by Janet Rebhan
“Fiona, I think you’re right to come clean with Dr. Goodwin about this. I don’t think he’ll fire you, but even if he does, you have to clear your conscience. I don’t know what he’ll want to do as far as admitting the error to the two patients involved. That’s his call. Hopefully, he’ll do the right thing. But I think you begin by telling him what you did and why.”
Nancy heard Fiona sigh audibly.
“I knew you would say that,” Fiona said.
“Your intentions were always only good ones.”
“I know. Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call you again after I’ve spoken with him.”
Nancy placed her cell back in her purse and walked to the physician’s quarters, where she placed her handbag in her locker. She would call Detective Coffey on her next break. As she walked down the freshly mopped hallway toward the emergency room, she felt a chill go up her spine all the way to her ears and spread out across the base of her skull. It wasn’t the first time she had ever had one. In fact, she got them all the time. Usually, they were a sign to pay close attention—sometimes a warning of impending danger. Other times, they came as she conversed with someone, alerting her that the person speaking had something to teach her. Always, the chills were a sign to be aware.
This particular chill was intense and long lasting. Instinctively, she knew her conversation with Fiona was somehow connected with Detective Coffey. She knew it was no accident she had received Fiona’s call prior to speaking to the detective. Logically, she could come up with absolutely no possible connection. But Nancy did what she always did when these things happened. She trusted her feelings. She would pay attention. And she would continue to silently open herself up for direction from her inner wisdom.
She walked carefully, her shoes making small squeaking noises as she stepped lightly, avoiding the shiny accumulations of liquid still lurking in shallow depressions on the linoleum. Just before she entered the double swinging doors to the emergency room to resume her shift, the name broke into her thoughts as though it hadn’t even come from her own mind, as if someone invisible had just come up behind her and spoken it forcefully into her ear, only it wasn’t exactly audible—more like a direct deposit into her psyche. It was jarring.
Nancy recalled Fiona telling her about the two women whose pregnancy tests’ results had been erroneously switched. Fiona had mentioned both of their names to Nancy as she relayed the whole story to her. But the name that kept coming back to Nancy now—the name she had just heard as loud and as clear inside her head as if she’d spoken it herself—was the name of Caroline Martin. She now had no doubt that Caroline Martin, the woman whose baby, according to Fiona, had been unintentionally aborted during a routine hysterectomy, had a connection to Mary Anne Maynard, the abused and ill-fated young woman who had given birth around the same time only to be separated from her baby through other equally tragic circumstances. But what exactly that connection could be, Nancy Kelley had absolutely no idea.
CHAPTER 8
Detective Mitch Coffey stretched backward in his swivel chair and extended his long arms toward the ceiling, lacing his fingers together and turning them inside out to crack his knuckles. Keeping his fingers interlocked, he placed them behind his head and hoisted his feet up on the top of his desk, crossing them at the ankles. It was one thirty already, and he hadn’t eaten lunch yet. He looked around the near-empty squad room at the Topanga police station. All the other detectives were either grabbing a bite to eat or out in the field. Only two other people currently shared the office: the front desk receptionist and his lieutenant.
He thought about grabbing an organic tempeh taco from Wyld at Heart, the health food store only a few blocks away, but the parking situation there usually sucked during the lunch-time hours.
For some strange reason, he wasn’t really all that hungry today anyway. He sat forward and opened the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk, where he kept his snack foods. There he found a fresh banana, a bag of raw unsalted almonds, and some Extend bars, Peanut Delight flavor. He reached for an Extend bar and opened it. Even though he wasn’t very hungry, he knew he had to eat, anyway, or his brain would get fuzzy and he would start to see the familiar aura that always signaled the beginnings of a migraine. And he didn’t want to go there. His last migraine had lasted three days, and he couldn’t even get out of bed the first day. He hated taking the medication his doctor gave him, because he’d heard it was bad for the heart. And he didn’t like putting anything in his body that wasn’t healthy if he didn’t have to. So he usually popped a couple of Advil and toughed it out.
He had once read that the increase in the number of migraines people were getting might have something to do with the opening of the crown chakra. His yoga instructor had also validated this theory. Mitch had suffered a lower-back injury when he first joined the police department, and his chiropractor had recommended yoga. He had been practicing now for twelve years and sported the lean, toned, and flexible body of a man at least a decade younger. Though he was forty-five years old, everyone always guessed he was in his early thirties. He had been married once to a fellow officer for three years, but he had no children. When he found out his wife was sleeping with his partner, it was the end of wedded bliss for Mitch.
A couple of years later, he moved in with a waitress from Wyld at Heart who read tarot cards on the side for extra money. That relationship lasted five years until she moved back to her hometown in Oregon and became a full-time psychic and aura reader. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously since. His friends were always trying to fix him up on blind dates, but Mitch had had his fill of them. He was content to be a bachelor until the perfect soul mate came along. And if it wasn’t meant to be in this lifetime, he was okay with that. Someday it would be nice to have children, but if it wasn’t in the cards, he could deal with that too. He was very close to his parents and his older brother; he had three nephews, some great buddies, and two yellow labs at home to keep him company. And he had his work, which he loved. Life was sweet.
Mitch washed down the Extend bar with a newly opened bottle of water and sat up straight again at his desk. As he scoured the stack of current case files, the intercom on his telephone beeped.
“Mitch, call for you on line two,” said the front desk receptionist.
He picked up the phone. “Coffey,” he answered.
“Oh yes, Mr. Coffey. This is Ragna Sweeney. I’m the lady you interviewed a couple of weeks ago about the shooting incident at the apartment building on Roscoe Boulevard.”
“Umm,” Mitch said, trying to remember. “Okay, remind me who the victim was?”
“A young pregnant woman. Her name was Maynard. Mary Anne Maynard.”
“Got it.” Mitch reached forward and took Mary Anne’s file out of the stack on his desk. “How can I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know if you’re even aware of this, but I just read in the paper that Mary Anne was killed in an automobile accident three days ago on Box Canyon Road.”
Mitch stopped sifting through the file, and his back stiffened.
“What paper was that?”
“The Daily News San Fernando Valley Edition.”
“No, I didn’t read that,” Mitch said. “Do you have the date of the paper?”
Ragna asked Mitch to hold as she retrieved the paper from the living room. “Friday, June 5. It’s on the first page at the bottom.”
Mitch began typing the information into his keyboard and pulled up the article on his computer. “A passing motorist noticed a man on a motorcycle driving away just as she stopped.” Mitch read directly from the news release. “Oh boy.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Ragna. “The motorcycle. I saw a man on a motorcycle earlier that day hanging around Mary Anne’s apartment building, and he followed her when she left with her baby.” Ragna inhaled audibly. “And that’s the other thing. I noticed she definitely had the baby with her when she left, but the paper doesn’t say anything about a baby being
in the accident. Not one word.”
“Hold on, hold on. Not so fast,” Mitch said. “Let’s take this slow. First, tell me about the motorcycle.” He opened a new document on his computer screen and began to type as Ragna spoke.
“Okay,” said Ragna, slowing her pace. “It was around eight p.m. last Monday—the same day Mary Anne was killed in the accident. I know because Wheel of Fortune had just gone off the air. I looked out my kitchen window and noticed a motorcycle parked across the street from Mary Anne’s apartment building. There was a man standing behind a nearby tree, smoking a cigarette. He still had his helmet on, but he was about the same height and weight as Vito Gamboa.”
Mitch read his paperwork as Ragna explained.
“You live in the apartment next door to Mary Anne, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you saw all this from your kitchen window?”
“Yes. My kitchen window is on the side and faces the side of the neighboring apartment building. There is a narrow alleyway between the two buildings.”
“Right, okay. I remember.” Mitch pulled out a schematic drawing of the buildings that he made at his first interview with Ragna the night Mary Anne had been shot. “And from your window you can also see the front of Mary Anne’s apartment and across the street as well?”
“Yes, and I thought it was strange that this guy was just loitering, you know. But then he flicked his cigarette on the pavement, and as he stamped it out, he removed his helmet, and that’s when I recognized Vito’s face.”
“Okay, but we’re talking eight p.m., right? It’s pretty dark at that time of the evening. How could you tell it was him?” Mitch said.
“Well,” Ragna continued, “I was already suspicious because his mannerisms were the same. The way he walked. Vito smokes too. And who else would have a reason to be hanging around like that?”
“Maybe lots of people,” Mitch said. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
“Yeah, but then as soon as Mary Anne came and left again with the police escort, he followed them immediately. Not only that, but the street lights are pretty bright around here. I know it was his face I saw when he took the helmet off. I remember I got chills.”
“Okay, okay,” Mitch said, laughing a little bit to himself. Mrs. Sweeney came across as the quintessential nosey neighbor busybody, but he liked her. She was nice, and she meant well.
“Tell me about the police escort.”
Ragna filled the detective in on the details.
“And what’s this about the baby? I thought she was like eight months pregnant,” Mitch said.
“I can only assume she had her baby a little early when she was in the hospital. There was definitely a baby. I saw her carry her into the building, and I saw her drive away with a baby in the car. In fact, she stopped almost directly underneath my kitchen window when she let the female officer out of her car. I saw the baby in the back in a car seat dressed head to toe in pink. Her little legs were kicking, and I could even hear her making noises.”
Mitch typed all of the information directly onto his computer as he spoke to Ragna.
“Okay, Mrs. Sweeney. This is all very good information, and I thank you for calling me to let me know. I will call you if I need any more from you.”
“Are you going to find out what happened to that baby?”
“I’m going to do my best.”
“I sure hope that Vito guy doesn’t get his hands on her. I can’t imagine he could have taken her on a motorcycle, and the paper didn’t say anything about a baby either.”
“I’ll look into it. Thanks again for calling.”
“One more thing, detective,” Ragna said. “I’m just curious why you weren’t informed of Mary Anne’s death? Don’t you guys get Google alerts or something when your victims are in the news? I mean, this is your case after all.”
Mitch paused a moment before speaking. “In an ideal world, Mrs. Sweeney, it would work that way. But the reality is we don’t have the time or the resources to enter data on every victim of a crime or arrest that comes our way. Usually, a case will get priority when someone like yourself takes a personal interest and makes a phone call just like you’ve done here. That’s why we have things like neighborhood watch. It often takes a concerned citizen to bring it to my attention and that’s exactly what you’ve done here, so I thank you for that.”
When Mitch hung up the phone, he printed his notes, sticking the new page of information on the top of Mary Anne’s file. Then he walked directly to his lieutenant’s office, pausing at the door to knock first.
“What’s up, Mitch?” the lieutenant said.
“Remember the shooting of the pregnant woman I got a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s dead,” Mitch said. “She was killed in a suspicious traffic accident. Not only that, but apparently she had the baby when she was in the hospital, and now the baby’s missing.”
“Holy shit.”
“I’m going to try to figure out if there is any foul play with the accident. It doesn’t look good because my witness says she saw the shooter following the woman from her house minutes before the traffic accident occurred.”
The lieutenant shifted in his chair. “Well, shit, has any of this been in the press?”
“No, not yet,” Mitch said. “I’m going to get on this right now. I have to take a look at the vehicle. Apparently, it’s a sheriff’s impound. The accident happened on Box Canyon, and most of that’s county territory.”
Mitch returned to his desk and immediately called the county sheriff’s office. He asked to be connected to the detective handling the fatal accident on Box Canyon Road. After a couple of rings, Mitch heard a deep male voice on the other end of the line.
“Witkowsky here.”
“Hey, this is Detective Mitch Coffey at the Topanga police station. I’m investigating an ADW, and I’ve just been informed my victim was involved in a traffic accident on Box Canyon Road, which would be your jurisdiction. I’m assuming the car was impounded, and I’m hoping you guys have it. Female driver was killed. Name of Mary Anne Maynard.”
“Oh yeah, we’ve got it. Boy, you’ve got good timing. I’ve got my witness from the accident sitting right here in front of me, matter of fact.”
Mitch’s adrenaline started to spike. “Oh man. There’s a baby missing. Does your witness know anything about that?”
“That’s precisely why she’s here. She’s had the baby all this time. There was a big freaking mix-up because the first responding police officer and the deputy sheriff that eventually took over bungled the whole thing. Apparently my deputy thought the baby belonged to the witness, and the witness thought she was allowed to take the baby home until next of kin was notified.”
“Good God.” Mitch took a deep breath. “Did you guys do an autopsy yet on the driver?
“Yeah.”
“What was the cause of death?”
The sheriff’s detective rustled some papers. “It appears to be the airbag… broke her neck… killed her instantly.”
“Could this have been a homicide?” Mitch said. “Did you personally look at the car?” Before the sheriff’s detective could answer, Mitch continued. “I’m just wondering if there were any bullet holes. A motorcyclist was seen following her just before the accident, and I think he’s the boyfriend who shot her a few weeks ago. I think somehow he may have caused the accident.”
“Shit. And my witness saw a guy on a motorcycle flee the scene of the accident.”
Mitch grew more animated. “You said your witness is with you now?”
“Yeah, she’s sitting right in front of me. She’s got the baby and her husband with her.”
“Can you ask her to sit tight? I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Sure thing; we’ve got to wait for child services to pick up the baby anyway.”
As soon as Mitch hung up the phone, it buzzed again.
“This is Coffey.”
By the tim
e Nancy Kelley told Mitch Coffey her story, Mitch’s head was spinning. He had an assault with a deadly weapon that now looked more like a homicide, an innocent baby whose next of kin was most likely the murderer, and two women whose primary concern was that this crazy man didn’t get his hands on the baby. Mitch knew he had to work fast to put all the clues and evidence together. If everything was as it appeared to be, he would have to make a solid case against Vito Gamboa so he would never get custody of his own child.
“You’re good. You’re really good.” Thor sat down next to Aurora and looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of their office in the clouds. Their chairs faced the windows, angled slightly toward each other.
“I know,” Aurora smiled. “I’ve been doing this for a long time.”
“I feel honored to be working with you,” Thor said.
“Don’t—you’ll be as good one day. It’s only a matter of practice.”
“How’d you do that? I mean, make the detective not hungry so he didn’t go to lunch, so he was there when the calls came through? I mean it’s all so intricate, the detail work involved.”
“Practice. And it helps greatly when humans are open to being led. They don’t have to pray necessarily, but they do have to be open-minded and kind-hearted in general. And of course, the healthier they are physically, the easier it is to communicate with them. Also, if you’ll recall, our baby Rachael is an old soul, and she orchestrated this backup just in case. She chose to surround herself with others who were also older, more advanced souls. I mean, LA in particular is a very advanced city in a very advanced nation, so far as planet Earth goes anyway. They don’t call it the City of Angels for nothing.”
“Ha. Now that’s funny. City of Angels. It’s just so complicated. Awesome but complicated.” Thor sighed heavily, surveying the austerity of the room. “Would you like a fire?”
“Oh, that sounds nice. I’d love one. Fires always make me feel like being introspective, listening, relating. Warmth is good.”
