The Secrets We Keep

by Jennifer L. Jennings

  “He either decided to give up,” I said. “Or he wasn’t following us to begin with.”

  “I trust your instincts,” Carter said. “Let’s go back to our room and make sure no one has been inside, rifling through our stuff.”

  We returned to our motel room, and the door was securely locked, just the way we’d left it. Inside, nothing seemed out of place.

  I sat on the bed and examined the photo I’d taken of the man at the cafe. He had blonde hair, a strong jaw and appeared to be fit overall. Early forties. That nagging feeling you get when you know you’ve seen a face before and can’t place it, hurt my brain.

  Then, finally, it clicked.

  “Hey Carter, remember those printouts you made of newspaper articles in Andrew’s court case? Did we bring those with us?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “The photos of Andrew and his lawyer, right after they announced the guilty verdict. I need to see those, please.”

  Within a minute, he placed them in my lap. “What are you looking for?”

  “That person sitting behind Andrew in the courtroom. It’s him, isn’t it?”

  With pointed finger, I singled out the blonde man, sitting directly behind Andrew. It was the same guy, only he wasn’t wearing the blue windbreaker. After comparing it to the photos I’d taken with my camera, I was positive.

  “Yeah, that’s him alright.” Carter gave me a congratulatory pat on the back. “Nice work. Now we just need to figure out who he is and why he’s following us.”

  “Maybe Andrew’s lawyer would know. I think it’s time we have another chat with him.”

  “He’s probably in court all morning.”

  “Maybe,” Carter said. “Let’s just show up at his office anyway.”

  Chapter 10

  As we’d expected, Patterson was not due back in his office until after 1:00 pm. Since it was only 11:00 am, we didn’t feel like waiting around.

  Patterson’s secretary assured us that she’d have her boss call as soon as he got back, in other words, please don’t bother me again.

  I could tell the secretary was busy, but I figured it was worth asking the question. I showed her the photo of the blonde man in the photo, sitting in the courtroom. “Do you know who this person is, by any chance?”

  She scrutinized the photo for a minute and nodded. “Yeah, you don’t?”

  The fact that she’d expected me to know was interesting. “No, I’m sorry. What’s his name?”

  She smiled. “Oh, that’s right. You’re not from around here. His name is Logan Taylor. He used to be a freelance investigative reporter until he got arrested, eventually sued, and lost everything. Look him up on the web and you’ll find the entire story about the scandal.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

  We left Patterson’s office, went back to the motel room, and spent the next hour reading all about Logan Taylor.

  We were stunned.

  Logan had been arrested in August of 2015 when he interrupted a meeting between two large Pharmaceutical companies, planning to merge. The deal would further monopolize the already tightly controlled industry and, therefore, raise prices of drugs to cancer patients. His actions resulted in a whirlwind of hurt, and eventually he lost everything.

  “Looks like Logan got in over his head,” Carter said. “Apparently he messed with the wrong people. From the article I just read, people in the industry have commented how Logan has dropped off the face of the earth. He hasn’t written an article in months. Probably taking time off to lick his wounds.”

  “The big question is, why was he in the courtroom when Andrew’s verdict came in? What interest does he have in Rachel’s murder case?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll work on getting a current address and phone number.”

  While Carter went to work on his laptop, I tried once again to get in touch with Brianna Lepage. This time, a woman answered my call.

  “Brianna Lepage?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s me.”

  “Hi. My name is Sarah Woods, and I’m a private investigator looking into the murder of Rachel Manning, your former boss. Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Um, I guess so, but I already spoke to the police months ago.”

  “I realize that, but I have a few more questions if you don’t mind. Are you familiar with a man named Logan Taylor?”

  “Is he that investigative reporter that got in trouble?”

  “Yes, that’s him. I’m wondering if Logan and Rachel knew each other.”

  After a long pause, Brianna cleared her throat nervously. “Why do you ask?”

  “I think he might have something to do with her death.”

  Another long pause. “Well,” she finally said. “He came to Rachel’s office only one time that I know of.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a month before she died. I remember it was right after that other doctor died in the car accident.”

  “Dr. Lenzer?”

  “Yeah, him. Anyway, Logan Taylor and Rachel had a private conversation in her office. After he left, she wouldn’t tell me what it was about but I’d never seen her so upset. In fact, for weeks after, she seemed really distracted.”

  “Distracted? How do you mean?”

  “She just seemed paranoid, I guess. Looking over her shoulder all the time. Making sure doors were locked. Making arrangements for things that didn’t make sense.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for instance, she called a self-storage company downtown and paid for a six- month lease in advance.”

  “Did you ask her why she did that?”

  “She said it had to do with her brother, but she wouldn’t explain.”

  “And all of this weird behavior started happening right after Logan Taylor visited her?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Did you ever tell the police about it when they questioned you?”

  “No. I didn’t think it had anything to do with her murder. I mean, they already had her boyfriend in custody. They basically only wanted to know about Rachel’s relationship with him.”

  I could sense by Brianna’s tone that she was beginning to feel guilty. That maybe she had neglected to tell the police this important tidbit.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “The police are the ones who didn’t ask you the right questions. So let me ask you this; what happened to all of Rachel’s files on the research she was working on?”

  “A guy named Roger Shefke came to pick them up. He’s the one planning to publish the book. He took everything. Rachel’s laptop, patient files, the research papers, and even her cell phone. Since Rachel had no family and her boyfriend was in jail, there was no one else who came to collect her things. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”

  I was beginning to get a sour taste in my mouth for Roger Shefke. “Okay, just one more question; after Rachel was murdered, did you ever see Logan Taylor again?”

  “No. I never saw him after his meeting with Rachel.”

  “Thank you, Brianna. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Wait,” she said. “If Rachel’s boyfriend is in jail, why are you still looking into her death? You think her boyfriend didn’t kill her?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure he didn’t do it.”

  After my discussion with Brianna, I filled Carter in on the details.

  “Well,” he said. “I didn’t have much luck finding a current address for Logan. His last known address has different tenants living there since December. Maybe he’s been staying at a friend’s house.”

  “What I don’t understand is why Logan Taylor met with Rachel a month before she died. Why was she so upset after their talk?”

  “Maybe he was writing a new article and wanted information. It’s obvious he’s got a beef with Big Pharma, so it might have had something to do with her research. Or, maybe he wanted to send her a warning.”

  “About what?” I said. �
�That her life was in danger because the powers that be didn’t want her research getting out and they’d just as soon kill her if she published the book?”

  “Which is exactly what Barry Boyle’s wife was trying to tell us yesterday.”

  “The conspiracy theory,” I said. “Just great.”

  Carter came to sit next to me on the bed. “I think it’s time we start to consider the fact it might be true.”

  “Then we are royally screwed. How the heck are we supposed to go up against an entity like Big Pharma?”

  “One step at a time, Sarah.”

  I could appreciate Carter’s optimism, but I didn’t share it. “By the way, according to Brianna, Shefke took possession of Rachel’s life work. All her research, her laptop, phone, and patient files. He has every intention of publishing that book, doesn’t he?”

  “Or...” Carter rubbed his chin, perplexed. “Maybe he wants to make sure it never gets published.”

  * * *

  For our next course of action, we decided to contact Mrs. Susan Lenzer, the wife of the doctor who died in the car accident three months ago. She agreed to meet us on her lunch break at a place called Molly’s, a sandwich shop on the east side of town.

  Susan Lenzer was in her early fifties and worked at a realty firm as a broker. We explained who we were, that we needed to ask questions about her late husband’s accident.

  “Roland had never been in a car accident before,” she said, looking down at her hands, woefully. “He was usually a very attentive driver.”

  “We read the article in the newspaper about the accident,” I said. “There weren’t many details about the circumstances. Only that your husband went off the road on Highway 84, after 9 pm. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “Why?” she asked, looking up, tears in her eyes.

  I had to remind myself that it had only been three months since his death, and she was still mourning. “We don’t have proof yet, but there’s a remote possibility that your husband’s death is related to Rachel’s - and even Dr. Spealman.”

  Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “But, Dr. Spealman had a heart attack.”

  “Yes,” Carter said. “At least, that’s what it appeared to be.”

  Susan Linzer wiped her eyes and regarded us warily. “You think my husband was murdered?”

  “We’re exploring that possibility,” I said.

  She nodded as if the news hadn’t surprised her all that much. “What do you want from me?”

  “In the days or weeks preceding your husband’s accident, did he ever mention feeling like he was being followed? Had he been acting more paranoid than usual?”

  She shook her head. “No, he seemed normal to me.”

  “Where had he been coming from the night he died? His office?”

  “Yes. Lots of late nights at the office. He’d been working on a special project and it took up all his free time.”

  I searched the restaurant to make sure nobody else was focused on our conversation. “The research for the book, right?”

  “Yes,” she said. “So, you know about that?”

  “We know that Rachel, your husband and Dr. Spealman hired Roger Shefke to produce the book once they had finalized their research. Right now, Shefke seems to hold all the cards. We’re unsure what his intentions are. Right now, though, what other details can you tell us about your husband’s accident? Details that weren’t in the paper.”

  “Well,” she took a sip of her soda and cleared her throat. “I don’t know. Let me think for a second. When I spoke to the coroner a few days after the accident, he asked if my husband abused drugs or alcohol. I said no. Roland was highly against the use of any kind of substances. He asked if he could perform a toxicology test because he had mild suspicions that my husband was under the influence of a narcotic. I didn’t believe it, but I was curious enough to have him do the test. A few weeks later, the results came in. My husband had traces of diphenhydramine in his system. The active ingredient in sleeping pills. It didn’t make sense. Roland would never take them and, even if he had, why would he take sleeping pills before driving home? At any rate, the coroner surmised that the sleeping pills probably impaired his judgement and contributed to the accident.”

  “Did you ever suspect foul play?”

  “No. He’d had insomnia for weeks because he was a little stressed out, so I just figured that he had a moment of weakness and took something for it. He probably figured they wouldn’t kick in until after he got home.”

  “Or, someone could have drugged him,” I said. “Who was the last person your husband saw that night, before leaving his office? Any ideas?”

  “His last patient that day left at five. He called me around 5:15 and said he’d be at the office late again and wasn’t sure what time he’d get home. That was the last time I spoke to him. A policeman knocked on my door around 10:30 and informed me my husband was dead.”

  While Susan dabbed at her eyes, I turned to look at Carter. “Looks like our theory has some merit.”

  He nodded. “Yep, I think so, too.”

  As it turned out, nobody was in the mood to eat lunch. So, the three of us finished our sodas, and Carter paid the bill.

  As we left the restaurant, I gave Susan Lenzer my card. If she ever wanted to talk, she was welcome to call me anytime, day or night. “If we find out anything more about your husband’s accident, we’ll let you know, okay?”

  She shook our hands and headed back to work.

  When Carter and I found ourselves in our motel room twenty minutes later, I wolfed down a slice of cold pizza from the night before. “We need to find out who went to see Dr. Linzer at his office before he drove home that night.”

  “Maybe it was Roger Shefke.”

  “Or Logan Taylor,” I said, “But whoever it was spiked his drink.”

  Carter didn’t seem convinced. “Spiking his drink with sleeping pills wouldn’t guarantee that he’d be killed in a car accident. Unless the person followed him home and made sure that Dr. Linzer drove himself into a ditch with a little help.”

  “There must be a way to check traffic cameras and toll booth cameras to confirm someone was following him.”

  “Sure, but that’s gonna take some time. I’ll make some calls.”

  Chapter 11

  Three hours later, Carter tossed his phone on the bed in agitation.

  “It might take 8-10 days or even several weeks,” Carter said, “to get our hands on any traffic cam footage from the night of Dr. Linzer’s accident.”

  “We can’t wait that long,” I said. “What should we do now?”

  “I’m gonna give it another shot with Michael tonight at the soup kitchen. I’m not sure why, but I think he knows something about his sister’s murder.”

  I may not have agreed with him, but it was worth another shot. I checked my watch. “Dinner will be served in half an hour. Let’s hope he shows up.”

  On the way to the soup kitchen, Carter stopped at a convenient store and purchased a pack of cigarettes and matches.

  “What’s that for? Don’t tell me you’re taking up smoking.”

  “Michael is a smoker. This is a way to lure him in.”

  “How do you know that Michael is a smoker? We never saw him smoking earlier today.”

  “When he was in the park, wandering around, he had approached a few people, probably asking for a smoke, before they shooed him away. I suspect he’s in need of a nicotine fix.”

  “Good observation,” I said.

  Sure enough, when we arrived at the soup kitchen, Michael was sitting at the same table, in the same spot, all by himself. He kept his focus on his tray of food, mumbling to himself.

  “Let’s stay outside in the park and wait for him to leave,” Carter said, unwrapping the pack of cigarettes and tapping one out. He lit the match and took a few puffs as he leaned against the light post.”

  “You must have smoked before,” I said. “You look so natural with a cigarette.”
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  “Yeah, back in my twenties. I quit when my dad’s friend croaked from lung cancer.”

  Carter nodded and I turned to see Michael leaving the building.

  “Leave the talking to me,” he said.

  I didn't have a problem with letting him take the lead on this. I just prayed that his plan wouldn't backfire.

  Michael inspected a few trash receptacles on the sidewalk before crossing the intersection toward the park. Carter acted nonchalant as he stood there, puffing away on his cancer stick.

  I could see Michael eyeing Carter with a sort of longing. Maybe this plan would work after all.

  It only took three minutes for Michael to work up the nerve to approach Carter and, when he did, Carter casually offered him a smoke. Michael nodded. He even allowed Carter to light him a match.

  “I’m Carter, and this is Sarah. What’s your name, buddy?”

  Michael didn’t respond at first, but then he licked his dry, cracked lips and said, “I saw you before.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, me and Sarah just got to town a few days ago. We’ve been walking all over the place, getting lost. Do you live in town?”

  Michael nodded, and pointed across the street. I assumed he was referring to the dumpster in the alleyway. By the smell of him, anyway, it was a good guess.

  “Who sent you guys?” Michael asked, dead serious. “Was it the SVR, CIA or the NSA?”

  “Don't worry,” Carter said, calmly. “Nobody sent me. They don't even know I'm here.”

  Michael blinked again, but something in his wary eyes changed. “How did you get away?” he said.

  Carter tapped his temple with an index finger. “Mind games. Works every time.”

  I had no idea what Carter was talking about, but Michael seemed to get it. This must be something from a spy novel that Carter had read.

  Michael searched the park with narrowed eyes. “They have people everywhere. Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  “No, but the bastards can't be trusted,” Carter said, keeping his voice low. “We might not be safe out in the open like this.”

  “Do you know where the nearest safe house is?”