Justice Betrayed

by Patricia Bradley

  “What water?” The event planner’s oversized glasses had slipped down her nose, and she used her thumb to push them back.

  Rachel pointed toward the basket. “There were four bottles of water with a gold label tucked in it when we sat down. He drank three of them and the other one is missing.”

  “Maybe someone was just thirsty,” Donna said.

  “I’m sure they’re here somewhere or at least the empty containers should be,” Carpenter said, twisting a green emerald on her finger. “Why would anyone steal water from his basket, anyway? The fridge over there is stocked with all kinds of things for the performers, including water.”

  “Do you mind helping us search for the missing bottle?” Boone asked.

  “Right now?” She frowned. “Maybe for a few minutes, but as soon as the paramedics leave with Randy, I’ve got to get the show back on track before we lose all of the audience.”

  “You’re not canceling the rest of the contest tonight?” Rachel glanced at the crowd, surprised that most of them hadn’t left, but sat somber, waiting for something to happen. Somehow, she thought that the rest of the show would be put off until tomorrow.

  “Of course not. Randy wouldn’t want us to cancel.” Then Monica gave both of them an odd glance. “This isn’t a crime scene, is it? I mean, he just let his sugar get too low, right?”

  Boone exchanged glances with Rachel. They really didn’t have a crime scene. Just because Culver collapsed didn’t mean someone had tried to kill him.

  “No,” Boone said. “At least not yet.”

  Rachel glanced toward the stage. The medics had Culver on a gurney now, and he didn’t look good. He was so pale. Like a corpse. And still unconscious.

  Boone found a uniformed officer and handed him the to-go bags. “Have the lab check for fingerprints, and I want the contents of the items analyzed. And I need it yesterday.”

  There was at least one lab tech on night duty, so he should get the results within a couple of hours. Then he made a sweep of the upstairs, looking for more bottles with the gold designer label. Finding none, he returned to the main floor, where Rachel joined him. “I meant to ask earlier, how did Donna find the monitor?” he asked. “And why was she looking for it?”

  “She was at the table when I went to look for it, and when the paramedics came, I guess she kept looking.” Rachel smiled. “I can’t see her barging into the men’s restroom, though.”

  It was hard to imagine the fastidious office manager being an Elvis fan, much less going into the men’s restroom. “Where did she go?”

  “Home. She’s working tomorrow, so I told her to leave, that if we had questions, we’d get them then,” she said.

  “Don’t suppose you found any more gold label bottles.”

  “No. And no one else received the designer water. Do you think Monica could be right and we’re chasing a phantom clue?” she asked.

  He glanced toward the stage, where Jerome was introducing another performer. Monica had disappeared right after the paramedics transported Culver to Regional One, which was the nearest hospital, and the show had started a few minutes later. “Possible, but my gut says otherwise.”

  “Uh-oh.” Rachel nodded toward the stage.

  Monica was marching toward him with her oversized glasses on top of her head, and she did not look happy.

  “I hope you’re done here,” she said. “You’re making the customers nervous.”

  “We’re almost finished,” Boone said. “Just a couple more questions. Did you happen to see who delivered Culver’s gift basket?”

  She shook her head. “All the baskets were here when I returned around five thirty. I’m sure one of the waitstaff will know something.” She frowned. “But what’s the big deal? Randy’s sugar has gotten out of whack before. It’s not like someone tried to kill him.”

  “But what if they did? We have one Elvis impersonator murdered—”

  “Tribute artist, please!” Monica pursed her lips. “And Randy isn’t dead.”

  “Does everyone know he has diabetes?” Rachel asked.

  “Yes. He never tried to hide it, had actually made a public service video promoting the Diabetes Foundation.” She settled the glasses on her nose. “And if that’s all . . .”

  “One more small thing,” he said. “If you don’t mind, would you round up all the performers who were backstage earlier? I’d like to get a statement from each of them.”

  “Statement?” Monica stared at Boone as though he’d lost his mind.

  “Just in case this turns out to be more than it looks like.” They would know more when the insulin analysis came back, and if there was anything suspicious, they’d at least have statements from the performers.

  “Have you heard how Randy is?” she asked.

  “I checked with the hospital. He’s on a ventilator.” Boone rubbed the back of his neck.

  Monica paled. “Poor thing. I hope he pulls through. I’ll see what I can do about getting the performers together.”

  By the time he and Rachel had finished interviewing anyone who had contact with Culver backstage, it was nearing midnight. “Are you up for talking about this before we leave?”

  “Sure.”

  He led the way back to the table and took the same chair he’d sat in before.

  “Do you always sit with your back to the wall?” she asked as she kicked off her shoes.

  “Yep. Are your feet hurting?” A strand of her blonde hair had come loose from the ponytail, and he resisted tucking it back in place.

  “A little.” She pumped her feet. “Why do you sit against the wall?”

  “Seems the thing to do.” A memory from the past darkened his thoughts. A memory he didn’t want to talk about. “What did you learn from the employees?”

  Rachel studied him for a minute and then took out her notes. “A few of the waitstaff saw the baskets arrive, but they didn’t pay attention to the person delivering them. They couldn’t be sure they saw the one Randy had gotten since at least five other performers received similar gifts.” She looked up from her notes. “By the way, Terri delivered two of the baskets from a shop on Union, and I checked the tags—she didn’t deliver Randy’s, but she spoke to him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “One of the hostesses saw her at his table talking to him a little after five.”

  “And the water bottles?”

  “No one remembered seeing anyone take the water—everyone’s attention was on the stage after he collapsed.”

  “Not surprising.” His cell phone dinged a message, and Boone paused to read it. He’d expected something like this. He looked up, and Rachel questioned him with her eyebrows. “Lab report.”

  “The bottle tested positive for something?”

  “Yes, Humulin R U-500. But it’s worse than that. You remember the bottle he drew his insulin from?”

  “Lantus-something.”

  “Lantus 100.” Frowning, he looked back at his phone.

  “So?”

  “This report says the insulin in the needle was the Humulin as well—it’s five times stronger than Lantus 100. If he took his usual dosage, that’s what caused his sugar to drop. It’s a wonder it hadn’t killed him outright.”

  “You think he put the wrong insulin in the syringe? I’m sure it happens sometimes.”

  “No. The wrong insulin had to be in the vial.”

  “What?” Her eyes widened.

  “I remember when he took the vial out, it was half full, so it wasn’t a pharmaceutical error.”

  “But that would mean someone loaded a Lantus bottle with the stronger insulin . . .”

  He leaned back in the chair. “Yes. They meant to kill him.”

  Rachel hooked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve been thinking about something since his collapse. If Vic’s and Foxx’s murders are connected to this attempt on Culver, we could be dealing with a serial—”

  “Don’t even go there.” He did not want there to be
a serial murderer running around killing Elvis impersonators.

  “If Culver dies, that will make three victims . . .”

  “He’s not going to die,” Boone said grimly. “And three murders do not always mean there’s a serial killer on the loose. Besides, the cooling-off period doesn’t work. They don’t go cold for seventeen years and then commit two murders in twenty-four hours.”

  “We could be dealing with a plain old sociopath then. And if we are, all bets are off.”

  “A sociopath?” he repeated. “You’re just full of fun suggestions.”

  “Just trying to be helpful. But if that’s what our killer is, there’s no way to anticipate what he or she might do.”

  “I know.” He’d read once that 4 percent of Americans were sociopaths with no conscience and could do whatever they pleased without feelings of guilt. Sometimes he thought that was a low percentage.

  She tilted her head. “You ever do the test to see if you could think like a sociopath?”

  “What?” He frowned. His studies about the criminally insane didn’t include a test on thinking like one.

  “You know the one. A sociopath is at her mother’s funeral and meets a man, gives him her phone number. He promises to call, but doesn’t. After a week, she kills her sister. Why did she kill her sister?”

  Boone stared at Rachel. Maybe he was just tired, but the question didn’t make sense. He shook his head to clear it, and then said, “Okay, I’ll bite. Why did she kill her sister?”

  “So she could see him again. If he came to her mother’s funeral, he would come to the sister’s.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Glad to know you don’t think like a sociopath.”

  In a crazy sort of way, it made sense and fit what he knew about their behavior. “Heaven help us if we’re dealing with someone who thinks like that.”

  “I know. If we do and he’s fixated on Elvis impersonators, we could have a real problem on our hands.”

  “But why would he threaten you?” Thinking aloud, he answered his own question. “Because you’re investigating the crime. But why not me as well?”

  She shook her head. “If we’re dealing with a psychopath, there’s no way to justify anything he does. There’s one other thing—Culver could have purposely used the wrong medicine. It wouldn’t be the first time someone used insulin to commit suicide.”

  Boone rocked back in the chair. He hadn’t even thought about suicide. “Culver doesn’t come across as the type to kill himself. And if he did, he went to a lot of trouble to make it not look like suicide. Are you up for stopping by the Med to check on him?”

  “You bet.”

  He waited while Rachel slipped her shoes on, and then they walked to where he’d parked his truck. The drive to Regional One took less than five minutes since it was only a few blocks away.

  They caught the doctor coming out of Randy Culver’s room.

  “Doc,” Boone said, showing his badge, “could you give us a few minutes?”

  “I don’t know how much I can help you, but sure.”

  “How is he?” Rachel asked.

  “It’s touch and go. The lab reports indicated the insulin he used was Humulin R U-500 rather than the lower dose of insulin he was supposed to take. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  “Do you know how that could have happened?” Boone asked.

  “His doctor could have changed his medication, and he mixed up the bottles.”

  “The vial was labeled Lantus 100.”

  The doctor frowned. “But that would mean—”

  “Afraid so. How hard is it to get insulin?”

  “Not hard at all if you have a prescription.”

  “And if you don’t?” Rachel asked.

  “I’m sure you can get it on the black market, but if I were going to do something like this, I’d steal it from a friend who is diabetic.”

  That scenario had already crossed Boone’s mind. “Do you think the friend would report the theft?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Might not realize it’s gone for a couple months. A lot of diabetics buy three-month supplies.”

  “Do you think he’s going to make it?” Boone asked, nodding toward the room. “And if he does, will there be brain damage?”

  “Hard to say. He’s in a coma right now. If he pulls out of this, he may not remember anything surrounding the incident.”

  Boone handed him a card. “Give me a call if there’s any change.”

  As they descended the outside stairs, Boone eyed Rachel’s heels. “How have you walked in those all night?”

  She leaned against the wall and took one shoe off, massaging her foot. “Not well. I don’t know why I didn’t grab a pair of sandals earlier.”

  “Stay right here and I’ll get my truck.”

  After pulling to the curb, he got out and opened the passenger door and she limped to it. Once she climbed in and fastened her seat belt, he returned to the driver side. “We’ve done about all we can do tonight,” he said, starting the motor. “But first thing after you get a couple hours of sleep, will you get your father to sign a search warrant for Culver’s house and meet me there at nine?”

  “Do we have anyone else who will sign one?”

  He hesitated with his hand on the gearshift. “Why don’t you want to ask your father?”

  “You saw how he acted tonight. I’m not exactly his favorite cop and don’t know if he’d even give me one.”

  “He will. Or I can ask, if you’d rather.”

  She didn’t say anything, and then she sighed. “No. I’ll ask him. And nine isn’t a problem. I’ll catch him before he goes to church.”

  A text chimed on Boone’s phone and he glanced down, wincing at the message.

  “What is it?” Rachel asked. “Has Culver died?”

  “No. It’s about the package at your father’s.” He gripped the steering wheel. “The white powder was ricin.”

  19

  AT SEVEN THIRTY, Rachel parked in front of her father’s house and picked up the Sunday paper in the drive. Her father was an early riser, so she was surprised it was still there.

  She’d texted him half an hour ago that she was stopping by. The sooner this was behind her, the better. In spite of her resolve, her gaze shifted to the yellow crime scene tape that cordoned off the area where Cortez had opened the box.

  Had it been only twelve hours ago that someone had tried to kill her with ricin, of all things? And then tried to kill Randy Culver? It was no accident that the vial had been filled with insulin five times the strength labeled on the bottle.

  As for the ricin, Boone had received a partial analysis on the white powder. The substance had been mostly flour, laced with traces of the poison. But even a trace of ricin was more than enough to kill.

  Questions filled her mind. Who hated her that much? Or wanted her out of the way? Or was it meant for her father? And how had they gotten their hands on ricin in the first place? It wasn’t a substance that was readily available to just anyone, not the quality this tested. If she’d opened the box inside the house . . . When she’d googled ricin and saw what a horrible death it caused and that there was no antidote, she’d almost thrown up.

  Rachel slipped the newspaper out of the plastic sleeve and glanced at the front page. August thirteenth. A band tightened around her chest, cutting off her breath. Seventeen years ago at this precise time, she’d been walking up the drive just as she was now. She closed her eyes, trying to block the memory of finding her mother in the library, dead from a blow to her head.

  Was it possible the burglary scene had been staged? The police thought the thief panicked after her mother died and fled, leaving a pillowcase with a computer, silver tea set, and sterling silverware at the back door.

  Rachel faltered. She couldn’t do this. Why hadn’t she told Boone to find another judge to sign the warrant? She slipped her phone from her pocket and fumbled for the buttons.

  “Buck up, Rachel. Winslows don’t cry.” Her father’s voice from
all those years ago stopped her. “Your mother is dead and crying will not bring her back. We have to do the next thing.” She didn’t understand him then, and she still didn’t. But she hadn’t cried for anyone since, not even when Corey died. She might as well put on her big girl shoes and deal with it.

  With a fortifying breath, she walked to the back of the house and entered through the back door. “Anybody home?” she called, wincing at the tremor in her voice.

  “In the breakfast nook,” her father replied. “Grab a cup of coffee in the kitchen and bring it in here. I’m curious to know what you want.”

  He knew she wasn’t coming just to visit—a sad commentary on the state of their relationship. She grabbed a napkin and then found her favorite mug in the cupboard and filled it with the dark roast the Judge favored. She didn’t have to worry about weak coffee here.

  “How are you this morning?” she asked.

  “Fine. And you, after what happened last night?”

  Did he know about Culver? No. He was talking about the package. “I’m fine as well.” Winslows were never anything but fine. She sat at the end of the table where she could watch the birds outside the bay window. Her mother had decorated the breakfast nook in pale yellows and had left the window untreated, allowing the morning sun full rein. It was her favorite room in the house. Surprisingly, the Judge hadn’t changed anything. “I hope what happened didn’t ruin Gran’s party completely.”

  “She’s stoic.” He tented his fingers and studied her. “Worried about you, though.”

  “I wish she wouldn’t.” Rachel held his gaze, waiting.

  He tilted his head. “Why didn’t you want to be a lawyer?”

  Her hands jerked, sloshing coffee on the linen tablecloth.

  “I’m sorry.” Rachel dabbed at the beaded drops of brown liquid with her napkin. The Judge had never asked that question outright.

  “Why would that upset you so?”

  Buzzing in her ears drowned out his words as she stared at the coffee stain spreading over the linen cloth. When had the Judge started using her mother’s favorite tablecloth? The one she’d just ruined. She could not do this today. Rachel stood. “I’m sorry. I have to leave.”