The Garbage Man

by Candace Irving

  Grant? Kate leaned forward. "The caller who left the message on Mr. Kusić's machine was Dr. Parish?"

  "Yeah. I thought...I...mentioned that." Another blink, and another attempt to focus. Both took longer this time.

  The expression Kate had noted upon her arrival had returned. Only tears weren't behind this glaze. It was the sedative the supervisor mentioned. Whatever the nurse had given Abby was kicking in hard, because the woman's eyelashes were drifting down. Abby Carson was fading, and fast.

  This interview was effectively over.

  Kate checked her watch. Just as well. It was almost time for her meeting with Dr. Manning. And past time for answers.

  Kate guided Abby down until she was stretched out on the couch. Retrieving a man's woolen coat from the brass tree beside the door, she used it to blanket the smaller woman.

  "S-sorry. I th-think I n-need—"

  "Sleep. It's okay. You're safe. Your co-workers are right outside. Remember what I said. I left my card with your boss. If you want to talk later, about anything, just call."

  "'Kay."

  Despite the lab supervisor's prediction, the sedative they'd given Abby to settle her nerves had knocked her out. Or maybe it was the grief. Either way, the woman was sound asleep before Kate stepped into the hall.

  She closed the door on the gentle snores and headed for the bank of elevators near the lobby, only to change her mind and turn into a stairwell. Retrieving her phone, she tapped out a text to Seth as she climbed, asking him to verify the trailer's ownership and have the ME test Kusić's remains for oxycodone—then added a request to have patrol let Ruger out, now that she knew Grant was ignoring her.

  Her phone pinged as she reached the shrink's floor. Ruger's scheduled bladder relief was a go—and Seth already had the 411 on the trailer. Seth's conversation with the landlady's husband revealed that Kusić had purchased it. The previous owner just hadn't yet found the balls to inform his wife about the title transfer—and the cash Kusić had paid.

  So the tech had preferred to buy a dump on the outskirts of nowhere with a forty-minute drive to work instead of a sleek starter home to match his toys.

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  Kate located the shrink's office and paused to draw a steadying breath. She could do this, damn it.

  Keep your eyes front and center. Don't look at that damned shelf.

  She dragged in another breath and reached for the handle. Before she could use it to open the door, a sixty-ish man with thick, shoulder-length silver hair beat her to the task from the opposite side.

  "Deputy Holland. A pleasure to finally meet you."

  "Dr. Manning?"

  "Correct. And you're right on time. Excellent." His smile was warm and...weirdly sympathetic.

  Kate chalked up the oddness of the impression to her nerves. After all, she was standing inside a shrink's reception room, speaking one-on-one with that same shrink—something she'd sworn the day she'd separated from the Army that she'd never do again. And there was that floating shelf to her right with its chilling collection of cobalt blue pottery, conveniently placed at eye level. As much as she'd tried to convince herself that she'd be able to ignore it, she was failing spectacularly.

  Against her will, the fingers of her right hand found the dive watch and began the slow, soothing twist. It helped...until the doc paused beside a slender jug. Short of turning her back on the man, there wasn't much she could do but look at him.

  So she did.

  Or, rather, she tried. The world had narrowed. Within seconds, she couldn't see anything but that jug, including the shrink who appeared to be speaking to her.

  What the devil was he saying?

  She felt something grasp her upper arm.

  "Kate."

  She flinched...and managed to meet that steady stare. It helped that the doc had somehow guided her past the row of pottery without her realizing she'd even moved.

  "Would you like to ask your questions inside my office?"

  "Please." She was too relieved to worry about the desperation that had bled into her response.

  The shrink's hand fell away, leaving her to realize she was still gripping her watch. Twisting. She forced herself to sever the connection as the doc motioned for her to precede him.

  By the time they reached the pair of leather club chairs facing his desk, her breathing had evened out. Kate claimed the seat on the right. Though the office was warm, she didn't dare remove her jacket. After her reaction in that waiting room, there was no way she was volunteering a view of the fresh scratches she'd just added to her wrist.

  The shrink rounded his desk, pointing to the large stainless-steel thermos as he sat. "Coffee? I bring it in on the weekends. There's a stack of Styrofoam cups on the table behind you."

  Kate shook her head. "I'm good."

  That smile again. The compassion within was unmistakable. Damning. Along with the doc's uncanny ability to avoid looking at the mangled side of her face without appearing as though he was consciously doing so. It was clear Manning knew—and not just what had happened to her, but how she really felt about it.

  To date, other than that conversation she'd just had with Sergeant Fremont, there was only one other human on the planet with whom she'd even broached that subject. Grant. If she hadn't believed Fremont about her soon-to-be ex-lover's share-fests in this very room, she did now.

  Grant was seeing Manning professionally—and discussing her while he did it.

  Kate talked herself down from the edge of fury for the second time that morning.

  So Manning knew. It was humiliating, yes. But what did it change? Fremont was right—anyone who could turn on the news had a shot at realizing who she was and what she'd done—even if she couldn't recall the crucial details. True, they wouldn't have the insight Grant had clearly provided the shrink, but she refused to let the violation of trust get to her. Instead, she'd do what she always did when confronted with the leaky sieve inside her skull. Ignore it. Ignore Manning.

  At the very least, she'd ignore that relax, you're safe with me stare. Because she wasn't.

  She never would be. "Dr. Manning, exactly how did Ian Kusić gain possession of one of your prescription pads?"

  The man stiffened. Compassion fled his stare. Wariness replaced it.

  Satisfaction filled Kate. While that wasn't the opening salvo she'd have preferred, it had done the trick. And given her the upper hand in the process.

  "Well?"

  Manning shook his head. "I don't know."

  "But you did know the pad was missing?"

  "Of course. I realized it was gone about a month ago, but I didn't know who took it. Are you certain Mr. Kusić had it?"

  Kate retrieved her phone and accessed the photo she'd taken of the pad. She pushed the phone across the desk and waited as the shrink tapped the screen to zoom in on the credentials.

  He frowned as he shoved the phone back. "It's mine, but I have no idea how he got ahold of it."

  "I understand you run a vet-based group PTSD therapy session on Thursday evenings for hospital employees?"

  "I do. But Ian Kusić doesn't attend. I'd never even heard the man's name until I read the paper this morning."

  Shit.

  If Kusić hadn't attended those sessions, her latest theory regarding that group was a bust. Narrowing down where, why and how the killer had targeted his victims was critical—if she had a hope in hell of determining who was next.

  And warning them.

  "What about the second victim? Jason Dunne was new, but I believe he attended your staff vet/PTSD sessions?"

  From those furrowed brows, she'd surprised the shrink again. "Indeed. Jason Dunne did attend. But how did you know? The members of that particular group insist on anonymity. That's why the meetings are held at night."

  Was that why Grant had kept his silence with her?

  At this point, she didn't care—not about that. "A patient saw Mr. Dunne outside your office several Thursdays ago as a sessio
n let out. Dunne was standing beside Grant Parish."

  The doc blinked. As jolts went, she was three for three. His terse frown confirmed he'd reached his limit. "I'm sorry, Deputy. I'm happy to discuss Mr. Dunne and even speculate with you regarding Mr. Kusić. In light of these murders, I'm as determined as the next staffer to assist you in catching their killer as soon as possible. But I can't discuss Dr. Parish's participation, or lack thereof, in any therapy session."

  Ironic, considering he and Grant seemed quite comfortable discussing her.

  She opened her mouth to respond, only to close it as the shrink continued.

  "Though, of course, that confidentiality would naturally extend to you if you were to join the group."

  This time, she blinked.

  The doc nodded. "My offer is sincere. You're more than welcome to join us on Thursdays. As a police officer at first, if you must. But only if you agree to remain with the group after your investigation is complete...and fully participate."

  What the hell had Grant said to this guy? "I was told the group was for VA employees."

  "It started that way. But we've added vets who aren't employed by the VA. And since I facilitate the group pro bono and on my own time, you wouldn't have to enter the VA patient system. Indeed, no one does. The group's sole goal is to provide support for returning veterans. That's it. Trust me—" He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward. "—you would be welcome."

  She might've surprised him, but he'd utterly flabbergasted her. She was also beyond pissed. Not at him. As a shrink, Manning was merely running to type. No, she was pissed with herself. By exposing the bent cards in her deck out in that waiting room, she'd left herself open for this. Wide open.

  "Thank you, but no. I don't mean to be rude, but I've had as much therapy as I can stomach for one life."

  The man nodded gracefully—and let it go.

  Thank God.

  Kate retrieved her phone from the desk and settled into her chair. "Since you're willing to discuss Jason Dunne, could you tell me about his mood this past Thursday?"

  "I wish I could. Unfortunately, he missed the session. One of the other members thought he might've come down with the flu, since he'd texted that member early Tuesday to warn him he'd be missing work the rest of the week."

  "I don't suppose you could provide that member's name, so I can get the exact information in the text?" Otherwise, she'd have to wait for the data dump—if there was anything useful. Given the results of Kusić's, it didn't look promising.

  "I'm sorry, but as I said—"

  "—membership is confidential."

  "Exactly. I will ask if he'll speak with you. But I suspect you could confirm the information with Dunne's supervisor."

  She could. And would. She'd have her fingers crossed while she did it, too. If the supervisor had the same story, her investigation might just be moving forward. Sick people tended to call to bow out of work, not text. Killers intent on posing as sick workers who were actually victims tended to do the opposite.

  "Is that all, Deputy?"

  "Unless you're willing to discuss what Mr. Dunne brought up in those therapy sessions, yes."

  "I'm afraid the content—"

  "—is confidential."

  His smile returned. "Yes. And as I'm sure you know, barring a court order, patient confidentiality survives death. But please believe me. If I thought anything said would help, I'd be inclined to mask the information within a few oblique clues. Unfortunately, Mr. Dunne's concerns were far too common with too many of our nation's vets."

  "I understand." More than this civilian, however motivated and apparently genuinely sympathetic, could know.

  Kate retrieved several business cards as she stood. She stacked them on the edge of the man's desk as he too came to his feet. "If you or any members of your group think of something that may help, please don't hesitate to contact me."

  The shrink nodded as he rounded the desk with his own card. Instead of dropping it in her outstretched palm, he folded her fingers up around it. "I'd like you to feel free to call me too. Anytime. Day or night."

  It was everything she could do to not yank her hand from his and dump his card on the blotter. Instead, she offered a crisp nod. "Thank you for your time, doctor."

  "Wait. I have something. I suppose there's no harm in asking you to return it." The man withdrew a set of keys from his trousers and used one to unlock the center drawer of his desk.

  Kate's curiosity blossomed as he rifled through the mess within.

  "Could've sworn I left it—ah, here it is." He rounded the desk to drop something solid and sleek into her palm.

  A phone?

  It was clear he assumed it belonged to Grant. He must, given that Jason Dunne was gone. You couldn't return something to a dead man. But Grant carried a smartphone. This bargain basement number belonged in the nineties—or strapped to an IED on the other side of the globe. It was a goddamned disposable burner. She ought to know; she'd confiscated enough of these cheap-ass things during her time in anti-terror.

  And it was Grant's?

  "With Dr. Parish on vacation this past week, I haven't been able to return it. And with everything that's happened, I doubt I'll have the time now. Perhaps you'll do the honors?"

  Vacation?

  Suspicion continued to slam in, and on multiple fronts—until the horror of it was inescapable.

  It wasn't possible. Damn it, it just wasn't possible. She knew the man. She'd been crawling into bed with him for months. But the facts were inescapable.

  And mounting up.

  Two phones. One, she'd wager her badge, was untraceable. A week-long vacation her so-called lover had forgotten to mention—while he was screwing her. A job in the VA facility sister to one where both victims worked. That Grant knew said victims intimately, yet had left them off the friends' list he'd frequently brought up. Grant's own fucked-up psyche, compliments of three back-to-back tours as a trauma surgeon in Iraq. The fact that Grant was an older brother to yet another soldier who'd been so blown to shit in Afghanistan that they'd had to bury Dan in pieces.

  She still refused to accept it.

  Damn it, she couldn't.

  For Christ's sake, she'd been dancing with the devil since she was an eighteen-year-old MP out on that Afghan road, scooping up the remains of her first squadmate. She knew evil. If Grant was responsible for carving up those men and lining up their coldly-packaged pieces, she'd know.

  Wouldn't she?

  8

  "Deputy Holland? Are you okay?"

  No, she was not. Kate wrenched her attention from the phone in her hand. "Dr. Manning, are you certain this belongs to Grant?"

  The shrink nodded. "It was in his chair a week ago Thursday, wedged behind the cushion. I didn't find it until after he left my office. By then, Dr. Parish had left the hospital. I wasn't able to reach him before his vacation began the following evening. Though I suppose I'd just assumed it was his. Are you saying it's not?"

  Kate powered up the cellphone. Antiquated technology or not, the phone was password protected.

  So much for an easy explanation.

  She slid a professional smile into place as she stared the shrink squarely in the eye. "It's Grant's. I'll ensure he gets it." After she had one of the guys at the lab crack open the SIM card and comb the contents to make sure it was his—and, if so, figure out what Grant was doing with a second phone. "I appreciate your time. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead, so I'll let you get back to work."

  Kate tucked the phone in her pocket before the shrink could see through her smile and spun around to leave, only to catch sight of the tattered and singed Islamic flag mounted above the grouping of chairs to the right of the door.

  Ice-cold dread slugged in, stopping her in her tracks.

  She was dimly aware of the shrink spouting something about the flag being a gift from a Special Forces team he'd worked with in Afghanistan, but she couldn't respond. Hell, she couldn't even breathe. It was as though
every cell in her body had been paralyzed, save those of her heart. That traitorous organ was pounding so hard, it put a howitzer to shame. When the shrink joined her in front of that half-shredded flag, she swore he could hear it slamming against her ribs.

  Surely he could see the sweat.

  The perspiration had popped out over every inch of her flesh, coating her with slime. Her uniform shirt and trousers were drenched—and the dread in her belly had morphed into full-blown shrieking panic. Nausea had crashed in as well, along with a succession of short, frantic gasps for air that couldn't quite fill her lungs.

  Yet, still, she just stood there, frozen.

  Until the shrink touched her arm.

  Just like that, every cell in her body regrouped instantly, and with a vengeance. She had no idea where she was headed as she twisted her arm free and bolted from the room. Her mindless sprint carried her across the deserted reception area. It wasn't until she'd breached the outer door that she realized the bile still churning through her gut was intent on its own violent—imminent—breaching. Her boot falls echoed along the antiseptic corridor as she raced toward the bathroom she'd spotted on the way in.

  God willing, she'd make it in time.

  She slammed through her third door, then her fourth as she lurched into the closest stall and knelt to purge the sludge that had been bubbling up since before Ruger had woken her from that first night terror the day before.

  The heaving continued until there was nothing left inside but the frothing dregs of acid and the burn of absolute confusion.

  What the hell had just happened?

  Her body had threatened to betray her before, but she'd always been able to control it. At least while she was awake.

  Was this to be her new normal?

  If so, how on earth was she supposed to solve these two murders and bring the killer to justice? Keep her job afterward?

  Deputy Holland of the Braxton PD might not be much, but it was all she had left.

  Ruger. Lord, she needed him. She craved his warmth and his unconditional acceptance more than she ever had before.