn as Janaya Jones, aka Ol’ White Lady, comes in.
She takes a seat with her head held high, as if waiting for me to offer her crumpets. Performing a quick appearance check, I note her orange sweatshirt is spotless today, and she smells as fresh as a daisy, so the medications must be taking some effect. “How are you?” I ask.
“Very well,” she answers with a genteel smile. “They have cleaned up the putrid bodies in the room. Thank you.”
“Good, good. I’m glad.”
“It was an unacceptable living environment, as you can well imagine.”
“Certainly.”
“But it’s been rectified,” Janaya says.
“And you’re taking your medications?”
“I am. For hypertension and diabetes mellitus type two.”
“And for…”
“Schizoaffective disorder, yes,” she says, as though speaking of someone else. “Minimal side effects,” she adds, preempting my next question. “Mild dizziness upon standing. I think they call that orthotics.”
“Orthostasis,” I correct her, only God knows why.
“There are several words for it,” she returns, icily.
“Yes, of course. Either one.” Although one is for sneakers, I just hold myself back from saying. We run through her labs and verify to the best of my abilities that she is in fact taking her medications and is stable. “So I’ll see you in one month, then.” I toggle up the appointment calendar.
“Six months should suffice,” she says.
“I’m thinking one,” I say, not negotiating.
She sits up, more primly. “As you wish.” She waits then, though the appointment appears to be over.
“Is there something else I can help you with?” I know full well that there is. But I don’t have the time or energy to deal with my sister right now.
“I have a message from Sofia.”
“You can tell her I’ll call her this time, when I’m ready to meet.”
“No, she just wanted me to tell you something. About Ruth.”
“Ruth?” I ask, thrown for a minute. “Who’s Ruth?”
“Wait a moment, I wrote it down.” She opens her palm, where she has scribbled something in black ink. “‘Don’t ask me to leave you or turn back from you. Wherever you go, I will go.’” She shuts her hand into a fist. “The book of Ruth.”
* * *
“Andre’s not coming?” Mr. Green asks. He folds his black wool coat in half and lays it on the table, next to his black leather briefcase and the smartphone at his elbow. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say. “Sometimes I like to meet without the patient present so everyone can speak more freely.”
He seems to weigh this and nods. “So, how is he doing?”
“Stable,” I answer. Though in this case, stable is barely functioning.
“That’s good to hear.” He surveys the conference room, which is austere, walls painted a forbidding gray without any pictures to dispel the gloom. “Is there anything I can help you with, then?”
“Yes, there is. I wanted to ask about your wife, Charmayne.”
“Okay,” he answers warily.
“Were she and Andre close?”
“Close?” he repeats with relief. “Oh yes. Certainly they were close. She was his mother.” He frowns then, which may or may not be for show. “It was so sudden, when she passed. It was a shock for everyone.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” I put on a soothing voice. “Another question. Can you tell me more about your first wife?”
Mr. Green backs up in his chair. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“It may not be, but Andre mentioned her. Did she have any relationship with him?”
“Andre mentioned her?” he asks, and I nod. “I’m surprised by that. We didn’t really talk about her much. She died ten years before I even met Charmayne.” He looks off into the dist
ance at the bare wall. “Heart attack,” he says.
Which I now know is a lie. “Andre mentioned her name, I forget, it was a month, I think—”
“April,” he says.
Which is another lie. I wait him out then, tapping my fingers on the table through the silence to unnerve him. It appears to be working, as he starts squirming in his chair. “Her name is June, though, right?” I ask. “June Green. Not April Green.”
His eyebrows shoot up, then he leans back with an eerie calm, assessing me. “May I ask, Dr. Goldman, what exactly are you playing at here?”
My fingers keep drumming. “I just want to know why you’re lying to Andre. And to me.”
“This is of no concern to you,” he barks. “You were supposed to help my son. That’s all. That’s all you need to be doing here.” He stands up then, launching an offensive. “But you don’t seem to be capable of that. And now you’re going on about my first wife?”
I shift away from him. “I’m just trying to understand—”
“You said it was schizophrenia. You promised you would help him. And now you’re trying to blame this on me somehow? Nuh-uh. I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I say, to calm his explosion.
“Well, you have upset me. You have most certainly upset me. Dragging up the memory of my poor first wife. She doesn’t deserve that. I don’t deserve that.” His hand is resting against the tabletop, trembling. “You know, Dr. Goldman, I’ve had my doubts about you. Since day one I have. When my boy wasn’t getting any better, but you convinced me. Conned me, maybe, that you could help him. But now I think my doubts were well served, and I’m going to talk to your attending about switching him from your care.”
I lace my hands together. “I’m sorry again that I upset you. But we’re both on the same team here.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” he thunders, and then a ringing sound interrupts us. I look down to his phone, but it’s face-up with a dark screen. The ringing stops, but after a few seconds starts up again, and appears to be coming from his briefcase. Again the ringing stops.