“This thing is getting more complicated by the minute.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
32
Zoe waited in the front seat of the SUV, drumming her fingers on the seat, while Ethan went inside the nutrition shop to make inquiries. Through the window she could see him talking to a young clerk who looked like he probably did steroids for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
They had left Whispering Springs shortly after Ethan confirmed his suspicions with the electrician. The drive to Phoenix had taken a good hour. It had required another half hour of stop-and-go driving to reach the strip mall where the shop was located.
She had the unpleasant feeling that time was running out. She was pretty sure Ethan had the same sensation.
Inside the store, Ethan fished out his wallet. A good sign, she thought. The clerk must have come up with some useful information.
A moment later Ethan walked swiftly outside and got into the SUV.
“What did he tell you?” she asked. “Did he have an address?”
“No.” Ethan put the vehicle in gear and drove toward the exit. “That would have been too easy. What he did know was that Branch paid cash and never gave his name, but the clerk recognized him right off when I described him.”
“That doesn’t give us anything new.”
Ethan’s mouth twisted a little with cold satisfaction. “Got one thing that may help.”
“What?”
“The clerk gave me the names of the local gyms. There aren’t that many of them in this part of town.”
“How does it follow that Branch would use a gym in this neighborhood?”
“It’s not a sure bet but it seems reasonable that he’d pick one that was convenient. He’s a stranger in town. Why drive miles every day through Phoenix traffic if he can avoid it?”
“Good grief, do you think that Branch was concerned with his daily workouts while he was plotting to kill you?”
“Guys like him go a little crazy if they don’t get their daily workouts.”
Crazy. Yes, that certainly fit her new theory. It made sense that John Branch might be the source of the scary psychic energy she had encountered on two occasions recently.
The nagging ping-ping-ping of the alarm on her digital watch finally pierced Shelley Russell’s concentration. Reluctantly she pulled herself away from the computer.
Time for lunch and her midday pills.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you.” She hit save on her laptop, took off her glasses and got to her feet.
She winced when her shoulders and knees protested. The arthritis was really kicking in today. Served her right. She should know better than to spend such a long stretch of time hunched over the computer. One of these days she was going to have to look into getting some ergonomically correct furniture for the office.
She went into the small combination washroom and storage closet and gave herself a critical survey in the mirror above the sink. Her hair was practically flat. No perm left in it at all. She would make that appointment at the beauty shop this afternoon, right after she finished reviewing her notes on the Whispering Springs case.
She opened the drawer and removed the plastic container that held her ration of pills for the entire week. She shook out the batch in the small bin marked Noon for that day and filled a glass of water.
She swallowed the pills, found the cheese-and-tomato sandwich in the miniature refrigerator and wandered back toward her desk.
There was something strange about the Whispering Springs situation. It had turned into one of those cases that kept her awake most of the night.
Hell, it seemed she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years.
Still, what she had been experiencing for the past couple of nights wasn’t her usual brand of senior insomnia. She only got these particular early morning wake-up calls when her unconscious mind was trying to signal her that she was overlooking something important.
She went back into the office and started a fresh pot of coffee. It was going to be a long day and possibly an even longer evening. Wouldn’t be the first time she had spent the night in her office.
She sat down at her desk and ate her sandwich. She studied what she had written on the computer screen while she waited for the coffee to finish brewing. What hadn’t she done that she would have done if Branch hadn’t been with the Feds?
A lot, was her answer. More thorough background checks on all the players, for starters.
It was downright scary to realize how quickly you stopped asking the usual questions when folks claiming to be government agents waved their credentials in your face. Patriotism was a great thing but it worked best when it was tempered by common sense.
The newspaper article from the on-line edition of the Whispering Springs Herald popped up on her screen a short time later, right after she’d read the old news stories about Ethan Truax in the LA papers.
. . . A man identified as John Branch was the victim of a swimming pool electrocution accident yesterday afternoon at the home of Ethan Truax. Branch is reported to be in a coma at Whispering Springs Medical Center. Police are investigating. His condition is listed as critical.
Authorities stated that Branch was saved from near-certain death because of the timely actions of the home owner, who pulled him from the water and started CPR.
The circumstances surrounding the incident remain unclear. . . .
Branch in a coma? Nearly electrocuted at Truax’s house? What the hell was going on here? She stared at the screen, trying to focus. It was hard work because she seemed to be sinking beneath a tide of exhaustion. She really had to get more sleep.
She remembered the coffee. She hadn’t even had a cup yet. She needed some caffeine.
But when she looked across the room at the full pot it seemed to be a mile away from her desk. Gripping the arms of her chair with both hands, she shoved herself to her feet.
The wave of nausea hit her halfway across the room. She didn’t lose the sandwich but it was close.
This isn’t good. Wasn’t nausea one of the symptoms of a heart attack?
The queasy feeling receded. She breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the mayonnaise she had used on the sandwich was bad. She couldn’t recall when she had bought the jar. Months ago, at least.
She managed to pour herself a mug of coffee but it took almost every ounce of energy she had to carry it back to her desk. Her hand was shaking so badly she could barely set the cup down without spilling the liquid.
Something’s wrong with me. Just like there’s something wrong with the Whispering Springs case. A connection?
No. Impossible.
A new kind of fear flashed through her. Her notes. She needed to take another look at those notes.
Forget the notes. She needed help. She swayed on her feet, trying to think through the fog that was rolling across her brain. Probably ought to call 911. But that seemed too complicated. Maybe she just needed a good long nap.
She picked up the small spiral-bound notepad that contained her original notes and tried to concentrate. There was another PI involved in this thing. According to everything she had read about Truax, he was the kind of man who was willing to let a marriage and a multimillion-dollar business go down the tubes in an effort to get some justice for his murdered brother. Reading between the lines of the Simon Wendover obit, she had a hunch that Truax had gone even further in the pursuit of vengeance.
She could relate to a man like Truax.
Her feet went numb. Was she dying? She thought about all the pills she had recently swallowed. Had they messed up at the pharmacy? Given her the wrong meds? She’d heard that sort of thing happened more often that anyone wanted to admit.
Call 911
But first figure out where to put the notebook. Because if this wasn’t a screwup on the part of the pharmacist, there were two other possibilities, neither of which was especially encouraging. The first was that it was her time to go and no pill on earth was going to save her.
The second was that someone wanted her dead.
If Truax came in search of answers, where would he look?
Think like the old-fashioned PI you are. Maybe he’ll think like that, too.
She found the right hiding place, tucked the notebook into it and then turned to struggle back toward the phone. But she knew now that she would never make it.
Should have listened to my daughter when she told me to get myself one of those damn emergency alarm buttons to wear around my neck. But I didn’t want to admit that I needed it. Not yet.
Maybe her son was right. Maybe she should have retired last year.
She crumpled to her knees. The phone might as well have been on another planet.
The door of the office opened. A figure drifted toward her. She was so groggy now she could not be certain if it was a man or a woman.
“Need help,” she whispered.
“Yes, I know. But I’m not here to help you. I just came for the computer and the file. You did an excellent job, Mrs. Russell. It’s too bad you’re going to be dead soon. I would have been delighted to recommend your services to others.”
The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was a hand reaching out to shut down her laptop.
Day turned into night and she plummeted into the deepest sleep she had ever known.
Shortly after one o’clock, Zoe and Ethan walked out of the fifth fitness club on the list. Zoe was losing hope. They had struck out again. No one at the front desk had ever seen anyone answering Branch’s description.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she said on the way back across the parking lot. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised that he wasn’t a regular at this club.” Ethan sounded remarkably philosophical. “Not exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find a really buff guy like Branch.”
“Really?” Zoe followed his gaze and saw an attractive young woman dressed in an outfit that brought new meaning to the definition of short shorts. Her bouncy blond ponytail was the last thing to disappear behind the heavily tinted windows. “What was your first clue?”
“I think it was that nonstop schedule of aerobics classes on the wall.” Ethan unlocked the SUV. “Can’t see Branch working out with a bunch of people who use a gym primarily to lose weight.”
“Good point.” She thought about Branch’s carefully molded physique while she climbed into the SUV and fastened her seat belt. “He was obviously obsessive about his bodybuilding.”
“Is.” Ethan fired up the engine with a quick snapping motion.
She glanced at him, confused. “Is what?”
“Branch is obsessed. Present tense. He’s not dead. At least not yet.”
“Thanks to you,” she said softly.
Ethan did not respond. He concentrated on easing the SUV out into the flow of traffic.
“You didn’t have to pull him out of the water,” she said after a moment. “And you certainly didn’t have to do CPR. After all, the man had just tried to murder you.”
“Branch is no use to me dead. If he lives, I may get some answers out of him.”
“You don’t have to talk that tough PI talk around me. I’m your wife, remember? You pulled him out of the pool because saving people is one of the things you do.”
His hands tightened on the wheel. He looked straight ahead through the windshield. “Not always. Not every time.”
“No, not always,” she agreed. “But most of the time, and that’s what counts.”
The next stop was Bernard’s Gym. The instant she walked through the door, Zoe saw that they were in an entirely different world, one that bore only a passing resemblance to the other athletic clubs on Ethan’s list.
Bernard’s Gym was filled with seriously bulked-up men and women dressed in workout clothes that appeared to be several sizes too small for their elaborately contoured bodies. The ranks of heavy, gleaming exercise machines looked like so much alien battle armor.
Zoe tried to remain unobtrusive while Ethan talked quietly to a large man dressed in a gray tank top and sweatpants at the front desk.
A few minutes later money changed hands. When Ethan turned around he had the hard look of the hunter closing in on its prey.
He pushed open the door for her and followed her back out into the parking lot.
“Can’t say that I like this business of being my own client,” he muttered, shoving his wallet into his back pocket.
“Gets expensive when you can’t put the bribes down as expenses on someone else’s tab, does it? Well, don’t look for sympathy from me. I haven’t forgotten how much you charged me for those little incidental items on my bill last month.”
“You can’t let it go, can you? I told you, good information costs money. You get what you pay for.”
“Yeah, right.” She climbed back into the SUV and slammed the door. “Well? Did we get some good information here?”
“Maybe.” Ethan cranked up the engine.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the guy at the front desk recognized the description I gave him. He said Branch has been coming in on a regular basis for about two weeks, although he didn’t see him yesterday or today. He paid for each visit with cash. Told the manager that he didn’t want to buy a quarterly or full-year membership because he didn’t plan on staying long in the area.”
“So you think he’s renting short-term somewhere in this neighborhood?”
“I’m counting on it.” Ethan unfolded the map of Phoenix and studied the circle he had drawn in red. “Now comes the hard part.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. We’re going to have to talk to the manager of every motel, hotel and apartment building inside that circle, aren’t we?”
“Not quite. We got a break. The clerk said that Branch forgot some of his personal workout equipment one day last week. When he offered to rent Branch whatever he needed for the session, Branch refused, saying he’d rather use his own stuff. He went back to his place, picked up the equipment and returned to the club in less than fifteen minutes. That was early morning, before rush hour.”
“So Branch’s motel or apartment can’t be too far away.”
“That’s my theory at the moment,” Ethan said.
“Now what?”
“Now we get on our phones and start calling every motel and apartment complex with an address on one of these streets.”
“This is why I got to come with you today, right?” She pulled her phone out of her tote. “So that I can cut down the time it takes to make all these calls.”
“Brilliant deduction, my sweet.” He opened the phone book he had brought along. “You may have an aptitude for the profession.”
She got lucky forty-five minutes later. Within the hour she stood, together with Ethan, in the small office of the manager of the Tropical Paradise Apartments.
The aging complex was a three-sided, single-story structure built around a postage-stamp-sized pool. Rusted air conditioners projected out of the walls beneath the windows. The weedy concrete walk was badly cracked. A few straggly paloverde trees and a couple of barrel cactuses planted inside a brick border constituted the extent of the landscaping.
The Tropical Paradise looked as if it had started out as a budget motel and had gone downhill from that point.
“Yeah, Branch lives here.” The manager, who had identified himself only as Joe, absently poked through his thinning, artificially black hair to scratch his scalp. “Said he planned to stay a month. Haven’t seen him since yesterday morning. You say he’s been in some kind of accident?”
“He’s in a hospital in Whispering Springs,” Ethan said, voice drenched in somber concern. “I have the number if you want to get in touch, but he won’t be able to talk to you. He’s still in a coma.”
“Coma, huh?”
“The accident happened on my property, and since I’m the only person he knew there in town, I felt obligated to pick up some of his things and take them to him
.”
“But he didn’t give you his key?”
“The key got lost in the process of transferring him to the hospital,” Ethan said very smoothly. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Naturally, I’d like to cover his rent. Wouldn’t want him to lose the apartment just because he’s in a coma.”
The manager smiled for the first time.
Five minutes later, Ethan stopped in front of the door of number twenty-seven. He tugged two sets of medical gloves out of his pocket and handed one set to Zoe.
He pulled on his own gloves, fit the key the manager had given him into the lock and opened the door.
Stale air wafted out from the darkened interior.
Ethan moved across the threshold and disappeared.
A shiver went through Zoe, part unease, part anticipation. She hesitated just outside the door and peered into the shadowed room. All she could see was part of a bed and a wedge of worn, green carpet.
She probed cautiously but from her position on the step she could not pick up anything unusual in the way of psychic energy. Nevertheless, she had been rudely surprised on at least two occasions in recent days, she reminded herself. If her latest theory was right and John Branch was the source of the spiderwebs, there were bound to be some drifting in the room where he had spent so much time lately.
“Well, hell,” Ethan said, very softly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Please tell me there aren’t any dead bodies in there.”
“No dead bodies. But I think we can now say with great certainty that this really is all about me.”
She put one foot into the cramped, drab room, feeling her way. Nothing screamed at her from the walls. No cobwebs cloaked her senses. She picked up the accumulated psychic residue of the years, an old, dank, vaguely depressing vapor, but that was all.
Under any other circumstances, she would have been enormously relieved. But this time things were different. She suddenly realized just how badly she had hoped to find traces of the murky stuff in that room. Such a discovery would have answered so many disturbing questions.
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