The Secrets We Keep

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  He slowly lowered his phone. “Yes, that’s me. How’d you know?”

  “We’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Carter said. “Do you have a minute?”

  He took a step back and narrowed his eyes. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  Carter explained that we were private investigators, working with Andrew’s defense team.

  “He’s a murderer,” Neal said with disgust. “Why would you want to help him?”

  “Why don’t we go inside and sit down to talk.” Carter pointed to the door that led into the house.

  Neal shook his head. “I’m gonna be late for work. Besides, I have nothing more to say.”

  “Did you ever witness Andrew being abusive to Rachel?” I asked. “Did you see it with your own eyes?”

  He blinked at me as if confused. “Sure, I did. Several times. It was horrible. Andrew is not a nice man.”

  Neal kept fidgeting and seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. His voice was whiny, the high-pitched tone grating to my ears. In fact, he reminded me of a well-dressed weasel with coiffed hair. “If Andrew was abusive,” I said. “Then why didn’t Rachel just move out? She could afford to have her own place. I mean, she was a doctor wasn’t she?”

  He rolled his eyes theatrically. “Well, I don’t know why she stayed. Maybe he threatened her.”

  “Andrew doesn’t have a single black mark on his record,” I said. “He’s never been arrested. His friends say he’s a great guy. Tell me, why do you hate him so much?”

  Neal sniffed scornfully as he turned on his heel to leave. “I don’t have time for this.”

  We heard his loafers clicking down the walkway at a fast pace. Moments later, we heard a car door slam.

  “He’s an awkward little man, isn’t he?” Carter said, motioning for me to follow him outside, just in time to see Neal drive away in a brown Ford Taurus.

  “I don’t trust him,” I said, looking towards the house to the right. “I wonder if he happens to live alone.”

  “I can sure find out.” Carter retrieved his cell phone and punched in some numbers. Probably the address of Neal’s house. Within five minutes he had an answer. “Yup. Neal Gammond lives alone. I’ll do a background check on him and see what turns up.”

  “I can’t wait to find out what this guy does for work.”

  Back inside the house, I went into the basement and found some boxes. Old photo albums and trinkets of his childhood. I couldn’t resist wondering what Andrew looked like in various stages of growing up. According to the vast amount of pictures, his adoptive parents adored and cherished him, which warmed my heart. There were several prom pictures that made me laugh. He was as awkward and pimply in those early teenaged years - and the long shaggy hair that was popular in the early eighties, yikes. Not a good look. Still, those blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

  When Carter joined me ten minutes later, he was chuckling to himself. “Go ahead and try to guess what Neal does for a living.”

  “I don’t know. Does he sell insurance?”

  “Nope. He’s a limo driver for Bayside Limousine Services. Been working there for three and a half years.”

  “With his snarky attitude, I can’t imagine he makes good tips.”

  Carter laughed. “Yeah, well, maybe he can turn on the charm when he needs to.”

  “What else can you tell me about Neal?”

  Carter shrugged. “He doesn’t have a record if that’s what you’re wondering. He’s never been married, either.”

  “Andrew mentioned he was gay.”

  “Well, that isn’t something that shows up in a background check, unless he was arrested for giving a hand job in public.”

  “Thanks for that visual, by the way.” I set aside Andrew’s photo album and got to my feet. “I’m not really sure what I’m looking for, but I doubt I’ll find Rachel’s killer in here.”

  “Ah,” Carter said, tapping his finger on his phone. “I think I’ve figured out why Neal was so protective of Rachel. His parents got divorced when he was pretty young. Apparently, his father abused his mother repeatedly until she ended up in the hospital. Almost died.”

  “Wow. I suppose when Neal heard Andrew and Rachel fighting, it triggered a negative memory from his childhood, when he couldn’t protect him mom from his brute of a father. Guilt has a way of manifesting itself later in life.”

  Carter gave me the look. “You sound like a therapist.”

  “Still. Neal had no right to assume Andrew was hurting Rachel.”

  We locked up Andrew’s house, placed the spare key under the rock, and then returned to the car.

  “What next?” Carter asked.

  “Let’s call Roger Shefke. According to Andrew, he was Rachel’s friend and business associate. I’d like to ask him a few questions about the book she was writing.”

  Chapter 7

  Roger Shefke agreed to meet with us right away. He even invited us to his home located on the West end of Hartford.

  We pulled up in front of his house around 12:30 and I was impressed by the property. The main house was a three-story Victorian hodgepodge with a massive five-bay garage.

  “Holy smokes,” I said. “This guy must have a fleet of cars to warrant that.”

  “I did a little background on this Shefke guy. He was a partner of Harrison Publishing back in the eighties and nineties and made a shitload of dough before the company went under a few years ago. They had lost a few of their best-selling authors to other publishing houses and, with the e-book revolution and indie authors publishing their own books, Harrison Publishing became crippled. Shefke had seen the writing on the wall, and he sold his stock in the company. Walked away with over five million bucks. Now, he owns a small company and works out of his home office just for fun, only taking on small projects that interest him. However, I couldn’t find anything online about the project he was working on with Rachel.”

  “Hopefully, he’ll be willing to tell us,” I said.

  After we rang the doorbell, an attractive woman in her mid-forties invited us inside the foyer, which smelled of fresh cut flowers. Sure enough, perched in an exquisite crystal vase, was a bouquet of roses.

  “You must be the private detectives,” she said offering her hand to me first and then Carter. “My husband is expecting you.”

  “I’m Sarah, and this is Carter. You have a lovely home, by the way.”

  “Thank you. My name is Cynthia, but please call me Cindy. Follow me and I’ll take you to see Roger.”

  Cindy reminded me of a hot librarian or teacher. She wore dark-rimmed glasses, and her smooth, blonde hair was swooped back into a French twist. The white lace blouse was buttoned all the way up her neck, and the navy wool skirt went a few inches below her knees.

  She made small talk about the weather until we arrived at a large wooden door. She knocked and, a moment later, the door opened. The first thing that came to mind when I laid eyes on Roger Shefke was, what is Woody Allen doing here? The short Jewish guy with facial hair could have been his twin brother.

  Roger must have noticed the look on my face and laughed. “Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably expecting me to start pacing the room while muttering to myself, right?”

  I liked this guy immediately because he was able to poke fun at himself. I held out my hand. “Mr. Shefke, it’s really nice to meet you. I’m Sarah Woods. This is Carter Peterson.”

  “Please, call me Roger. I insist.” After we all shook hands, Cindy offered to fetch us some coffee and excused herself.

  The office was huge, at least 300 square feet with a formal lounge area where he invited us to sit. “So, on the phone you mentioned something about exonerating Andrew. I’m glad to know he’s not giving up.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “So is it safe to assume that you think Andrew is innocent?”

  Without a second’s hesitation, he said, “Of course he’s innocent. He adored Rachel and he’d never hurt her. His attorney didn’t do him any fav
ors if you ask me. The case never should’ve gone to trial to begin with. ”

  “We agree,” Carter said. “But in order for a judge to grant him an appeal, we need evidence to prove that someone else had a motive to kill Rachel. Can we start by asking you a few questions about your personal and professional relationship with her?”

  “Of course,” he said, leaning back and crossing his legs. “What would you like to know?”

  I held up my cell phone. “I’d like to record the conversation if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” he said with a gracious wave of his hand.

  “Great. Let’s start with how you and Rachel met.”

  “We met about a year ago when she came to me with her project. I thought she was a bright woman with a big heart, and I was very much interested in her research. I guess you could say we hit it off from the start.”

  “Had you ever met Spealman and Linzer, the other two psychiatrists helping her with the research?” I asked.

  “Yes. Actually, there were four doctors involved in the project at the beginning. The other guy’s name is Boyle. Dr. Barry Boyle, if I remember correctly. Anyway, he bowed out of the program a few months after things really got rolling. Not sure why but, to answer your question, yes, I had met the other two.”

  “So, you must also know that Dr. Spealman and Dr. Linzer both died shortly before Rachel did.”

  “Yes. One right after the other, as a matter of fact. Rachel had a hard time with that. She’d had immense respect for them and, of course, had invested greatly in their cooperative research. Rachel almost gave up on the project, but I encouraged her to keep at it.”

  “So what happens now?” I asked. “Will the book still get published?”

  Shefke paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “You see, I’m sort of in a holding pattern. With Rachel and her colleagues gone, the research isn’t complete and, therefore, my hands are tied. I know how valuable this information is but unless I’m able to somehow finish what she started...” His expression changed slightly. “You think Rachel’s research had something to do with her murder?”

  “It’s possible,” I said. “What can you tell me about this fourth doctor, Barry Boyle?”

  “Not much. I met him a few times early on but, like I said, he left the group after only a few months. If I remember correctly, they had to kick him out of the group for poor performance. He wasn’t contributing as much as the others.”

  “Has he been in touch with you?” Carter asked. “Since Rachel’s death?”

  “No, but I called him about a week or so ago. I left a message and asked if he’d be willing to meet with me. I figured he might be interested in finishing the research so we could get this book published. Perhaps I should add that I’m not interested in doing this for the money. I have enough of that. I just believe in the work and want to see Rachel’s ideas being incorporated into the medical field.”

  “Where is Dr. Boyle’s practice located?” I asked.

  “He’s got an office in town. I’m sure I have his address in my contact list if you need it.”

  “We’ll find it, but thanks,” Carter said. “So, who else besides you has the files on Rachel’s research?”

  Shefke pursed his lips as if confounded. “To be honest, I don’t know. You might want to ask Rachel’s assistant.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Brianna Lepage. She’s a med student and was working as an unpaid intern for Rachel. I’m sorry I don’t have any information about her other than that. I’d only met her on one occasion.”

  “What about Rachel’s practice?” I asked. “Has anyone else stepped in to care for her patients?”

  “Not sure about that,” Shefke said. “I drove by her office in town and her sign was gone. The landlord probably had her things removed and is trying to rent out the space.”

  I made a mental note to find out exactly how many psychiatrists actually practiced in this town. “Do you think it’s possible that Rachel and her two colleagues were killed because of the research they were about to publish?”

  That got his full attention. “The other doctors weren’t murdered like Rachel was.”

  “True. One had a heart attack, and the other was in a fatal car accident, but you can’t tell me the timing of their deaths isn’t alarming.”

  He donned a serious expression, head tilted slightly. “It’s quite a theory. While I’m intrigued by it, what proof do you have that they’re connected, other than the research they were about to publish, of course.”

  “Nothing yet. Right now, I’m wondering who had the most to gain by eliminating these three doctors.”

  Shefke paused for a moment and then his eyes lit up. He nodded as if he understood completely. “Ah. You think it’s me. You think I plan to publish the book and keep the profit all for myself. I guess I can’t blame you, there. It makes perfect sense.”

  Surprised by his understanding and lack of defensiveness, I felt more at ease with him. “Then who else would have benefitted the most from their deaths?”

  He shrugged, casually. “Well, there is Dr. Barry Boyle. Maybe he resents his colleagues for kicking him out of the group. He doesn’t strike me as a cold, calculated murderer, but he could potentially make a name for himself now. The only other possibility is Brianna Lepage, the intern assistant. She doesn’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer, either. She’s quite young. I think early twenties.”

  Taking a different route, I decided to focus on Rachel’s personal life. “How would you describe Rachel and Andrew as a couple?”

  “They seemed happy. Rachel always had nice things to say about him. I even testified on the witness stand, that Rachel never spoke of any abuse from Andrew. I never saw bruises or marks on her body.”

  “Did Rachel ever talk about ex-boyfriends or lovers?”

  “No but, to be fair, we didn’t make a habit of discussing our personal lives.”

  “Did Rachel talk about her brother, Michael?”

  Shefke hesitated, eyes narrowed as if I’d struck a nerve. “Yes. She spoke of her brother’s condition, paranoid schizophrenic, living on the streets. Despite everything she’d done to try and help him, he seems like a lost cause. The behavioral therapy didn’t seem to help her brother at all. A sad irony, considering Michael was the reason she began this holistic approach to mental illness.”

  “Have you met Michael?” I asked.

  A funny look crossed his face, and I got the sense he was slightly embarrassed. “I was able to locate him at a soup kitchen a few days after Rachel’s death. When I tried to approach him, he called me a Russian spy. All I wanted to do was offer my condolences and see how he was doing. With Andrew in custody, I didn’t know if Michael had anyone looking after him.”

  “Where is the soup kitchen located?”

  “The House of Bread is on Chestnut Street downtown. They serve meals three times a day.”

  “Could you give me a description of Michael?’

  “Brown hair. Green eyes. Scruffy looking, as you’d expect. When I saw him, he was wearing an army green jacket. And he probably has a shiner from his altercation with that police officer.”

  “Thank you.” I turned to Carter to see if he had any further questions, but he seemed satisfied. I retrieved a business card from my purse and handed it to Shefke. “We appreciate your time very much. Please call if you can think of anything else that might be useful.”

  As we all got to our feet, he said, “Allow me to show you the way back to your vehicle. The layout of this house can be confusing.”

  As we followed him through the labyrinth of his home, he chatted about the artwork adorning his walls. He even gave us a brief history lesson about a sculpture he’d purchased in Sedona. I thought it was interesting that his wife Cindy was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was busy alphabetizing the books in the library.

  Back outside, Carter said to Shefke, “I gotta ask, what’s with the Garage Mahal?”

  He chuckled a
t the friendly jibe. “Collecting cars is a hobby of mine. Would you like to see them?”

  Carter seemed impressed but slowly stepped away. “Maybe some other time, but thanks.”

  As we backed out of the driveway and continued on our way, I could see Shefke standing at the edge of his property, watching us until we turned onto the next road.

  Chapter 8

  As we headed toward downtown, I asked Carter, “What do you think of Shefke?”

  “I don’t have a good read on him. He’s a little showy for my taste, but he seems like a decent guy.”

  “He gave us two more suspects to look into. I say we start with Dr. Barry Boyle.” I did a quick search on my phone and found his office address. “Let’s pop in and see if he has some time to talk.”

  Ten minutes later, after snagging a coveted parking spot in front of the office, we waltzed into the reception area of Barry Boyle, MD.

  The woman seated at the desk was in her fifties, heavy-set, with an unruly mop of black hair, but she smiled amicably when we approached. “Good afternoon, can I help you?”

  Carter spoke up first. “We’d like to speak to Dr. Boyle as soon as possible.”

  The woman blinked a few times, a concerned look on her face. “Is this an emergency?”

  “Not exactly, but time is of the essence.”

  She studied us with pursed lips. “You’re not patients of his. May I ask what this is about?”

  “It has to do with the murder of his colleague, Rachel Manning,” Carter’s officious tone sounded more menacing than it needed to be.

  “I was under the impression that her killer has already been incarcerated,” she said.

  “He has,” Carter replied and left it at that.

  The woman consulted her computer screen, probably checking the schedule. “He had a cancellation today so I could squeeze you in. His next appointment should be ending in ten or fifteen minutes. May I ask your names?”

  I produced my private eye license for her to inspect. “Did you know Rachel Manning personally?” I asked.