Deanna frowned. “What?”
“I got this,” Blatch said, and blew out a sigh. “Jessica Snyder was a pizza delivery girl. Cane was a mailman. Both could’ve come right to her door.”
“Exactly,” Smalls said, nodding at his partner. “Home delivery. Get your victims in thirty minutes or less.”
“But how could she have subdued them?” Deanna argued. “Jessica was just a girl, but Reginald Cane was a grown man.”
“Ugghhh.” Blatch groaned, put his hand on the kitchen counter, leaned sideways, and collapsed onto the floor.
“Marcus!” Deanna yelled. She ran to his side. “What’s wrong?”
“I ... I don’t know,” he mumbled.
“Shit!” Smalls knelt beside Blatch and pried open one of his eyes. “I think I know what’s going on here.”
“What?” Deanna asked.
Smalls pursed his lips and blew out a breath. “If I’m right about this, we just discovered your mother’s M.O.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“IS HE GOING TO DIE?” Deanna asked, kneeling beside Smalls. She looked down at Blatch’s pale, disoriented face.
“I dunno. Here. Help me lean him up against something.”
Deanna held Blatch’s head up while Smalls turned his torso until his partner’s back was propped up against a kitchen cabinet.
Deanna started to stand. “I’m calling 9-11.”
Smalls pulled her back down. “I’ll do it. You keep his chin up.” He grabbed his cellphone from his pocket and started to dial.
Blatch opened his eyes and mumbled. “What happened?”
Smalls stopped, mid-dial. “Hey. You okay, buddy?”
“I don’t know,” Blatch said.
“Think you can pee in a cup for me?”
Both Blatch and Deanna stared at Smalls. “What?”
Smalls stood and reached into the cardboard box on the counter. He pulled out a blue and white carton. “Let’s do a drug panel before we call for an EMT.”
“Why?” Deanna asked. “He could be dying!”
Smalls studied Blatch’s face. “I don’t think so. If it was that deadly, he’d be gone by now. And let me remind you, once we get outsiders involved, there’s no putting this genie back in the bottle.”
“I don’t care!” Deanna said. “We need to do something!”
“I’m working on that.” Smalls opened the carton and pulled out a small plastic cup. “Indulge me for two minutes. If I’m wrong, we’ll call in the troops.”
Deanna chewed her lip as Smalls showed Blatch the drug screening cup. “What do you say, partner? Can you spare a drop?”
“Uh ... yeah. I think so.”
Smalls pursed his lips. “Okay, Deanna. You heard the man. Help him unzip.”
AS THEY WAITED FOR the colors to change on the test strips, Deanna and Blatch avoided eye contact. Smalls studied their faces, wondering which of the two had been more mortified during the collection of the urine sample. The detective’s internal barometer was spinning. Something fishy was going on with those two, and drugs had nothing to do with it.
Deanna finally broke the awkward silence. She poked her chin at Smalls. “You said this might prove my mother’s M.O.?”
Smalls nodded, and knelt down to take another look at Blatch’s eyes. His partner was still sitting on the kitchen floor, but Smalls noted he was already more alert—alert enough to be blushing. Smalls took that as a good sign. He let go of Blatch’s eyelid and turned to Deanna. “Ever seen the movie, Arsenic and Old Lace?”
Deanna shook her head.
“Well, it’s about ... never mind. The gist is, I think your mother poisoned her victims. It’s the preferred murder weapon of women all over the world—especially older women.”
Deanna’s eyes flew open. “With arsenic?”
Smalls put his hand up. “Whoa. Not arsenic. He’d be pushing up daisies by now, and there’d have been nothing we could do about it.”
Deanna’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But where would my mother have gotten poison? She rarely left the house for the past fifteen years. And as far as I know, not at all in the last two.”
Smalls smiled sourly. “As I recall, they’ve been making poison since as long as men and women have been making whoopee. She could’ve been storing that stuff away somewhere for decades, just waiting for the right opportunity to come along.”
Deanna chewed the information in silence. Smalls glanced around the cluttered kitchen and sighed. “If your mother was drugging her victims, chances are, there’s still some of the stuff lying around here. It’s not like she was great at cleaning up after herself.”
Blatch shifted his shoulders, opened his eyes, and shot Smalls a dirty look.
Smalls looked down at the test strip and said, “Bingo.”
SMALLS AND DEANNA HELPED Blatch to standing. “Just a routine question, buddy, but I gotta ask. You pop any pills with your Pop-Tarts this morning?”
“No.” Blatch grumbled and jerked his elbow away from Smalls. He lost his balance and grabbed his partner’s arm again.
“Okay then, it’s official,” Smalls said. “You just got roofied.”
“Roofied?” Deanna asked. “As in Rohypnol? The date-rape drug?”
“Pretty sure,” Smalls said. “Test was positive for benzodiazepines. Most common one is Rohypnol. Knocks you out with no recollection. Amnesia in tablet form.”
Deanna’s brow furrowed. “But how did Marcus ...? I don’t understand.”
Smalls shrugged. “My guess? Residual traces in a dirty coffee cup. Like I said, your mother wasn’t winning no prizes for housekeeping.”
Deanna frowned, remembering the pill bottle Mrs. Havenall had mentioned finding by her mother’s dead body. “He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”
“I’m fine,” Blatch said, then nearly fell down.
Deanna ran to his side and helped Smalls prop him up. “How long does the drug stay in someone’s system?”
Smalls shrugged. “Usually only four or five hours. But it can be detected in urine up to seventy-two. Why?”
Deanna passed Blatch back to Smalls. “I want to be tested, too. You have another one of those kits in your box?”
“Yeah.” Holding on to Blatch, Smalls could only protest as Deanna rifled through his makeshift test lab in a box. “Listen here. Those test panels cost nearly forty bucks a pop!”
Deanna grabbed a test kit and waved it at him. “Then take it out of my pay,” she said, and headed toward the bathroom.
Smalls grinned, then called out, “You need any help with that?”
Deanna set her jaw to bite me. “No thanks. I’ll manage.”
“POSITIVE FOR BENZODIAZEPINES,” Smalls said after studying Deanna’s test results.
“Both of us?” Deanna said. “Any chance the test could be faulty?”
Smalls shook his head. “Not likely. But you must’ve gotten your dose before this morning.”
“How can you tell?”
Smalls waved the test strip. “These home test kits are as good as lab work. You see, they use thin-layer chromatography technology. Accurate to over ninety-nine percent for fourteen categories of drugs.”
“You seem to know a lot about them,” Deanna said, eyeing Smalls.
Smalls nodded and blew out a breath. “Yeah. Came about it the hard way. Lost my son to meth a few years back.”
Deanna’s hard look crumpled. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but sorry doesn’t help. I guess you know about that first hand yourself, now.”
Deanna gave him a sympathetic smile. “Yes. Yes, I do. Can someone O.D. on Rohypnol?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I think that’s how my mother took her own life.”
Chapter Forty-Three
LARRY FILBERT TOOK a small net and scooped the dead fish out of the aquarium. He’d forgotten all about Deanna’s aquatic pets until an hour ago, when he’d stopped for fish and chips at a food vendor. This was his first visit to her ap
artment since she’d left them in his care on Sunday.
As he flushed the toilet and watched the small, black molly swirl down the drain, his cellphone rang. It was Deanna. Larry felt like a schoolboy who’d been caught red-handed.
“Hi, Deanna.”
“Larry. Hi. How’s it going?”
“I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about. How was the funeral?”
“What? Oh. Fine. I ... there’s been a ... listen, Larry. Could you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you go to my apartment and get a letter on my dining table? It’s on peach-colored stationery. You can’t miss it. I need you to mail it to me here in St. Pete.”
“When do you need it?”
“As soon as possible. Any chance you could do it today? I know it’s a lot to ask. Tomorrow being Thanksgiving and all.”
“I can do it. No problem. In fact, I’m here feeding your fish right now.”
“Oh! Perfect!”
“Not so perfect. One of your fish died.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s my fault. I’ll get you a new one.”
“Please. Just mail the letter to me today and all is forgiven.”
Larry laughed. “Okay. What do you need the letter for?”
“I ... uh ... could we talk about it later?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. The address is on the envelope. Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. Oh, wait. Did you ever find out what the prescription was?”
“Prescription?”
“Yes. The one your neighbor said she found by your mother’s bed.”
“Oh. I forgot I told you about that. Listen. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Okay. May I ask why?”
“Uh ... sure. My neighbor said she threw the bottle away before the ambulance arrived. Mom was ... well, she was obviously dead. Mrs. Havenall thought there was no need to start a suicide scandal, given how little people thought of my mother already. She was right to do it. So let’s just forget it ever happened, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Larry. By the way, which fish died?”
“The black one.”
“Oh.”
“Did she have a name?”
“Yeah. Spidey Hawkins.”
LARRY PUT HIS CELLPHONE back in his pocket and padded over to the small dining table adjacent to Deanna’s kitchen. The peach-colored envelope was just where she’d said it would be. He picked it up and read the return address.
The letter was from Deanna’s infamous mother, Melody Young.
As a seasoned psychiatrist, Larry was a deft purveyor of the human condition. Experience had taught him that people with traumatic childhoods like Deanna’s generally fell into two camps. One used their past experiences as catalysts for self-reflection and growth. The other used their past as an excuse for their own horrid behavior, leaving a wake of blame and bitterness wherever they went.
Deanna was definitely in the first camp. She’d overcome so much in the eight years he’d known her. Larry hoped her mother’s death would free Deanna to explore and achieve even deeper levels of self-love and confidence.
He pictured Deanna’s face and smiled. When he’d originally hired her, Larry believed his gesture had been magnanimous—that he’d given an anxious, needy young woman a chance. But to say that was the whole truth would’ve been a lie. Yes, he’d given Deanna’s career a start. But Deanna had given him so much more in return. She’d restored his smile, his sense of purpose, his chance to love again ....
Larry opened the flap on the envelope. He knew it was an inexcusable breach of Deanna’s privacy. But after all he’d come to know about her—after listening to her recount her internal turmoils, her sick, childhood recollections—he couldn’t resist the temptation.
Larry opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. It reeked of cigarettes and stale perfume.
Larry’s nose crinkled. Not just from the smell of the letter, but from the tone of the words held within it.
Deanna,
I don’t want you home for the holidays.
It’s better you stay at bay.
I have important things to do and you’ll be in the way.
Be good now, girl, and do as I say.
Did you notice how I rhymed the lines? I’m clever when I play.
Melody
Larry folded the letter and shoved it back in the envelope. As he put it in his coat pocket, he shook his head and thought, What a horrible, manipulative bitch.
He closed the apartment door behind him and stepped into the hall, wondering if perhaps he should take a trip to St. Pete. On the phone, Deanna had sounded distracted. Possibly even distraught. What in the world was going on with her now?
Chapter Forty-Four
SMALLS FINISHED BAGGING two empty vodka bottles and dropped them into his evidence box. “I guess that wraps things up for now. There’s no use in us wading through this mountain of garbage until we find out if the handwriting’s a match. In the meantime, try not to mess with anything else, would you Deanna?”
Deanna nodded. She’d asked for no kid gloves, and that’s what she’d been getting, especially from Smalls. “Dr. Filbert said he’d overnight the letter from my mother. We should have it tomorrow by eleven o’clock.”
“The letter?” Smalls asked. “You’ve only got one?”
Deanna pursed her lips. “I didn’t save them. They weren’t exactly love letters.”
Smalls nodded. “Gotcha. But you didn’t tell Filbert why, did you?”
“That my mother might be a murderer? No. I decided I’d keep that gem out of the conversation.”
Smalls smiled ever so slightly. “Good.” He picked up his cardboard test-lab box. “Hey Deanna, I meant to ask. When did you get that letter back? The one meant for Reggie Cane?”
Deanna bit her lip. “Uh ... on Monday. But I didn’t make the connection until yesterday.”
Smalls sneered. “Yesterday. Would’ve been nice to have known about it when we took the call from his family.”
Deanna winced. “I ... I should have told you right away.”
Air blew through Smalls’ nostrils like a charging bull. “You’re damned right you should have.” He marched passed Deanna and out of the kitchen.
Deanna shot Blatch a worried look. “I’m sorry. The other letter. I was just hoping ....” She hung her head. “God! I don’t know what I was hoping. And now Smalls doesn’t trust me.”
Blatch pursed his lips and shrugged. Deanna grimaced. “Oh no. Now you don’t either!”
Blatch stood up, no longer woozy from the trace dosage of Rohypnol. “It’s not that, Deanna. It’s just that, well, Smalls and I’ve been around the block—him a few more times than me. With guys like us, trust is something you earn an inch at a time.”
Deanna cringed. “I must be in negative territory then.”
“Look. We all make bad judgment calls sometimes. You were trying to protect your mother. You screwed up. I’ll iron it out with him. Just promise me you won’t make a habit of it. Especially withholding evidence. Okay?”
“I promise.”
Smalls’ voice boomed from the hall. “Snyder’s supposed to be at our office in half an hour. Let’s get a move on!”
Deanna followed Blatch into the living room. Smalls shot her a get out of my sight look and said, “Maybe it’d be better if you weren’t there when Snyder arrives. Nothing personal.”
Blatch nodded at Deanna. “He’s right. It’ll give us time to let Snyder settle in. We’ll show him what we’ve collected so far. Tell him how helpful you were—”
“Ahem.” Smalls cleared his throat in a wordless rebuke.
Deanna bit back her anger—not at Smalls, but at herself. “I understand. It’s just as well. The evidence is all there. Tell him I’m so sorry about what my mother ... you know ... what she’s done.”
“Hold it right there,” Smalls said. “Listen, Deanna. We’re st
ill a ways off from throwing the book at your mother.”
Deanna’s eyes widened with surprise. “But there’re two letters now. What are the odds someone would fake two letters?”
“About the same that they’d fake one,” Smalls said. “Both look like they’re written by the same person, sure. But this could still turn out to be some jackass’s idea of a prank.”
Deanna shook her head. “But who would do such a thing?”
Blatch touched Deanna’s arm. “You’d be surprised how many freaks there are out there. It could still turn out to be one of your mother’s weird Tarancula fans.”
Smalls cleared his throat again. “Yeah. It could be your mother or the freaking man on the moon.” He shot Deanna a somewhat softer glare. “Listen, Deanna, we won’t know anything until we get that letter from what’s his name. That uncle of yours in New York—the Mr. Peanut guy.”
“Dr. Filbert.”
“Right.”
Blatch turned to Deanna and gently gripped her arms. “So no sob stories until we confirm the writing is hers, and that the letters have her prints on them.”
“If you haven’t smudged them all away,” Smalls said sarcastically.
Deanna frowned. “So what should I do for the rest of the day, then?”
“Sit tight,” Blatch said. “We’ll get Snyder up to speed on what we found.”
“And for crying out loud, keep your mitts off everything, okay?” Smalls barked. His face softened. “And don’t eat or drink anything you didn’t personally bring into this house. Next time it might not be Rohypnol.”
As Deanna stared, wide-eyed, Smalls shoved his cardboard box into Blatch’s hands and said, “Looks like I’m driving, sleeping beauty. Come on. Let’s go.”
Chapter Forty-Five
DEANNA WATCHED FROM the window as Blatch and Smalls drove away with the evidence they’d just gathered to incriminate her mother for murder.
Now it was a matter of waiting for the results.
What She Forgot Page 15