Her eye fell on the small collection of personal letters she had intended to return to John. It turned out Phyllis had kept a few of the letters from Lisa. Ginny looked them over, then decided John didn’t need to see them.
She flipped through the remaining letters noticing that one had a single word in the area where the return address usually went. The word was “Perez.”
John Kyle, in his role as executor of Phyllis’ estate, had given her the envelope. That made Ginny a person who was legitimately dealing with a deceased person's affairs. But the sender wasn’t dead. She had a right to privacy in her correspondence.
Ginny struggled with her conscience, then pulled the enclosed letter out and read it swiftly. It was a complete confession: names, dates, details, all having to do with the Mexican Nurse Pipeline and its part in the cartel’s drug trafficking in north Texas. It also explained Maria’s plan to leave Luis with Phyllis for as long as it took to figure a way out.
Ginny reached for the phone. “Detective Tran? I have something for you.” She explained about the letter and the schedule.
“I will be most interested to see them, but I do not understand the significance of the schedule.”
“It means Marjorie Hawkins knew Phyllis wouldn’t be available in January when she created this schedule.”
“And?”
“And the date on the schedule is December first.”
“Eight days before Mrs. Kyle was killed.”
“Yes.”
“That is suggestive, certainly. I have something for you as well. Something I think you will appreciate. When they did the autopsy on Eloise Quinn they combed her hair, looking for trace evidence, and found a thumb drive, disguised as a hair clip. It appears she kept meticulous files on all of the Pipeline nurses she was supervising. There is extensive demographic information on each of them, as well as distribution, collection, and payment records. Agent DeSoto was quite pleased to see the data.”
Ginny smiled. She could imagine his expression. “It seems risky to keep evidence on a thumb drive.”
“Less so than in a computer or paper file.”
“May I look at it, when the lab is finished with it?”
“I expect that can be arranged.”
“Thank you.” Ginny hung up the phone, her mind on those meticulously kept records. She had seen the same coming out of the ICU Head Nurse’s office at Hillcrest. Agendas and conference minutes, work assignments and instructions for continuing education classes, reorganization initiatives and staff pot-luck contributions. The woman was obsessive about her lists.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed. Any woman who kept such perfect records in both of her jobs would have done the same elsewhere. You don’t cast off a life-long habit of list-making just because you decide to commit murder. Where were the notes the ersatz Marjorie Hawkins had made in planning that attack on Phyllis?
Ginny pulled out her phone and called Detective Tran back. She could hear the doubt in the detective’s voice.
“The police have already searched the house and it had been ransacked before we got there. It looked as if the cartel took everything that might conceivably be classified as evidence.”
“Well, if there’s no evidence for me to mess up, then may I go look?”
“What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I don’t know. I just want to look around.”
There was a short silence on the other end of the line, then Detective Tran’s reply. “I see no harm in what you are suggesting, though I think you are wasting your time.”
“I expect you’re right.”
“I will have an officer meet you over there in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you!”
Ginny hung up the phone, gathered up the letters for John Kyle, grabbed her coat and purse, called goodbye to her mother, and headed for the garage. Fergus was waiting for her.
“My car.”
Ginny didn’t bother to argue, just followed him to the curb, climbed into the passenger side seat, and watched as he settled in to drive.
“What was wrong with my car?”
He glanced over at her and smiled. “This one’s safer.”
Ginny looked around inside the vehicle. Safer. More horsepower? Better tires? Bulletproof glass, perhaps? “What are we waiting for, then?”
“I’m not moving until you put your seatbelt on.”
* * *
Chapter 47
Day 20 – Wednesday midmorning
Marjorie Hawkins’ house
The police officer lifted the crime scene tape and allowed them to duck under, then unlocked the door and let them in. Ginny waited on the threshold while Fergus cleared the scene, then followed him inside.
The place was a mess. She walked through the rooms, seeing voids in the dust where a computer had been, desk and cabinet drawers open and empty, and the dead woman’s jewel box on its side, the drawers gone.
Rugs and furniture had been moved, air conditioning vents pulled down, and holes punched through the wallboard. There were even some dangling electrical wires where the lamps and plumbing had been investigated. Very thorough.
There was fingerprint powder, too. What the cartel hadn’t taken, the police had investigated.
Ginny pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves she had brought with her and began going through the mess, looking for clues. Her own notes-to-self tended to be jotted down on scraps of paper, then transcribed into the computer. She searched for anything that looked like a to-do list. Both men watched, but neither made a move to interfere.
Half an hour later, Ginny sighed to herself. This was getting her nowhere. She was standing in the room that had served as a home office, looking around. The thieves (and police) hadn’t taken everything. The books sat on the floor in piles or lay scattered across the floor, the bookcases clearly the object of someone’s interest. What could the books tell her about the dead woman? She began picking them up and putting them back on the shelves.
There were six books relating to Roman Catholic church ritual, the first catechism inscribed in a childish hand with a name Ginny hadn’t seen before. It took her a minute to figure out it was in Irish Gaelic and translated to ‘Eloise Quinn.’ That implied Quinn’s father was an Irishman.
There were a number of classic novels in the editions usually seen in high school classrooms, some of them in Spanish. One had a bookmark. She pulled it out and looked at the Christmas card featuring a family group; the Irish father, a woman who could easily have been Hispanic, and the very young Eloise. Ginny felt a queer sensation in the pit of her stomach. Such a pretty child. How had she ended up as Marjorie Hawkins, murderer? Ginny put the card back in the book and pushed the book into place on the shelf.
She worked her way across the carpet, in no particular order, finding a smattering of philosophies, one or two art books, and a large collection of paperback spy novels.
Many dealt with SCUBA diving and where to go for the best views. Ginny flipped through the travel guides, seeing Marjorie had added notes, highlighted items of interest, and flagged timetables—and was reminded why she was here.
She began to move faster, grabbing books at random, letting her mind wander, putting her subconscious to work on the problem. She hoisted a pile of reference books back into place, then reached for a massive tome, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, with two hands, but when she lifted it off the floor it came up easily.
Ginny paused. She had expected that one to be heavy. She took it across the room and laid it on the desk, then opened it to find someone had cut out the middle, making a hiding space. It was not empty. Both men had followed her and were looking over her shoulders, one on either side. She looked from one to the other and smiled.
“Bingo!”
* * *
Ginny selected one of the slim volumes and opened it to the first page. It was a journal, lined, without pre-printed dates.
There were dates, however. Each entry started with one. They were chronological, too,
in that each entry was later than the one before it, but they were not complete. The author had skipped some days and written very little on others. Ginny flipped through the pages, noting this volume covered five years, all of them long ago. She set it down and picked up the second. More of the same.
In the fourth, she found what she was looking for. The latter pages covered the time starting in the fall of the current year. Ginny read avidly.
I’m sick of having to pay hush money. I need to find a way to end this.
A few pages later, Ginny found a list.
Things to consider:
Phyllis Kyle wrote that article for the BON and I have to wonder which of the Pipeline nurses she was talking to and whether her source mentioned me.
The tracker I put on her car, after the above, goes to Austin, to the capital complex, and to the Board of Nursing, where they keep records.
The blackmail started after the article was published.
Trips to Austin cost money and she never works extra shifts.
The blackmailer’s voice on the phone is female and sounds like Kyle. Same word choices. Same accent.
She knows how a Swiss bank account works. I overheard her telling someone last month, at the staff meeting.
That entry was dated early in November. By Thanksgiving, they had taken on a sinister tone.
She stood right in front of me this morning, looked me in the eye, and told me she was planning to put an end to imposters in nursing. I’m not sure how to interpret this. If she’s the blackmailer, then why tell me? Is she planning to screw more money out of me? If she’s not, then how do I keep her out of the archives? Either way, she’s a threat.
This was followed by several pages of lists, diagrams, and musings. Ginny frowned over the drawing of a garrote, with instructions on how to use it to best advantage. She turned another page and saw an entry for the day before Phyllis’ death.
Okay. I’m ready. If she’d been satisfied with merely blackmailing me, I could have overlooked it, but she’s getting too close to the truth and that I cannot have. I’ve got people counting on me. I’m their contact to the money, to the good life, to not going to prison. They need me. The planning is complete. I have all my ducks in a row. With just a little bit of luck, by morning this particular problem will be behind me. So, off to work! Write at you later.
Ginny was beginning to feel queasy. She had worked with this woman for years, trusted her as one does a boss who doesn’t make your work life a living hell, chatted amiably with her about her hobby. Ginny looked around, found a chair, dropped into it, then read the next entry.
I do NOT believe it! After all my careful planning, someone beat me to it! Phyllis Kyle disappeared into the bathroom and was not seen—alive—again. They found her body at change of shift. I don’t know who saved me the trouble of putting her out of my misery, but someone did! I didn’t know what had happened, of course. I was checking on everyone during the night. Around four I found that neither of her patients had gotten anything done for half an hour, so I know (now) roughly when she disappeared and I know (now) where she was. But I didn’t at the time. I kept expecting her to show up so I could put my plan into action. I didn’t want to draw attention to her, of course, so I did her four o’clocks and kept looking. By the time they found her, I had given up and was thinking how to try again later. Then, there she was, dead as doornail. Divine intervention, do you think?
Ginny took a breath, then another. She’d been right. Marjorie Hawkins had planned to kill Phyllis, but she hadn’t actually done so. Which meant Ginny was also wrong.
“What does it say?”
Ginny lifted her eyes from the page to find Fergus crouching in front of her, alert, as always, the policeman hovering behind him. She turned the book around and handed it to him, watching as he read the entry.
When he was through, he looked up. “So, not guilty. Not this time, anyway.”
Ginny nodded, then found herself blinking back tears. As long as she thought Marjorie Hawkins was the murderess, she could take comfort in the fact she was dead. No trial, no testifying, no chance she could kill again. Instead, the criminal was still at large, still a threat, and Ginny would have to go back to that mountain of evidence and go through it all over again.
“I’ll take you home.”
Ginny shook her head. “The police station. We need to hand these over to Detective Tran.”
Fergus nodded. “All right. Then home.”
Ginny nodded. Home, minus one suspect and the riddle still unanswered.
* * *
Chapter 48
Day 20 – Wednesday afternoon
En route to the police station
“STOP!” Ginny almost dropped the diary as Fergus slammed on the brakes. He pulled the car over to the curb, then turned to stare at her.
“Why?”
She pushed the book at him. Marjorie Hawkins had gone through Phyllis’ papers, looking for evidence of blackmail, then come to the conclusion she’d been suspecting the wrong person.
He read the entry, his mouth settling into a tight line. “Which way?”
Ginny fed him the GPS coordinates. She didn’t need to tell him to hurry.
He pulled up in front of the house, then slid out, motioning for her to stay put. She watched him circle the place, gun at the ready, peering into the windows, disappearing around the back, then reappearing. He paused at the front door, then opened it and slipped inside. A minute later he came out onto the stoop and gestured for her to join him.
“He’s in here.” Fergus led the way to the kitchen. “Don’t touch anything.”
Ginny could see they were too late. He lay on the floor beside an overturned chair, coffee and body fluids mingling beneath him, his face contorted in a rictus of agony.
Fergus had pulled out his phone and was talking to Himself. “Aye, dead and cold.” There was a pause. “We let ourselves in. Will she overlook that?” He nodded into the phone. “All right. I’ll call.” He broke the connection then dialed again. “Detective Tran, please.”
In spite of her medical training, Ginny was having trouble with the stench. She’d been trying to hold her breath and felt a bit dizzy. She turned toward the kitchen table, reaching for one of the chairs, but found Fergus’ arm around her waist, holding her upright. He finished the call, then stuck the device in his pocket and turned her toward the front door. “Outside.”
Ginny let him lead her back to the car and sit her down, with the door open to let the cold air clear the fog in her brain. When Detective Tran arrived, Fergus took point, handing the diary to her, and explaining what had brought them to the house.
She eyed Fergus. “Was the front door locked when you arrived?”
He nodded. “But the alarm was off.”
“Will I find evidence of your entry on that lock?”
“Yes, ma’am. There were exigent circumstances.” He gestured toward the diary.
She nodded. “Very well. What else do I need to know?”
“You will find my footprints and Ginny’s in the front hall and the kitchen, but neither of us touched anything.”
“You are sure of that?”
“I am.”
“All right. Please wait here.”
“Detective Tran,” Ginny stopped her. “I want to look at that crime scene again.”
The detective’s eyes narrowed. “I will consider your request.” She made her way into the house.
When the detective had gone, Fergus turned to Ginny. “Why do you want to go back inside?”
Ginny took a deep breath. “There were two photographs on the kitchen table.”
Fergus’ eyes narrowed. “Of what?”
“Of the inside of the Medical ICU break room.”
Fergus caught his breath. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
* * *
Wednesday afternoon
Forbes residence
In the end, Detective Tran decided she could not allow an o
utsider onto her active crime scene. She did, however, promise to send copies of any photographs they found, and with that Ginny had to be content.
Lunch at home was the usual casserole, fresh fruit, salad, and hot bread. Usual in that on Wednesdays, Mrs. Forbes cooked after getting home from her teaching job. Ginny watched Fergus consume the double portions her mother still made because she had raised a son, even if he no longer lived in Dallas.
“Not hungry?” Mrs. Forbes eyed Ginny’s plate.
Ginny still had the smell of Isaac’s kitchen in her nostrils. “Maybe later.”
She excused herself and went upstairs. She stood for a moment in the door of her home office and looked around. The normally neat, organized space was flooded with paper.
The stacks of white teetered, threatening to fall, festooned with sudden color in every shade of the rainbow from the sticky notes and flags and bookmarks in use. There were colored printouts, too, of her mind map, and timetables, and to do lists. The bookcases hid behind the work. The oriental rug struggled under its weight. The whole thing seemed to mock her, as if it knew she had failed.
With both Lisa and Marjorie Hawkins absolved of murdering Phyllis, the only candidate left was Grace. Ginny heaved a sigh, sat down at the computer, pulled up her files, and got to work.
There was nothing new in any of them. No clue to follow. Every item on her Action Plan completed. The mind map filled in and all the cross-links in place. Nothing that definitively pointed to Grace. Three futile hours later, Ginny picked up the phone and dialed Austin.
“Clara? It’s Ginny Forbes. I have a question for you. Well, more like a plea. I’m desperate! Can you think of anything, anything at all, that might give us another clue in the death of Phyllis Kyle?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, that’s the problem. You said at first you thought it might be a case of mistaken identity. Did anyone threaten you?”
Clara’s nod came down the line. “Oh, yes. There’ve been some very angry people down here. Nothing ever came of it. But—”
“But what?”
“I’ve just remembered. There was a woman making threats, but they weren’t directed at me. She was threatening Phyllis.”
The Swick and the Dead Page 31