He frowns and shakes his head. “Don’t put the onus of that on me, Squatch.”
Of course he was right. It wasn’t fair. And I knew if I didn’t look now, I’d regret it. I pull the folder back, take a deep breath, and open it.
CHAPTER 29
After thanking Marshal Washington, Hurley and I leave. On our walk to the car, Hurley broaches the topic uppermost on our minds.
“Are you going to tell me what was in that file?”
“Not yet. I need some time to think about it, to decide what, if anything, I should do about it.”
I expect Hurley to argue, or at least try to cajole the information out of me, but he accepts my deferment without question.
For once, he lets me drive and our two-and-a-half-hour trip home is anything but silent. Hurley and I exchange thoughts and ideas about our case: speculating, wondering, and theorizing. But no matter how many ways we twist the facts, we keep coming to the same conclusion. Whether he’s Walter Scott, Cedric Novak, or Rick Novaceski—my father is the key element. Until we can talk to him, all we have are suppositions and guesswork.
Just as we reach the edge of town, Hurley’s cell phone rings. “It’s Arnie,” he says, and he puts the call on speaker so we can both listen in.
“What’s up, Arnie?” Hurley says.
“Joey got into those files we found on Hal’s thumb drive.”
“And?”
“I think you need to come in and take a look.”
“Okay, be there ASAP.”
“Is Mattie with you?”
“She is.”
“Have her come, too.”
Ten minutes later, Hurley and I arrive in Arnie’s second-floor lab in the medical examiner’s office. Arnie is there, along with Joey. I haven’t seen Joey in nearly a year and he greets me with an exuberant hug, which momentarily stifles my breathing.
“Mattie!” he says. “You look beautiful.” I adore Joey, not only because he’s a giant, sweet oaf, but because he always makes me feel good about myself.
“You look good, too, Joey,” I say once he’s released me. It’s true; he does. His hair is slicked back with some sort of product, a definite change from his usual casual mop, and his clothes are a little more fashionable than the last time I saw him. I cock my head to the side and narrow my eyes at him. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
He smiles at me—a huge, brilliant smile—and his cheeks turn crimson. “Rhonda,” he says, twisting his body, side to side, and looking at the floor. “She’s very pretty, like you. Not as big as you, though.”
Hurley stifles a snorting laugh, and Arnie rolls his eyes. Coming from anyone else, the comment might offend me, but I got used to Joey and his lack of filters a long time ago. His blatant honesty is kind of refreshing. “Good for you, Joey,” I tell him. “I’m very happy for you.”
“Thank you.”
“And good work as usual, helping us with the computer stuff.”
Joey adopts an aw-shucks attitude and beams his smile again.
I switch my attention to Arnie. “What did you guys find?”
Arnie directs us to the laptop sitting on his desk, and as he sits down in front of it, Hurley and I position ourselves over his shoulders. “It’s not much. We found a document that appears to be notes Hal wrote, but it looks like he used his own version of shorthand. It’s peppered with abbreviations, initials, and symbols.”
Hurley and I read what’s on the screen:
CP off. JK.
ADA 1980 WK
Exp = 92
MW = KP
100.182
AKS–fed or state?
RO: France, Switzerland, New York
DW: Miami, Florence, London
PQ: London, Sydney, Belgium
TR: Edinburgh, Prague, Mykonos
“Any idea what any of that means?” I ask the room. No one answers, but Hurley is busy scribbling down what’s on the screen into his notebook. “Is this the only thing you found on that thumb drive?”
“Nope,” Arnie says. He nods at Joey, who clicks and brings something else up on the screen. This one is a handwritten letter that appears to have been scanned into the computer.
Dear Hal,
Hope you are having a great birthday! Hard to believe you’re 45 already. Where did the years go? Have fun, but not too much. If you have too much fun, it will probably give Mom a stroke since you’re her golden “good” child! Leave all the bad habits and behaviors to me.
Speaking of that, I thought I’d give you an update on how things are going here. I think I’ve finally found success with this new program I’m on. My blood sugars are stable and I’ve lost 78 pounds so far in just six months! There have been some issues with my liver enzymes that the doctor thinks are temporary and left over from all those diet milk shakes I was doing on the last program. I’m a little tired, but I guess that’s to be expected when you don’t eat much.
Sorry the birthday card is kind of lame. I couldn’t find any good ones this time out. Maybe I’ll have better luck next year. Come visit when you can.
Love you,
Liz
I give Arnie a questioning look. “I don’t get it. Why would he save this particular letter and password protect it?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Arnie says. “So I did a little digging. It seems Hal had a sister named Liz who died a little over a year ago, right before he came here, in fact.”
“Really?” I say, shocked. “He never said anything about it.”
“No, he didn’t,” Arnie says. “Which is kind of odd, don’t you think?”
“Well, he was kind of a quiet guy, a loner, but you’d think something like that would have come out in conversation at some point.”
“And here’s something interesting,” Arnie says, tossing an evidence bag onto the desk. “This was among the stuff that was taken from Hal’s house by the guys who searched it after he died. I didn’t think much of it at first, but now I wonder.”
Inside the clear plastic evidence bag is a prescription bottle for an Elizabeth Dawson. It was filled at a pharmacy in Madison a little over a year ago by a doctor named Richard Olsen. The drug is Leptosoma, one I’ve never heard of before.
“Did you look up this drug?” I ask Arnie, knowing that he, like a hound dog, typically finishes out a trail once he gets a scent.
“I did. It’s some kind of new weight-loss drug that’s being trialed. Clever name for it. It loosely translates from Latin as ‘thin body.’ There’s a study that’s been going on for the past four years. I e-mailed you and Hurley some links to websites with info about it.”
“How did Hal’s sister die?” Hurley asks.
Arnie smiles and points a finger at him. “Ah, I thought you’d never ask. I talked to an ME in Madison, a Dr. Canada. She’s new there. The doctor who did Elizabeth’s autopsy, Dr. Farmer, has retired and moved to South America, but Dr. Canada pulled the file and faxed me the pertinent info. According to the record, Elizabeth Dawson committed suicide.”
“Suicide?” I say. “That seems odd after reading this letter she sent to Hal. She doesn’t sound suicidal.”
“But there’s no date on that letter,” Hurley says. “We don’t know when it was sent.”
“Yes, we do,” Arnie says. “In the letter, Liz mentions it’s Hal’s forty-fifth birthday. And on April fourteenth of this year, he turned forty-six. So that letter was sent a year ago this past April, which coincidentally was a month before Liz died.”
“Suicide,” I say, shaking my head. “How?”
“She overdosed on painkillers that by themselves might not have done her in, but they had large amounts of acetaminophen in them and too much of that—”
“Destroys your liver,” I complete for him. I look at Hurley. “We used to get acetaminophen overdoses in the ER, typically young women who were merely acting out, who took Tylenol thinking it was safe because it’s an over-the-counter drug. But too much acetaminophen is deadly. If the patients got to us in ti
me, we could usually save them. But if they waited too long, they were basically the walking dead. Without a liver transplant, they’d be dead in two to three days.”
“Elizabeth Dawson was found in her apartment when police went there to do a welfare check requested by her mother, who lived in Illinois. She’d been dead for several days by the time they found her.”
“Did she leave a note?”
Arnie nods. “According to the file, she left a one-sentence note that said she was tired of being laughed at for being fat. She didn’t sign it with her name, but did write a letter L at the bottom.”
I shake my head. “I’m not buying it. According to the note she wrote to Hal, she’d lost a bunch of weight. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I agree,” Hurley says. “I suspect Hal thought the same thing, and looking into his sister’s death is what got him killed.”
“We need to figure out what these notes mean,” I say. “And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Hal had this prescription in his house. Does a scandal involving a weight-loss drug sound familiar to you?” I say to Hurley, my eyebrows arched.
He nods slowly, thoughtfully. “That might be how our Mr. Novak got involved in the current case,” he says.
I snap my fingers as I remember something, that little niggle that I had when we were talking to Marshal Washington. “Maybe I’m reaching again, but here’s some food for thought. Tomas Wyzinski has a degree in chemistry and at one time worked for a pharmaceutical company.”
Arnie looks confused, so I fill him in on my visit to Lech and his theory that his brother was framed. Of course a conspiracy theory is right down Arnie’s alley, and he jumps on the bandwagon in a hurry.
“If there’s a Big Pharma company involved in a cover-up, they could have easily framed Tomas.” He sounds excited at the prospect.
“And what about Carolyn Abernathy?” I say. “How does she fit into all of this? Hal called her that one time a couple of months ago. Why?”
Arnie taps his fingers on the desktop, squinting off into space. “She worked for a clinic,” he says. “Maybe the doctors she worked for are involved somehow.” He sucks in his lower lip and stares into space for a few seconds. A smile splits his face. “Oh, man,” he says gleefully. “This could be big!”
Hurley blows out a breath, shakes his head, and glances at his watch. “It’s going on three-thirty. I think we need to pay a visit to the clinic where Ms. Abernathy worked and have a chat with some of the doctors there.” He looks at me. “Care to come along, since you know them all?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
* * *
After thanking Arnie and Joey for their great work, Hurley and I make a stop in the evidence room to pick up something that was collected from Carolyn Abernathy’s house, and then we drive to the clinic building that sits on the hospital campus. The clinic houses offices for a number of the physicians in town, including my ex-husband, David Winston.
“The billing for all the groups is handled by one office located in the basement,” I tell Hurley. “That’s where Carolyn worked. If she had anything incriminating on any of the doctors, it would be because she handled the billing on the charts and picked up on something. We need to know what she was working on before she died.”
We enter the building and walk down a hallway past a number of offices to the middle of the building. Here there is an elevator that goes up to the second floor and, if you have an employee badge, down to the basement level.
“Let’s hope they haven’t disabled Carolyn’s ID card yet,” I say to Hurley. Leaving Carolyn’s badge inside the clear plastic evidence envelope it’s in, I wave it in front of the card reader, hear a satisfying beep of success, and push the button for the basement.
The elevator takes us down and opens onto a large area studded with cubicles. There is a wide aisle in the center of the room and we make it halfway down before someone—a brown-haired woman in her forties or fifties wearing glasses attached to one of those chains—sees and stops us.
“Excuse me, this is a private area. You can’t be in here without authorization.”
“Does this give me authorization?” Hurley says, showing her his badge.
“It does not,” says the woman, who according to her badge is named Deandra. “You need to leave.”
“We’re here because we’re investigating the death of one of your employees, Carolyn Abernathy,” Hurley says.
“I don’t care if you’re here to investigate the death of the president of the United States, you still have to leave.”
We have attracted the attention of all the other cubicle residents, and heads are peeking up over the sides of the desk areas like rodents in a game of Whac-A-Mole.
“Lauren, please call security,” Deandra says, and a young woman off to the right turns around, picks up her phone, and dials. “And how did you get in here?” Deandra demands.
Hurley ignores her question and fires back with one of his own. “Does it make a difference to you if I tell you Ms. Abernathy was murdered?” Hurley says to Deandra.
Some of the heads jerk around to look at one another and there is an almost inaudible, collective gasp in the room.
“It does not,” Deandra says. “That’s all very sad, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with us or what we do down here.”
“And just what is it you do down here that you think is so important and top secret?” Hurley fires back, clearly getting irritated.
“We handle billing, insurance claims, and medical records requests,” Deandra says. “We handle sensitive and private medical information that is protected by law.”
“I am the law,” Hurley says, his lips tight.
“No, what you are is some cowboy cop who thinks because he carries a badge he can bypass the normal procedures and processes and bully his way into getting what he wants. But it ain’t working here, cowboy. If you want something from us, get a warrant.”
There is a ding behind us and I turn to see the elevator door open and a security guard enter the room. I can practically see the steam coming out of Hurley’s ears so I take his arm and tug him back toward the elevator. “Come on, Hurley, this isn’t working. I have a better idea.”
The security guard puffs up his chest, puts his hands on his hips, and struts his way in front of Hurley. “Is there a problem here?” he asks.
“No,” I say quickly before Hurley can respond. I tug on his arm a little harder. “We were just leaving.”
Much to my relief, Hurley finally gives way to my urging and we get back on the elevator and take it up to the first floor. Hurley’s angry stride gets him down the hall, out the door, and to the car a full thirty seconds ahead of me.
He’s muttering something under his breath as I get in the car and shut my door. Instead of starting the engine, he sits there, staring out the windshield.
“Hurley, I have an idea,” I say.
He turns to look at me and I can tell he has calmed some. “What is it?”
“I think it’s time we involve Alison a little more with our case, let her have the spotlight.”
Hurley looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. He may be right, but I tell him my idea anyway.
CHAPTER 30
We meet Alison Miller at the police station and fill her in on what we need her to do. She’s more than happy to oblige our crazy plan, and twenty minutes after her arrival, she is off to put things into motion. Once she’s gone, I glance at Hurley. His face looks haggard with a day’s growth of unshaven beard, dark circles under his eyes, and a grim set to his mouth.
“Why don’t you come home at a normal time tonight?” I say to him. “You look like you need a break. Let Alison do her thing and see where we end up. Get a good night’s sleep and tackle it all with a fresh eye in the morning.”
To my surprise, he agrees. “Some rest will do me good,” he says. “My brain is having a hard time sorting out all the facts in this case. How about I run by the store and pick up some steak
s to cook on the grill while you go get Matthew?”
“That sounds great,” I say. “Grab some potatoes and I’ll nuke them. We can have microwave baked potatoes, too.”
“Right.” He leans over, gives me a kiss, and then turns to leave. That’s when I remember I don’t have a car.
“Okay, revamp then,” Hurley says, running a hand through his hair. “See, this is why I agree I need a little time off. I’m not thinking straight.”
We drive together to the grocery store, wisely deciding to do that before picking up Matthew because my son and grocery stores always seem to be a recipe for disaster. He pulled down an entire display of canned goods a month ago, had a major screaming-and-kicking meltdown two weeks ago because I bought dog biscuits in a green box instead of a red one, and last week opened my wallet, took out my credit and debit cards, and handed them to some stranger, who, fortunately, was honest enough to give them back.
Once we’re done at the store, we head for Desi’s. Hurley opts to wait in the car while I go in to get Matthew.
“I’ve got some ideas for the wedding I want to run by you,” Desi says as I start packing up Matthew’s stuff.
“Can we do it tomorrow? I’ve got Hurley waiting in the car and he’s exhausted.”
“Oh, sure. No problem.” She helps me pack up the stuff, and as I’m ready to leave, she says, “Did you talk to Mom about the trunk yet?”
“I did better than that,” I tell her. “I busted the damned thing open.”
Desi claps a hand over her mouth. “You didn’t!”
“I did. And Mom is none too pleased about it.”
“What was in it?”
“Some documents, and some letters between her and my father. I’ll fill you in on the details later. Suffice to say, Mom is doing one of her cleaning-frenzy things and she has William all freaked out.”
“Oh, poor William. Has she announced her terminal disease yet?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him today, but I warned him about it. I told him to call me if he needed to talk and he hasn’t, so I’m guessing he’s getting through it.”
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