by Rita Herron
Then she drove back to her apartment. As she parked, she scanned the front of her building and the property, and saw another nurse heading into her own unit. Relieved that she recognized the cars in the parking lot as belonging to various staff members, she locked her car, then hurried up the sidewalk to her first-floor apartment. She’d chosen the bottom floor because she liked to step outside on her patio in the morning and enjoy her coffee and the view.
Foolish. It would have been wiser to have chosen the second floor where breaking in would be more difficult.
A gust of wind picked up, hurling dead leaves across the path and the trees swayed, branches bobbing up and down as if a storm was brewing. The scent of impending rain filled the air and thunder rumbled above.
She unlocked the door, wishing she had a security system, although when she’d approached management about one for the staff apartments, they’d claimed security systems were costly and unnecessary. The property was already secure. It was gated, and you needed a code to get onto the property.
Yet the woods behind the building offered numerous places to hide. Someone could park and sneak in through the woods, if they wanted to slip past security. She darted inside, flipped on the light and scanned the open living room/kitchen area. Everything appeared as she’d left it this morning when Agent Maverick had knocked on her door and carted her to the sheriff’s office.
She locked her door, dropped her keys on the table by it and headed to the kitchen for a drink of water. But a plain brown manila envelope caught her eye.
She went still, then glanced across the room again. Nothing was out of place.
But someone had been inside her apartment.
Fear sliced through her, and she grabbed a kitchen knife and slowly inched through her apartment to the hall. It was only one bedroom and bath, and she could see the entire space from the doorway to her bedroom. At first glance, she didn’t see anyone inside.
Pulse pounding, she returned to the kitchen and examined the envelope. No return address. No postage. Someone had hand delivered it and broken into her apartment to do so.
Her hand trembled as she ripped open the seal. A cry bubbled in her throat.
She removed the papers with a shaky hand. It was a copy of the log for signing out drugs in the ER.
According to the signature on the form, a signature that was a dead ringer for her own, she had signed out morphine and given it to Gloria Inman.
* * *
LIAM SPENT HALF the night reviewing his father’s files on the Inman case and Jacob’s on the fire. He’d been through them a dozen times already, but each time he hoped something would pop out and lead him to the answers.
Were the two connected?
They seemed to be. Then again, he and Jacob had chased the missing child angle with Cora’s baby for so long and it hadn’t been related to the fire, so he could be mistaken now.
But he had to pursue any lead that presented itself. Five years had not lessened his need for the truth and justice for his father’s death and the other lost lives.
He used a whiteboard to scribble the key components he’d identified and marked it off into categories. Facts, Suspects, Evidence, Leads, Motives.
He listed Inman’s name and wrote Wife’s Death/Lawsuit beneath it. Beneath the section labeled Motive, he scribbled the word revenge.
He added Peyton’s name to the list of suspects. For motive, he wrote Cover Up for Mistake in the ER?
Although they had no proof there had actually been a mistake, much less that Peyton had caused it. Only hearsay that she might know who did.
He combed through the file again, focusing on an interview with the attending physician Dr. Butler. The doctor had seemed concerned about Inman’s accusations and claimed he and the hospital staff had followed protocol and were not at fault. He denied any knowledge of the alleged conversation between Peyton and another staff member, and insisted Peyton was a top-notch nurse who prided herself on attention to detail.
Liam stood and stretched, then poured himself a scotch and returned to the files. He combed through interview after interview of the staff and studied Herbert Brantley’s again. It sounded almost verbatim to what he’d told them today. Had he practiced what he was going to say? Was he lying?
Curious, he reviewed the lawsuit filed by Inman, then made a note of the prosecutor’s name who’d represented Inman along with the hospital’s attorney.
Bill Packard had represented Inman. Travis Ames the hospital. He sipped his scotch. Tomorrow he’d question them himself.
* * *
ANXIETY RIDDLED EVERY CELL in Peyton’s body. Someone had been inside her apartment, and left paperwork which pointed the finger at her for negligence in Mrs. Inman’s death.
She was being framed. Set up by whoever wanted her to take the fall if the case went to court.
She laid the document on the kitchen table, grabbed her flashlight from the laundry room and studied the signature. It looked like hers, but she had not signed out morphine or administered it to Gloria Inman that night. Following protocol, she’d given the woman a shot of epinephrine to jump-start her heart.
What in the world was going on?
She narrowed her eyes and checked the signature again. Could a handwriting analyst be able to tell that it had been forged?
Terrified of losing her license and her job and the possibility of facing charges when her mother needed her, she folded the paper, stuffed it back in the envelope and carried it to her bedroom. She had to hide it. The desk maybe?
No, that was the first place someone would look.
The closet. She pulled out a shoebox full of old photographs and considered storing it in there but rethought that idea.
Maybe she should just rip it up and throw it in the trash. Or shred it in the shredder in the main office.
But what if someone caught her and asked questions?
Besides, if anyone learned about the papers and the police confiscated them, they might actually help her. That is, if the fingerprints of the person who’d put them in her apartment were on the log sheet. If not...she’d look guilty of giving Mrs. Inman an overdose.
After deciding she’d better hang on to the papers, she shoved them below her mattress.
The fact that someone had broken into her apartment made her skin crawl. She’d run away from Whistler to escape, yet whoever had set her up knew where she and her mother lived.
They’d probably been watching her all along.
Fear gripped her in its clutches, and she hurried to examine the locks on the windows and doors. The window locks and lock on the front door was untouched.
She checked the sliding glass doors and noted the lock on them was broken. A chill rippled through her, and she phoned Walter, the maintenance man, and asked him to replace her lock.
“You think someone broke in?” he asked.
“It looks that way. I’ll report it to Fred, but I need a new lock tonight.”
Although if the intruder had broken one lock, what would keep him from breaking a second?
While she waited for him to show, she pulled out a notepad. For five years now, she’d wondered what had gone wrong with Gloria Inman that night.
She scratched her head and began to jot down the names of each person she’d seen in the ER along with everyone who’d treated or worked on the woman.
The police had questioned them all back then.
But someone was hiding something. And the only way to clear her name was to figure out who was setting her up.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Liam drove to Bill Packard’s law office. Bill had represented Inman in the wrongful death lawsuit against the hospital.
Packard was late forties, silver at the temples, and dressed in a gray pin-striped suit. His secretary offered Liam coffee, and he accepted a cup, then joined Packard in his of
fice. A state-of-the-art computer system occupied one corner in the sophisticated office which screamed money.
Liam flashed his credentials.
Packard steepled his hands on top of his cherrywood desk. “I don’t understand. When you phoned, you told my secretary you wanted to discuss the Inman lawsuit. But that was settled five years ago.”
“I’m aware of that,” Liam said. “But as I’m sure you know, police never made an arrest regarding the arson at the hospital. Mr. Inman was a person of interest.”
The attorney rubbed manicured fingers over his tie. “Yes, I know. Sheriff Maverick contacted me numerous times to ask if I knew Mr. Inman’s whereabouts, but I told him I did not. And that is the truth.”
“While you might not have been complicit in his disappearance, I still need to ask you some questions.”
“I’ve been over this before with the sheriff,” Mr. Packard said. “I don’t have new information, so what is the point?”
“The point is that we found Mr. Inman and he’s in custody.” Liam fought irritation. “And I want to know who set the fire that killed my father and took multiple lives. So do the residents of Whistler.”
Packard’s jaw tightened. “If you’re asking me to break attorney-client privilege, you understand that I can’t, or I could be disbarred.”
Liam expected as much. “Tell me this, Mr. Packard. Do you believe Mr. Inman started the fire?”
The attorney stood. “I can’t answer that, and you know it. Now, are we done?”
Liam shook his head. “Not yet. According to the files, the judge threw out the case stating there was insufficient evidence. It also appears that you chose not to appeal or pursue the case. That tells me that you believed Mr. Inman’s claims were unfounded.”
“That doesn’t tell you anything, except that there was insufficient evidence to pursue the case further.” Packard sighed. “Now, you should go, Agent Maverick.”
Liam stood, body tense. He believed in the system, but the attorney-client privilege aspect meant the lawyer could be covering for a murderer. And as a man of justice, that didn’t sit well in his gut.
Travis Ames, the prosecutor for the case would no doubt pull the same argument. He needed to talk to someone who wasn’t bound by the law.
According to Dr. Butler’s deposition, the hospital had investigated and there was no wrongdoing on the part of the staff. But HIPAA laws prevented the man from divulging details of Mrs. Inman’s medical treatment. And the fire had destroyed the files detailing her treatment in the ER.
* * *
PEYTON PACED HER KITCHEN while her coffee brewed. Last night, long after Fred installed a new lock on the sliding glass doors to her back patio and left her with a pole jammed at the bottom for her own sense of security, Peyton lay awake in the dark.
She had asked Fred to check around her mother’s cottage during the night, then listened for sounds that her intruder had returned. Outside, the wind had howled off the mountains, and a tree branch scraped the windowpane.
She’d gotten up more than once to check to make sure someone hadn’t broken in again.
Each time she closed her eyes, images of the night Gloria Inman died returned. The husband’s fear. The chaos as the doctors worked to save her. The resident, Jody Plummer, who’d stepped in to assist. Herbert Brantley, the med tech who’d done the EKG. Herself, grabbing the medication from the tray to administer it into the IV.
When sleep finally came, it hadn’t lasted long. The nightmare of the fire returned to haunt her. Her mother gasping for a breath. Dr. Butler performing CPR.
Dr. Butler showing her the paper that could have ruined her career.
He insisted he wanted to protect her and he’d saved her mother.
Her heart stuttered. Although as far as she knew, he was the only one who’d seen that paper. He’d supervised Gloria Inman’s treatment.
Could he have made the mistake, then falsified the paperwork so he could blame her if Inman or another staff member pointed the finger at him?
Chapter Six
Peyton spent the morning on pins and needles while she made rounds with her patients. She pushed her mother outside in her wheelchair to have lunch in the garden. Soon winter would set in, and they’d have to stick to the indoor dining area, although the facility boasted a room with floor-to-ceiling windows to let in light and allow patients to enjoy the beautiful outdoor scenery while inside.
“Where did you run off to yesterday?” her mother asked as she sipped her sweet tea. “I missed you at lunch.”
Peyton hadn’t expected her to remember. “I had errands to do for the Gardens.” They’d stopped discussing the fire years ago. She wanted her mother to focus on sweet memories, not the scariest one of her life.
“I’m so glad you’re here with me,” her mother said.
“Me, too, Mama.” She intended to keep it that way. This morning she’d searched the news for the story on Barry Inman’s arrest, but found nothing. The police were keeping it under wraps for some reason.
Perhaps until they had enough evidence to prove he set the fire.
She didn’t know the man well enough to say whether he was capable of arson and murder or not. Unless he hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt.
But that was impossible. A person who set fire to a hospital where there were critically ill and disabled patients would have to realize that everyone might not survive.
Her mother finished her chicken salad and took another sip of her tea. “You missed Val yesterday.”
Peyton went still. Was her mother confused or had her sister found them?
Peyton wiped her mouth with her napkin. “What do you mean? I missed Val.”
“Why, she came by when I was taking my afternoon nap. I woke up and there she was.”
She’d thought her mother had been confused about the strange man showing up, but apparently there had been a man, the one who’d left that envelope in her apartment. Maybe her mother could describe him.
Maybe she was right about Val, too.
“Was Val here before or after the man came?” Peyton asked.
Her mother’s brows pinched together. “What man, honey?”
Peyton gritted her teeth. “Yesterday you said a strange man came by and told you he left me something.”
Worry knitted her mother’s face, then confusion and frustration. “I...don’t remember a man.” She looked up into Peyton’s eyes, searching. “What’s wrong with me, Peyton? Why can’t I remember things anymore?”
Peyton’s heart broke. Once upon a time, her mother had been a strong, independent woman. Detail oriented. She’d worked in a research medical lab analyzing rare virus strains for the CDC in Atlanta.
“Our memory gets shorter as we get older,” Peyton said, giving her a version of the truth that her mother could handle. Broaching the words Alzheimer’s or dementia or the fact that doctors suspected her mother had contracted one of those unnamed viruses and it had attacked her brain agitated her to the point where she had to be sedated. The first time they’d broached the possibility of a virus, her mother had insisted she needed to go to work and find a cure.
It was too late for that now.
“Mom, you said you saw Val yesterday. But we haven’t seen her in three years, and you were sleeping. Could you have been dreaming?”
Irritation flashed in her mother’s eyes. “Maybe it wasn’t during my nap. It was...in the afternoon in the garden.”
Peyton patted her mother’s hand to keep her from becoming agitated. Although Leon said he’d seen a pretty young girl in the garden last night.
Had her sister found her and her mother?
* * *
LIAM CONSIDERED CALLING AHEAD for an appointment with Dr. Butler but decided not to give him a heads-up. If the man hadn’t been truthful about Mrs. Inman’s death, he’d had five years to per
fect his lies.
And if he’d covered for another employee, Liam didn’t want to give him time to alert the other person they were digging into the case again.
Unlike many of the doctors who’d worked at Whistler Hospital at the time of the fire, Dr. Butler had returned once the renovations had been completed. Many had transferred to other facilities during the interim.
At one point, Liam had considered leaving Whistler himself. Too many memories. But his roots ran deep, his family was here and he’d decided to stand up for the town in his father’s name.
Getting justice was his top priority. No matter who he ticked off or what feathers he ruffled.
He parked at the hospital, and went inside, then headed to the chief of the hospital’s office. A year ago, Dr. Butler had left the ER for administration. The receptionist, a cheerful middle-aged woman named Erma frowned when he flashed his credentials. “I need to speak to Dr. Butler.”
“Can I ask what it’s about?” Erma asked.
“The Barry Inman case and the fire five years ago.” He locked his hands together in front of him. “It’s important.”
Alarm flashed in her eyes, and she pressed the speaker on her desk. “Dr. Butler, a Special Agent Liam Maverick is here to see you. He says it’s important.”
A slight pause, then the doctor wheezed a breath. “All right, send him in.”
Erma walked him to the entry, then opened the door. Liam thanked her, quickly scanning the man’s office as he entered. Files were stacked everywhere in a haphazard fashion. Sticky notes covered the edge of his desk by his computer and memos filled a cork bulletin board behind him. The bookshelves were a little neater with medical reference books along with books on hospital policies and management.
The doctor was late forties, neatly trimmed brown hair, medium height and build. In spite of the fact that he wasn’t actively working the ER anymore, he wore a white doctor’s lab coat over khakis and a button-down-collared shirt.