The Arms Of The Law

by Jenna Ryan

  “I’m going to strangle him,” Nikita said in a fervent undertone.

  “If you mean Martin, be my guest. If you’re referring to that pretty blond detective, I wouldn’t.” Adeline harrumphed. “Stick wings on that one, and he’d fly. I’m too close to going, I cooperated.”

  So it had been Manny rather than Vachon who’d invaded her grandmother’s palatial Boston home. Well, really, Adeline could handle the pair of them bound, gagged and with one nimble foot in the grave. She was cantankerous to a fault, sly, shrewd and quick-witted enough to keep her entire household staff of eleven on their toes for more than sixty years. The woman was a marvel.

  “Do you know where Martin is?” Nikita asked, glancing at her watch. She had another session with Verity and after that Lally, whom she wanted quite badly to talk to.

  “Are your phones tapped?” Adeline demanded.

  “Not by the police. Where is he, Gran?”

  The old woman grunted. “En route. He wants to talk to you.”

  “He should talk to Deana first.”

  “Whatever.” Adeline’s tone grew cagey. “So who’s this Vachon person to you?”

  “How do you—”

  “We met. You also said his name a minute ago. He’s the dark, damned sexy one.”

  Nikita tried not to laugh.

  “He showed up an hour ago to drag his angel-faced partner away. If you’re interested, he’s thirty-three and not married. His father was a magician, Lemuel Vachon, not to be confused with Lemuel Gulliver. The father died five years ago. Heart failure. Vachon’s mother remarried—the prop man at a local New Orleans theater, last year. Am I getting a rise here, girl?”

  “Not at all,” Nikita lied. She spotted a white uniform, overfilled, strutting past her office door. “Sammy,” she exclaimed softly, then added, “I have to go. I’ll call you later. I promise.”

  She caught up with the arrogant orderly at the sweeping central staircase. He was headed for the elevator and from there to points unknown.

  His sandy hair had been slicked down to hide his receding hairline. He was paunchy from too much beer, with biceps, a swagger and a perpetual smile on his too-thin lips. He tended to puff out his already broad chest whenever a woman entered his line of vision.

  “Hey, Doc.” He treated her to a jaunty smile. “What can I do for you?”

  Nikita grimaced at the display of poor teeth but had no particular fear of him. Hands in her pockets, she said, “You can stop spreading gossip, to start with.”

  His voice grew velvety. “Who said I was?”

  “People talk, Sammy. They’re saying that you’ve been mouthing off about Dr. Flynn’s experiments.”

  “That freak?” Sammy snorted. “The guy wears panty hose under his lab coat. He also tortures rats in that lab of his.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Nikita maintained evenly. “Back off, Sammy, right now, or you’ll be answering to the other Dr. Sorensen. Tolerant she isn’t when it comes to someone spooking the patients. And don’t forget, in Dr. Drake’s absence, she has full disciplinary authority.”

  Sammy’s smile widened. “You’re a regular wildcat, aren’t you? Spitting poisoned darts and thinking you can bring me to my knees.”

  She saw his chest muscles and biceps flex before he reached out a finger to flick at a lock of her hair. He didn’t look overly pleased when Nikita smacked his hand away.

  The smile became a sneer. “You’d better get used to having me around, Niki, baby, ‘cause you and I both know I’m here to stay. Family means a lot to Uncle Sherm’s wife.”

  Nikita despised men like Sammy Slide. She despised her current situation only marginally less.

  Matching arrogance with seeming amusement, she tipped her head. “I wouldn’t forget anything as relevant as your lineage, Sammy. And since you’re obviously in the mood for a verbal fencing match, I’ll make a point of mentioning that little squabble I heard about between you and Laverne Fox three days ago to the police.”

  The sneer vanished. So the coffee room gossip had been true. Interesting.

  Sammy’s ham fists clenched and unclenched. “You heard us fighting?”

  “I heard of it, Sammy,” she repeated. “But I got the story from a reliable source.”

  “One of the patients?” He scoffed, clearly hoping for that.

  Nikita smiled and turned away. “No such luck, pal. It was two of our top doctors.” She paused to regard him from halfway down the corridor. “You might want to think about that while you’re working on your alibi.”

  LALLY WAS WRINGING her hands, Nikita noticed as she poured the woman a glass of lemon water.

  Their session was taking place in the conservatory. Verity liked to come here, and this past week Lally had begun to follow her lead in many things. Verity enjoyed painting; Lally had immediately tried her hand at it. Verity played crib; Lally had made a point of learning the game. If Verity were healthy, the attachment Lally had formed to her would probably have helped the woman enormously.

  But that was another matter. It was Lally who required Nikita’s attention now, and from Lally that she need to eke out what information she could.

  Nikita handed her the tumbler, clinking with ice cubes and lemon slices. Around them, greenery exploded like a tropical rain forest Potted palms, orchids, miniature citrus trees, flowering vines and climbing roses tended to soothe the nerves of her most frazzled patients. Lally sat in a rattan chair covered with deep-blue-and-green cushions, sipped her water and plucked at her khaki pant leg with restless fingers.

  Before Nikita could collect her thoughts, Lally surprised her by blurting out a frightened, “I knew about it, Dr. N. Before it even happened, I—I knew.”

  “Are you talking about Laverne Fox?” Nikita asked carefully.

  Lally’s head bobbed jerkily, as if attached to a string. “I don’t know how, but I—I saw her in the woods, in the snow.”

  Nikita leaned forward. “Relax, Lally. You’re talking to me, remember? I’m not a skeptic.”

  “But you don’t really believe, do you?”

  Nikita searched for an appropriate response. “I don’t disbelieve.” At Lally’s sound of frustration she abandoned medical tactics. “Okay, you want the truth? I’ve met people who claim to ‘see things’ just like you do. It’s called psychic ability. I’ve gone through your entire hospital file. I know you’ve been seeing things for years.”

  “Or claimed to,” Lally said derisively.

  “That’s Dr. Claymore’s opinion, not mine. He’s gone. I’m here and open to many things, telepathic phenomena included.”

  Lally retreated into her timorous shell. Nikita wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

  “I don’t think anyone at the hospital is crazy. Just troubled.” She set her notepad aside as a gesture of faith. “What did you see, Lally? Specifically.”

  “A body.” Lally’s expression clouded; her tone grew faraway. “There was a lot of snow. I could feel it. I was cold and it was dark out. I kept thinking that it was only a dream. I knew I wasn’t really there, and yet I was. I remember hiding so I wouldn’t have to see. I saw her come past me. She was stumbling.”

  “Laverne?”

  Lally nodded. “It was snowing, but not as hard as during the blizzard. I watched the snowflakes for a while and then—I don’t know. Everything went dark and blurry. It didn’t get really clear again until I woke up this morning in my bed and saw my empty glass of milk. I found the ring beside the glass.”

  “It wasn’t your ring?”

  “I—no.” Lally drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It was just there.” She bowed her head, allowing the limp curtain of her hair to shield her features. “It’s hers, isn’t it? Laverne’s.”

  “I think so.”

  “Can you check?”

  Nikita hesitated, then nodded. “Will you give me the ring, Lally?”

  Lally immediately fished in her sweater pocket. “I really did find it, you know. It wa
s probably there all night.” Her face brightened. “You could ask Verity. She was there when the nurse brought me my milk. Maybe she saw it when she turned on the light.”

  Nikita strongly doubted it. Verity had her own problems, or soon would, likely too many of them to recall seeing a ring beside a glass of warm milk. “I’ll ask her,” she promised regardless.

  A cockatiel chirped high in the branches of a ficus tree.

  Clearly disturbed, Lally tugged fretfully at loose strands of her hair. “I don’t like myself, Dr. N.,” she confided in a painful whisper. “I want to be…”

  “Healthy and whole,” Nikita inserted swiftly. Very gently, she eased Lally’s hands into her lap. “Don’t wish to be someone else, Lally. You’re a fine, pretty woman. Born in the Highlands of Scotland, just like my grandfather. I’ve heard that’s strong stock. Mentally and physically.”

  “But I feel weak inside, Dr. N. I get confused. I don’t like it when I see things. Talia never sees things.”

  Nikita knew better than to react. Talia was, in Lally’s words, her “friend in the closet.” Invisible, but there for support whenever Lally needed her.

  “Concentrate on yourself, Lally,” she advised. “You’re a good person inside and out. Entirely worthwhile.”

  A shy smile lifted the corners of Lally’s mouth. “Pretty, too, right? Verity says I am. Martin said it once, too. He doesn’t say that to many women, does he, Dr. N.?”

  “He’s certainly never said it to me,” Nikita replied, dodging the question neatly.

  Lally’s smile widened. “I like him a lot. I wish he wasn’t married. He looks like an actor in the movies.”

  “As he’s been told many times before. By our grandmother,” she hastened to add at the other woman’s crestfallen expression.

  Lally stood, stretching her lithe body. “I thought that policeman was nice-looking, too. The dark-haired one.”

  Ignoring the quick flutter in her midsection, Nikita gathered her pen and pad. “He’s fine if you like your men mysterious.”

  “I like Martin.” Hugging her waist, Lally stared upward through a canopy of palm fronds. “So does Talia.” A giggle erupted from her. “I bet Talia’s not sad that Laverne Fox is gone. She likes Martin. She told me so last week. Between you and me, Dr. N., if Dr. Deana was gone, I don’t think Talia would mind one little bit having his baby.”

  Chapter Four

  “Barbiturates.” Tired to the point of exhaustion, Vachon propped his head on his hand and stared blankly at the computer screen on his desk. Manny tossed the medical examiner’s report down beside him then flopped in the nearest chair. “You’re saying that Laverne Fox was drugged then stabbed?”

  Manny plucked a soggy French fry from the box at Vachon’s elbow and popped it in his mouth. “That’s the word from the lab. Whoever killed her injected her first. It took a while, but they found a puncture mark on the back of her neck.”

  “So the drug killed her?”

  “No, the knife killed her. The drug just slowed her down—heart rate, breathing, that sort of thing. Probably when she dropped is when the killer stabbed her and did that weird thing with the hair and her finger.”

  Vachon looked with tired eyes at his partner. “Time of death?”

  “Inconclusive. It was cold as hell last night. Anywhere from four in the afternoon to four in the morning, four in the afternoon being the last time she was seen by a group of reliable witnesses. After that—well, we still haven’t caught up with Martin Sorensen, and then there’s Donald Flynn’s story about her banging on his lab door around nine o’clock last night. You found anything more likely on the suspect front?”

  Returning his gaze to the blinking monitor, Vachon punched up a short list of patients and staff at Beldon-Drake. “Verity Whyte,” he said, reaching for a fry.

  “Patient or staff?”

  “Patient now. She’s a psychologist, on leave from the Baylor Clinic in Concord, New Hampshire. Apparently Beldon-Drake was her choice for confinement after her recent breakdown.”

  “How recent?”

  “Officially? Three weeks. She checked in two days after Christmas.”

  “And?”

  Vachon shrugged. “I ran a background check on her. She went to school and later college with Nikita and Deana Sorensen. And—” he paused to punch another set of buttons “—she also knew, or was at least professionally connected to, Laverne Fox. Laverne worked at the Baylor Clinic for three years.”

  “Do the times coincide?”

  “Yup. Laverne left Baylor about eight months ago. I don’t have the details on her departure yet, but she was recommended to Dr. Drake by the clinic’s director. Apparently, there was some furor immediately prior to her departure.”

  Manny blew out a gusty breath. “Interesting, but not especially enlightening.”

  “It’s something to pursue.” Pushing back from his desk, Vachon raised his arms above his head and stretched. He felt like hell, and probably looked it, too, he reflected with a glance at the mirrored wall of the captain’s office. Hair unkempt, white jersey and jeans rumpled, boots scuffed and salt-stained. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. Three days ago, maybe?

  What he could recall with perfect clarity was Nikita Sorensen’s royal blue eyes, her hair, which felt suspiciously like silk, and her smile, which, though not genuinely offered to him yet, dazzled all the same.

  “One of us should probably drive out and have a chat with Dr. Flynn,” Manny said.

  In the process of recollecting the creamy gold texture of Nikita’s skin, Vachon made a noncommittal response.

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Manny was on his feet before Vachon could object. “I have a few, er, personal matters to take care of.”

  Vachon didn’t want to hear the details. “Yeah, okay, take care of them.” He stood and picked up his black overcoat. “I’ll deal with Dr. Flynn.”

  “What about Verity Whyte?”

  “She’ll keep for now. She isn’t going anywhere.”

  The somewhat comforting hubbub of the precinct subsided as they headed for the stairs. Vachon pulled on his gloves with his teeth. Glancing sideways, he found himself speculating on the unusual spring in his partner’s step. Unusual because Manny Beldon had, in all the years Vachon had known him, seldom been anything except taciturn and bleak, a sharp contrast to his celestial appearance, but a consistent one, nevertheless.

  Not wanting to get into the pros and cons of Manny’s life-style, however, he let the question slide. If rumor had it that Manny lived a little—actually a great deal—beyond his means, that was no one’s business but his own. One thing Manny possessed was a shrewd mind. He’d get himself on track soon enough. Who knew, maybe he already had.

  “Drugged then stabbed.” Manny made a moue with his mouth. “Someone’s definitely twisted, Vachon. By the way, you were right—there was no sign of a struggle. Whatever happened, it would seem that Laverne Fox made her own way into the woods.”

  “Maybe the drug disoriented her,” Vachon suggested.

  “Maybe.” Bracing for the wind, Manny shoved the side door open. A blast of frigid air hit Vachon’s face. “Not my field of expertise, I’m afraid,” his partner told him. “The report only says that a sufficient amount of the stuff was injected into her system to completely fog her senses.”

  Vachon paused halfway to his Blazer. “So why stab her? She’d have died from a combination of exposure and the drug anyway.”

  Manny stomped his feet to warm them. “You want my opinion, Vachon? I think it was one of the patients. It would account for the weirdness of the crime. And that being the case, Beldon-Drake, for all its grand reputation, would seem not to be running properly at all. Bottom line, depending on how our investigation goes, the Beldon-Drake hospital might have to be shut down.”

  MANNY’S PROPHECY of doom haunted Vachon all the way to the former estate grounds. Did his partner realize he’d just given himself a perfect motive for murder?

>   The moment the unpalatable thought crawled in to his head, Vachon beat it back. Manny Beldon resented his great grandfather’s will, it was true, but he was not homicidal. Besides, from what Vachon could gather from her co-workers, Laverne Fox’s conduct had been far from saintly. There’d been that report of trouble at Baylor before she’d left, not to mention her probable affair with Martin Sorensen, whose scruples were highly questionable.

  Martin had gotten drug king Paulie Warsaw off the hook for murder eighteen months ago. Maybe he thought he could commit the same crime himself and simply walk. Or maybe Deana had done it in a fit of jealousy, or one of the patients who hadn’t liked Laverne—assuming, of course, that the patients were free to leave the building at night The electric fence around the grounds made him think that such a thing might indeed be possible.

  A headache was slamming at the base of his skull by the time he reached the hospital. The admissions nurse was not at her desk when he entered. Vachon buzzed twice before she appeared.

  “Were you on duty last night” he asked as he logged in.

  She nodded wearily. “Two of us are off sick this week. I’ve been pulling double shifts. Last night and tonight. One more, and I’ll drop, too.”

  Vachon recalled seeing her face when he and Manny had arrived with the new patient.

  “Are you away from your desk often?” he questioned casually.

  She wasn’t fooled by his tone. “Not often, but it happens. Margie or Lisa would normally be here with me, but they’re at dinner now and they were needed upstairs last night. As you’re aware, Detective, Laverne Fox didn’t make her shift yesterday.”

  Vachon eyed her consideringly. “Did you see Martin Sorensen arrive last night?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone?”

  “I doubt it. He has keys and computer cards. He can come and go as he chooses.”

  “Nice for him. Is that usual?”

  “It’s up to the director,” a woman’s voice answered from behind him. “Deana made the decision to give him open access.”

  Nikita’s expression showed polite tolerance. She’d exchanged her whites for jeans and a lined green suede coat, near ankle length, with matching boots and gloves. The look was sensational with her dark hair loose around her shoulders and a pair of hunter green muffs covering her ears.