by Angi Morgan
“What problem was he having? Something like he couldn’t sleep, right?”
“Night terrors. He’s had them since returning from the Middle East. He’s never really talked to me about his time in the army. The most common question from you guys is do I think he’s capable of killing someone.” She paused, taking a look out the window. “The answer is I don’t know. I haven’t spent a lot of time with him after he left the military. He came to Dallas because of Dr. Roberts and her study. He wanted to be a part of it and live a normal life.”
“Look, Vivian.” He was about to cover her hand but he redirected his hand to the steering wheel. “I’m on your side. Honestly, I don’t know if they’ll reopen the investigation. I’m pretty sure the prosecutor will fight it since he thinks his case is pretty solid.”
“Then what are we doing?”
The windshield wipers banged out a rhythm, adding a slow swish as the rain turned to a sprinkle. “Not giving up.”
“I never did.”
He turned to face her, seat belt stretched tight across his chest. “If your brother is truly innocent...neither will I.”
Where the hell had that come from? That whole fighting-for-justice thought earlier? Maybe. More than likely. It couldn’t have anything to do with the wolf whistle he’d swallowed along with the urgent need to puff up his chest and rescue the fair maiden. Naw...nothing like that.
Or exactly that.
He’d wanted to help Vivian and her brother since meeting her in that ridiculous waitress outfit. The suit, however, fit her to perfection. It was much sexier than the skimpy shorts. Even though he’d enjoyed looking at her legs.
Someone behind him honked a horn. The light was green and he continued to the law office. He parked and Vivian didn’t open her door.
“Look, Slate. As much as I appreciate your promise, I’m not holding you to it. You seem like a nice guy. I have no idea why this is happening to my brother, but it’s not your responsibility.”
“Let’s talk to your lawyer and compare the reports. See what he thinks is going on. Throw around some ideas. Then maybe we can grab dinner and talk.”
* * *
VIVIAN WAS RELUCTANT to walk down the street with Slate to one of his favorite restaurants. The visit with Victor’s lawyer had been a bust. Even her favorite suit couldn’t make her feel better about the cavalier attitude he’d shown by not keeping the appointment.
It began to sprinkle again. Slate grabbed her hand and hurried through the dinner crowd on Maple Avenue and crossed the street.
“Here we go. I’m starved.” He released her hand and shot both of his through his hair, slicking the longer portion on top straight back like he had in her apartment.
“You just ate three hours ago.” She swiped droplets of water from her sleeves, then pulled a curl back under control, tucking it behind her ear. “Slate, I...um...I can’t eat here.”
Sam and Nick’s was the third most expensive steak house in Dallas. She knew only because she listened to customers talk about the amazing places they’d been to—other than her chicken restaurant. She had agreed to come with him to dinner, but she wasn’t going to order anything. She couldn’t. The money in her wallet was bus fare to get her back and forth to court.
“Sorry, I should have asked if you’re a vegetarian or vegan. Look, there’s a place every fifty feet around here. I’m sure we can find one for non-meat eaters.” He grabbed her hand again.
The doorman stared at them.
“I’m not a vegetarian,” she whispered. Then she leaned in closer to him. “This place is too fancy for me.”
“Well, shoot. My mouth is salivating for a good sirloin.” He took a step away from the door, letting another couple pass through. “Wait. This is my idea. My treat. Can we eat here now?”
As much as she’d lowered her voice to avoid embarrassing looks, Slate spoke loudly, not seeming to catch a hint of her embarrassment—at all. He tugged gently on her hand, backing up to and through the open doorway.
The maître d’ recognized Slate as he turned around to face her. “We can seat you right away, Lieutenant Thompson.”
The couple that was before them had just been told it was a forty-five minute wait. Vivian looked at the ranger and he promptly winked at her. He also still had hold of her hand. Firm grip.
“They do have really good sirloin here.”
“So this really is one of your favorite places. They know you on sight.”
He bent close to her ear, his warm breath cascading over the sensitive lobe. “I sort of stopped a robbery one night. They won’t let me forget it.” He jerked his chin to a framed article hanging on the wall.
Well, how about that. He was a real-life hero. She got closer, along with the couple now behind them in line, and read all about the armed robber who hadn’t made it out the door because a Texas Ranger had been dining here.
“Thank God. That’s the first gun we’ve seen out in the open like this,” the woman in line said. “I didn’t know what to think. Do you wear your weapon when you’re on a date?”
“Actually, ma’am—” Slate’s accent turned super slow and drawn out “—I’m required to have it with me at all times. Unless I’ve been drinking, of course.”
The maître d’ returned and Slate’s heavily countrified accent disappeared as he spoke with Candace—he knew the young woman by name—and asked her how her son was getting along at his new daycare.
Seated at a table for two near the corner, Slate held out Vivian’s chair and seated himself against the wall. He waved off the menus.
“Mind if I order for you?”
“Not at all.” She might as well let him. If he was buying, she wouldn’t have to look at the prices and wonder how she’d ever repay him.
“Double the usual, Mikey. And how’s your kid brother? He going to pass chemistry?”
“Yes, sir, Senor Slate. We got him the tutor and it was free. Just like you think.” The waiter raised his brows and looked at her. “You want a drink, Miss? And house salad dressing like Senor Slate?”
“That would be great, and water’s fine. Thanks.”
“He’s a good kid,” Slate said as Mikey walked away. “When his father was killed, he had to quit high school to support his family, but he got his GED.”
She was almost speechless. Almost. “Are you for real? I mean, I thought there was some reason you were offering to help me. Some gimmick. Or something that you’re hiding from the police. But it seems like you genuinely care. Do you?”
Slate Thompson looked surprised. No, he actually looked terrified.
“I hadn’t... I...”
“Don’t worry, Slate. Your secret’s safe with me.”
There weren’t too many people in the world who truly cared about others anymore.
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to discuss the case with your—I need to take this.” He withdrew his phone and answered. “What’s up? No, I’m in Uptown. Yeah, twenty minutes with sirens. You’re certain? I’ll check it out.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Vivian said, “I’ll take the bus home.”
“There’s been a murder-suicide at the VA Hospital. One of the men in the same study as your brother.” He scanned his phone. “If you don’t mind waiting in the truck, I can take you home after. Easier than trying to find the buses in the rain. Come on.”
He asked the waiter to make it a to-go order, paid the bill and left her to go get his truck.
“He’s such a nice man,” the maître d’ said after the door shut behind him. “He saved my life during that robbery. The guy held a gun under my chin and said he was going to blow my head off. After the whole terrifying thing was over, Slate brought a counselor by to talk with me before my shift a couple of days later. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to repay him.”
“He seems very kind.” Ama
zing is more like it.
“Here’s your order,” the waiter said, handing her the bag of food.
Right on cue, Slate pulled up under the awning.
She climbed into the passenger side. “I don’t want to be a bother, Slate. You could drop me at the Rapid Transit station and I can get home from there.”
“You’d ruin your shoes waiting in the rain. I promise, I won’t be long. Wade, one of the guys in my Company, gave me the heads-up.”
“Do you believe it’s related to my brother?”
“Another ranger thinks it’s one of the guys in the study.”
“Right. No promises.”
Get a grip. Slate Thompson had a job. He was doing it, and a side benefit was helping Victor. There was no reason to think any part of it was personal.
No matter how often he held her hand.
Chapter Seven
There is more than one way to kill. There is more than one way to kill. There is more than one way to kill.
Abby wrote in her journal, but scratched each sentence out quickly. She covered it with her hand so no one could see it. Even if she was alone and in a private office.
That didn’t matter. The government spied on everyone through all sorts of devices, and the police were everywhere.
Cell phones had cameras. Stoplights had cameras. Cars had back-up cameras. They were everywhere. She couldn’t get away from them.
Spies were spies and had to be dealt with. But there was no one around. No one to deal with for the moment.
The doctor had said journals were important. Dr. Roberts had a journal and had written about her as a patient, had written about them all. Abby had taken care of her in the best way she could. Not a perfect way, though. Abby hadn’t found that yet.
Dr. Roberts had been right about that particular problem. Abby needed to find it soon. The day was getting close when she’d need to move and start over in another city at another hospital.
“I am not crazy. Dr. Roberts told me I wasn’t. I can believe her,” she whispered.
Abby needed another pencil. She’d scratched out her last journal sentence so hard, she’d broken the tip. She looked around, but there wasn’t another near her to continue. She rolled the chair closer to the small window facing the front of the building.
It was two hours past time to go home. Catching her normal train wouldn’t be possible. She was familiar with the alternative, taking a cab, but that wasn’t possible either. And she was hungry.
Her subconscious suggestions with Rashad Parker had been so successful that he hadn’t waited. He’d gone to the cafeteria, secured a knife and stabbed two people, then slit his throat. Now the hospital was on lockdown.
If she’d known it would work so well, she would have followed him. Now she had been ordered to stay in her office until the hospital was cleared, until the police were certain no one else was at risk.
It was four minutes past dinner.
She moved away from the distracting police lights and arranged the patient binders by date. Then numeric order. She checked the contents to verify that she’d organized them correctly. She’d already finished transcribing the dictation. She listened again. There were no corrections to be made.
She couldn’t allow herself to panic just because her schedule was off. She needed to journal more. That would calm the rising nervousness.
A knock on the outer door relieved the moment of panic. She tucked her journal into her handbag with the microtapes she’d used on the sleep-study patients today. She practiced the concerned look she should have in the glass of the only picture hanging on the wall.
The knock persisted. She grabbed her handbag and twisted the lock.
“Come in.” She stepped away from the door and waited for the person on the other side to open it.
“Ms. Norman?” The man wasn’t dressed like a policeman. He wore a suit and tie.
“Yes. May I go now?”
“Sorry, it’s taken a while to clear the offices on each floor. We understand that you had a Rashad Parker here today.”
“Yes. He’s one of the sleep-study patients. Is he okay? Did something happen?”
“You seem concerned. Was he acting strangely? Make any threats toward anyone?”
“No, of course not.” She added a breathiness that indicated worry. She’d studied an emotional thesaurus and practiced at eight o’clock each evening for half an hour. Even so, unable to pursue her normal routine was making her a bit anxious. “May I leave now? I’ve missed my train and the second train, too.”
“I apologize. I forgot to introduce myself. Detective Arnold. Here’s my card. I’ll have one of the officers escort you out of the building. Mind if I have a look around?”
“I do. I’m not the doctor or the technician. I just set things up for them. There are patient files in here and records. I believe you’ll need a court order to proceed with the hospital.” She gripped the knob and pulled the door closed behind her. “Which officer will see me safely outside?”
“Burnsy. Will you take Ms. Norman out?”
An officer in full uniform with an automatic weapon took her to the stairs. “Sorry, ma’am, but the elevators are off-limits.”
“I prefer the stairs.”
On the ground floor, she waited and allowed the officer to open the door—having to remind him that it was the polite thing to do for a lady. She slipped on her surgical gloves and mask for the ride home. She might be forced to take public transportation, but she would not succumb to the germs. She had important work to finish.
Finally out of the building, she took a deep, satisfying breath. There were so many things to add to her study journal. She wished illustrations were possible but her drawings were elementary. She’d never be able to include the images she had in her mind of Dr. Roberts as she died. A shame she hadn’t taken actual pictures.
The walk through the sprinkling rain to Lancaster Road let her observe the television reporters, the police and the bystanders. The streets were empty except for those types of vehicles. She sat on her bench next to the Veterans Affairs building at the corner of Avenue of Flags and Liberty Loop, taking a moment to reevaluate.
How would she get to her apartment? Not by sitting here. The light rail train home arrived every fifteen minutes. Police blocked the street and rail entrance but as people came down, they showed their hospital badges and were let by. That’s all she had to tell them. She needed by to get home. She had seven more minutes to get on the platform.
A man spoke to both the officers who monitored the road. He showed them a badge. She could hear him offer to help with the situation. But more startled to hear him asking specific questions about Rashid Parker.
“This guy was on my radar and I want to ask the detective in charge to keep me informed. You can understand that, guys, right?”
Abby quickly took out her phone and snapped a picture of the officer. She tried to zoom in on the license plate of the truck he’d gotten out of, but the dimming light and mist made it impossible.
Why is he asking about Rashid?
“Walk past,” she whispered behind her mask. “You’ve missed the train home. You have five minutes and twenty seconds before the next one scheduled. You can control the obsessive-compulsive disorder. You control you. You are not a compulsion.” She channeled the last words, repeating them again and again until her feet moved.
Before she allowed herself to think, she showed the police officers her hospital identification. She was even able to pull down the mask so they could verify. She walked through to the next corner, passing the truck, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, but taking pictures of the truck and its occupant.
The woman inside looked familiar. Someone in the study? No. Maybe one of their relatives? She’d look it up when she returned home. She had a file on everyone participating in her study. Knowing ev
erything about them was crucial, including anyone who might care for them and be an outside influence.
But why was a relative at the hospital? And why was she with a police officer? The dark-haired woman was the wrong race to be waiting on news of Rashid.
Her research would give her answers. Reminding herself that today had been excellent, with excellent results. The murder-suicide was the fastest response she’d ever accomplished.
If Abby experienced joy, there would be elation when writing the details of this event. Such a success.
She was one step closer to discovering the perfect death and implementing it on herself.
Chapter Eight
Slate opened the truck door and Vivian jumped from her skin. He climbed inside and chose not to mention that the doors should have been locked even if he was on the outskirts of the taped-off area.
“I couldn’t find out much more than what Wade told us. Does the name Rashid Parker mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“So your brother never mentioned him or anything?”
“My brother barely speaks to me and never about his doctor’s murder. It’s always events from our childhood, before he joined the army. Does it mean more if he knew Mr. Parker?”
The obvious reason might just be that her brother was guilty. But something told Slate he wasn’t. More than Wade’s hunch. Something bugged him about Subject Nineteen and the fact that Victor wasn’t part of the blind study described in Dr. Roberts’s journal.
That had to mean something.
“I look at it this way. I don’t like coincidences in any case I work.” He was thinking aloud, but being honest with Vivian was essential. “This case has way too many for my comfort level. I’d never hand it over to a prosecutor. I’m surprised the Dallas DA accepted it.”
“This feeling of yours—it has something to do with the sleep study?”
“It’s sort of a rule of mine. The first itch makes me scratch my head. An investigator might accept one. But then when the second coincidence hits, you’re getting into territory that needs another verification. When the third pops up? Well, three coincidences mean something’s hinky and your case is about to go to hell.”