by Mary Stone
Well, he wasn’t wrong, was he?
“All right,” she replied. “Yeah, something like that. I’m going to go get my laptop so I can help.”
Though they spent over an hour sifting through the records of the hospital, the time was minimal compared to the two days that had yielded no useful information.
Winter was the first to locate records for the surgical staff during the month of April in 2002, and as soon as her eyes had settled on the familiar blonde woman, she took in a sharp breath.
Noah’s attention snapped over to her laptop screen before she even announced her finding.
“That’s her.” Winter gently tapped the woman’s picture with an index finger. “Dr. Catherine Schmidt. Pediatric Neurosurgeon. It says she only worked there for a couple more years after 2002.”
“I’ll see what I can find in the FBI databases.”
Her fingers were already moving. “Okay, I’ll see what I can find online.”
A silence enveloped them, but it was broken within a matter of minutes as Noah heaved a sigh.
“What?” Winter asked, pulling her focus away from the screen and over to her friend. “Did you find something?”
“Yes and no,” he muttered. “You said she only worked there for a couple more years, right? So, she would have left there about fifteen years ago. As luck would have it, all her records left right along with her. No utilities registered in her name, no cell phone, no car, nothing. She just disappeared like she was never even there to begin with.”
“Did she have any family? Anyone else we could follow to maybe get to her?”
“No. She’s divorced, but her ex-husband died last year of natural causes. Her parents are both gone too. Cancer in both cases.” Running a hand through his hair, he flopped back in his seat and groaned. “It’s one dead end right after another.”
“Do you think she could have died too?” Winter suspected she knew the answer, but they were grasping at straws.
“If she did, it happened off the grid. No records of anything. It’s just, one day she was there, and then the next.” He paused to snap his fingers. “She was gone.”
“Our luck, huh?”
With a dry chuckle, he nodded. “Pretty much.”
“You should take a break.” Winter waved her hand toward the kitchen. “Get yourself another beer and kick back for a little bit. I’ll keep looking.”
Eyebrow arched in feigned suspicion, he returned his laptop to the coffee table. “Do you want a beer? Is that why you think I should take a break?”
Despite the strain from a frustrating, morally questionable search into Autumn’s past, Winter laughed at his dripping sarcasm.
“It’s not,” she managed, “but yes. I’d appreciate it.”
Flashing her a grin, he pushed himself to stand. As he made his way to the kitchen, Winter returned her focus to the search.
When she first caught the glimmer of red, she thought the screen of her laptop might have been acting up. The computer wasn’t even a year old, and if she had to jump through a series of hoops to get a replacement due to a manufacturer’s defect, wouldn’t that just be the icing on the damn cake?
But as she scrolled, the out of place glow moved with the text.
“A study,” she muttered to herself. The link led to the abstract of an academic journal article. As a bright, crimson glow crept along one of the authors’ names, she felt her jaw go slack.
“What?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Noah approach, a beer in each hand.
She wished he had retrieved the Southern Comfort from the top of the fridge instead.
Wordlessly, she turned the screen to face him and pointed to the second to last author.
“Holy shit,” he managed.
As she met his wide-eyed stare, she nodded. “Dr. Robert Ladwig.”
22
Glancing from the two people at the circular table and then back to the hallway, Noah eased the glass and metal door closed. As he approached Winter and Aiden, he felt like he should have walked on his tiptoes.
He didn’t make a hobby of sneaking around the FBI office, but as of late, it had become unnervingly common. Noah took his seat, and Aiden’s pale eyes flicked from him to Winter and back before he spoke.
“What did you find?” His tone was just as cool and casual as if he was asking for directions to the breakroom.
“Robert Ladwig,” Winter told him. “He’s the shrink I saw after I started getting these weird headaches and visions, or whatever in the hell you want to call them.”
Wordlessly, Aiden nodded for her to continue.
“Maybe we should start at the beginning,” Noah suggested.
“Probably,” Winter muttered. “Speaking of those visions…I had one a few days ago.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Aiden rested both elbows atop the polished wooden surface as he narrowed his eyes.
The flash of indignation on Winter’s face was unmistakable, and Noah had to fight to keep himself from smirking.
Before she could reprimand the patronizing query, Aiden shook his head. “Don’t answer that. That was a stupid question. Go on.”
Noah was almost impressed. Maybe Parrish had finally learned that Winter was capable of making adult decisions. He bit down on his tongue to stifle an amused chortle.
“It was about our friend.” Winter folded her hands in front of herself.
Noah’s mirth was short-lived as she went over every detail of the recollection, just like she had when she told him.
When Winter finished, Parrish clenched and unclenched his jaw, a spark of ire simmering beneath his composed exterior. It was the most human behavior Noah thought he had ever seen from the man.
Maybe he wasn’t an automaton, after all.
With a reassuring smile and a nod, Noah took over for Winter and regaled their painstaking search for the doctor’s identity. By the time he explained the significance of discovering Robert Ladwig’s name on a scholarly journal article co-authored by Catherine Schmidt, Aiden’s cool visage had returned.
“She could be using a fake identity,” the man proposed. “We’ve been seeing a fair amount of those lately.”
“Or, she could be dead,” Winter put in. “We did some more digging in Dr. Ladwig’s history this morning, and he was in the military for close to ten years. He got his medical degree while he was working as a medic in the Army.”
“He’s got the skillset.” Parrish said the words more to himself than Noah or Winter.
“He might,” Winter replied. “And he called me out of the blue a few weeks ago. I didn’t think too much of it at the time, but it was a little…off.”
“Maybe he’s the killer.” Even as he said it, Noah didn’t think it was the right answer. But what else did they have? “And maybe that’s why Catherine Schmidt dropped off the face of the planet. What if he killed her because she found him out? Or what if she was one of his victims?”
To his surprise, Aiden nodded his agreement. “It’s always seemed like there was something off about that guy. What about your friend?”
Noah frowned as he leaned back in his chair. “Do we really even need to bring her in for an interview at this point?”
“Yeah, I don’t really know what we’d get from it,” Winter agreed.
Parrish was shaking his head before she even finished. “Just because we like Ladwig for this doesn’t mean that’s the only route we pursue. Your visions have all been right so far, and Ladwig wasn’t in that vision. Your friend and her surgeon were.” Winter opened her mouth again, but Parrish raised a finger, and she snapped it shut. “Look, you two are her friends, so you bring her here and I’ll talk to her.”
Noah couldn’t help a derisive snort. “You’re going to interrogate her?”
“She’s a witness.” Aiden’s response was so flat that it bordered on outright irritable.
“Right,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. “Tell you what, Parrish. Since you’re such a delightful guy
, I’ll ask her to be nice to you.”
“You’re sweet, Dalton.” Unsurprisingly, the man’s response was laden with condescension.
They both turned their attention to Winter as she covered her mouth to stifle a sudden bout of laughter. “You know,” she started, pausing for another chortle. “Usually, you guys are just annoying when you do this shit, but this was actually pretty funny. So, thanks, I guess.”
23
When Aiden made his way to meet Winter’s friend on the first floor, he wasn’t sure what to expect. But when he stepped into the tiled hallway just past the main entrance, he realized he hadn’t expected this.
Both women sat on a wooden bench against the wall, but before he spotted them, he heard their laughter. There was a brightness on Winter’s face that he didn’t think he’d seen since before she started her FBI career. Or maybe ever.
And then there was her laugh. Not dry, not sarcastic, not mocking. This laugh was genuine. After Douglas Kilroy, he was sure he’d never hear that sound again.
The other woman held a smartphone, and both her and Winter’s attention was fixed on the device. The corners of Winter’s eyes creased as she and her friend both lapsed back into their fit of laughter.
“Where do you find this shit?” Winter managed, holding her hand low on her belly.
“One of my students told me about it,” the friend snickered.
She opened her mouth to add to the explanation, but then her gaze flicked away from the screen as he approached. As the lighthearted expression started to dissipate, he almost considered backing away to let her and Winter return their focus to whatever had given them so much amusement.
Winter turned her head to regard the source of her friend’s sudden distraction. “Afternoon, SSA Parrish. That was fast.”
“It’s important.” He forced an agreeable expression to his face as he inclined his chin toward the other woman. “I didn’t want to waste your friend’s time.”
“Right.”
Winter was clearly unconvinced, but he brushed away the skepticism.
Autumn Trent, formerly Nichol, stood just a touch taller than Winter’s five-seven, and he realized in short order that her DMV photo didn’t do her justice.
As her emerald eyes flicked over to Winter, he let his gaze linger. Her auburn hair contrasted with her fair skin in a way that was almost ethereal. A teal shirt beneath her black and white striped cardigan clung to the hourglass shape of her body like it had been made specifically for her, and her slim-fitting jeans gave the same impression.
When Winter cleared her throat, he snapped his attention back to her.
Based on the malevolent glint in her blue eyes, she hadn’t missed his less than polite observation of her friend. Autumn, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the exchange. He didn’t personally know the redhead, but he thought he would have rather had her notice the drawn-out look than Winter.
“You must be Miss Trent,” he said to pull himself out of the sudden haze. With a slight smile, he extended a hand.
“I am, but please call me Autumn.” She nodded as she accepted the handshake. The smile that crept to her lips was sugary sweet, but there was a cunning behind her bright eyes that made him second-guess his assertion from moments earlier.
“Since you’re such a delightful guy, I’ll ask her to be nice to you,” Noah Dalton had said the day before.
“I’m Aiden Parrish, Supervisory Special Agent of the Behavioral Analysis Unit here at the Richmond office of the FBI.”
“That’s a hell of a title,” Autumn chuckled. “I hope it’s got an abbreviation.”
“SSA,” Winter offered, “and BAU.”
“Alphabet soup.” Glancing over to Winter, Autumn shrugged. “All right, well, I suppose I’ll see you back here in a few. Thanks again for the ride. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with my car, but I’m really hoping it isn’t something to do with the transmission. I definitely do not have transmission money.”
“I wish I knew enough about cars to be helpful,” Winter replied. “I’m going to go get a coffee from down the street. Do you want anything?”
“Actually.” Autumn tapped a finger against her cheek. “Yes. Salted caramel mocha. The biggest one they have. If they’ve got one of those giant gas station cups, fill that.”
Winter grinned, and once again, Aiden was surprised at how relaxed she looked around the other woman. “I wish.”
“I’ll pay you when I’m done with this.” For emphasis, she gestured to him.
“Don’t worry about it.” Winter waved a dismissive hand. “Consider it a payment for having to deal with the FBI.”
If he hadn’t known better, Aiden would have thought the two women had been friends for their entire lives.
Before she turned around to make her way to the exit, Winter flashed him a dangerous look.
Ignoring the implied threat, he led Autumn back into the heart of the building, and he paused in front of the silver elevator doors.
“I’ve got an office upstairs,” he said as he met her curious glance. “Or there are a few interview rooms down the hall. Wherever you’re more comfortable.”
“You know,” she offered him a sarcastic grin, “I think I’ll take the interrogation room. I’ve been in a few of those, but I’ve never been in a Fed’s office.”
“What is life if not the opportunity for new experiences?” With an exaggerated shrug, he waved toward the corridor.
“Thanks, Socrates, but it just seems like it’d feel too much like a job interview,” she replied, unfazed. “After you. I don’t know where the hell I’m going.”
Chuckling lightly, he nodded. “Fair enough.”
Despite the moment of amusement, he started to wonder about Dalton’s sarcastic comment the day before. Federal agent friends or not, he had expected Autumn to be intimidated by a stroll through the FBI office. Even as he held the door for her to enter a windowless interrogation room, her calm didn’t waver.
“I overheard you say something about one of your students earlier.” He pulled out a rickety metal chair to sit. “What do you teach?”
“Teach?” she echoed. “Oh, right, that. I’m not a teacher. I’m a graduate student, and I teach so the school will give me my stipend.”
“What are you studying?”
“I half-expected you to know all this stuff already,” she laughed. “Or do you know it, and you’re just screwing with me?”
“I am not,” he replied as he rested his arms atop the stainless-steel table. “And no, I don’t know anything about your academic record. Winter and Agent Dalton didn’t tell me any of that.”
The corner of her mouth turned up in the start of a knowing smirk. “Clinical forensic psychology. I defend my dissertation at the end of August, but I’ve already gotten my JD.”
“A law degree?” No wonder she wasn’t nervous. In a couple months, she would have more letters behind her name than he had in front of his.
“Oh, don’t worry. I haven’t passed the bar or anything. It’s just part of the forensic psych track at VCU.”
Try as he might, he couldn’t tell whether she was mocking him or merely being informative. “I have a master’s in social cognitive psychology. I did some work toward a Ph.D., but I never finished it.”
“I love social psychology.” For the first time, he was sure her pleasant smile did not hold an ulterior meaning. “What did you study for your dissertation?”
“Diffusion of responsibility.”
“An oldie but a goodie. Well, you seem like you’re a pretty busy guy, so I won’t bother you by asking questions about your postgrad. Winter wasn’t too specific, but she said you’re here to ask me about my doctor from seventeen years ago. Dr. Schmidt.”
“Right.” He nodded and reached into a pocket to retrieve his phone. After a couple taps, he slid the picture of Robert Ladwig over to her side of the table. “Do you recognize him?”
She paused to study the photo before she shook her head. �
�No, I’ve never seen him before.”
“What about Dr. Schmidt? What can you tell me about her?”
Shrugging, she crossed her arms over her chest. “She was a good doctor. One of the best neurosurgeons in the country, if I remember right. People would fly their kids in from all over the place to see her, but I guess I was lucky enough to live in Minnesota.”
“Did you stay in touch with her afterwards?”
He hadn’t even finished the question before she shook her head. “No.”
There was more to her succinct response, and he could tell he was getting close to a nerve.
“Honestly?” she started before he could speak. “She gave me the creeps. She was a good doctor, but she was fucking weird.”
“Fucking weird how?” he pressed.
“The kind of weird that makes an eleven-year-old kid nervous. There are a lot of types of weird that can fit that bill. Maybe she collected something weird like Beanie Babies or those creepy porcelain dolls. But it seemed just as likely that she had a collection of moose heads on the walls of her rec room. It’s hard to say. She was just off.”
“Did she ever mention any of her other patients, or say anything that might have indicated she was doing work that was unethical?”
At first, she looked like she was about to shake her head, but she stopped short. “No, she didn’t,” she finally answered. “But she did ask me some weird questions. At the time I figured they were just specific to brain surgeries, the type of questions that only made sense to neurosurgeons.”
The chill of adrenaline crept along the back of his neck as he leaned forward. “Like what?”
Lips pursed, she shifted her green eyes over to meet his intent stare. At the lessened distance, he could see the faint flecks of gold that ringed her pupils.
“The questions aren’t what weirded me out,” she prefaced. “But she’d ask me about how well my senses were, whether or not they’d been dulled by the head injury. Which doesn’t make any sense to me now because the injury was to the frontal lobe, not the temporal or occipital lobes, but who knows. For all I know, it might’ve just been a standard question they had to ask everyone with a TBI.”