I edged closer. Still no movement.
A trap? Asleep? Dead?
I circled around from the back of the car to the driver’s side, still keeping a good ten feet away.
Now I got a clear look at the person. Lydia. Slumped over the steering wheel.
“Lydia!”
She didn’t answer.
“Lydia!” I called again. But now I was close enough to see the bullet hole in the back of her head and knew she would never answer.
I shoved my gun in my waistband, barely remembering to click the safety on, and grabbed my phone, hastily dialing 911.
I told the operator my location and my emergency. For now I kept it brief. I’d been at the hospital with someone, returned to the parking lot, and found someone slumped over in her car.
But it wasn’t that simple, nowhere near that simple. The shot was a professional execution. One bullet to the brain. Her purse had been emptied on the seat next to her. I was betting that was to make it seem like a robbery. Low-life thugs can certainly shoot their robbery victims, but not with this accuracy and precision.
Given the location, the paramedics were here almost immediately.
In the two minutes it had taken them to arrive, I had seen all I needed to see. Lydia was clearly dead, her eyes open and glassy, a massive amount of blood soaked into her seat. She was probably dead the minute the trigger was pulled. Her skin was warm to the touch; if it had the faint beat of life, she could be just sleeping. She hadn’t been dead long.
I moved away from them, properly parking my car on the far side, out of the way. I couldn’t leave, not until the police got here, but I had no interest in watching the futile efforts of the EMTs.
Several police cars arrived, sirens and flashing lights. I wondered why they needed them to spiral up seven flights to the top of a parking garage. One patrol officer asked me two yes-or-no questions—had I found the body and would I stay until the detective arrived.
I replied yes to both and then was left to wait. More cars arrived.
I didn’t recognize the detective who ambled over. But I did know his attitude—he seemed like he didn’t want to be here, and because he didn’t want to be here, he would make everyone else join him in his misery.
He didn’t introduce himself. “You’re damn lucky. This is why we tell people it’s not good to be alone in dangerous places. This was a robbery gone wrong. You could have easily been dead in your car.”
I’d been debating how much I wanted to let the police know. Selfishly, how involved I wanted to be. But also that this was turning into a complicated mess. Just my luck to have a police detective who clearly didn’t like complicated messes when he was the one to catch the case. He seemed to have already latched onto the quick and easy explanation—a robbery gone sour.
“What the hell were you doing up here anyway?” he demanded, the first question he’d asked after his lecture.
“I was with my partner over in the hospital,” I explained.
“Partner?” He squinted his eyes at me. “Business partner?”
“The person I live with.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
I didn’t see how that had anything to do with this investigation. “Why do you need to know that?”
“I ask the questions here. You don’t like it, we can go downtown.”
Power mad bastard. “She has cancer,” I said tersely.
“What, you queer?”
I stared at him. Most of the NOPD are pretty cool. They deal with Mardi Gras and Southern Decadence with aplomb, letting the leather boys pose with them for pictures. I get the one remaining homophobe. “I guess if you’re going to ask questions like that we’re going downtown. I need to stop by the internal affairs guys anyway.”
He stared at me. Finally backed down, “What time did you find the body?”
I glanced at my watch. “An hour ago, around nine thirty.”
“Can you be more exact?”
“Nine thirty-one.”
“What did you do?”
“Called nine-one-one.”
“Anything else?”
“Waited for the EMTs.”
“When did they get here?”
“Nine thirty-three.”
“You see anyone around here?”
“When I was getting in my car, two cars from up here came by. A dark SUV and a red sports car.”
“You get a look at the people driving them?”
“No, they were going far faster than they should have been and I just glimpsed them in my rearview mirror.”
“You weren’t parked on this floor?”
“No, one level down.”
“So what where you doing up here?”
“Got turned around and missed the exit.”
“And just happened to notice a dead woman in the car?”
“She wasn’t driving fast. I wondered about those two cars speeding out of here, so I looked carefully,” I explained. It was as close to the truth as I felt I could get with him.
“Next time you might want to curb your curiosity. You almost walked into a bad robbery. These punks don’t give a damn who they kill. They probably got twenty dollars from her.” He started stalking away from me.
“Pretty good shots for punks.”
He turned back. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“Shot at the base of the skull. Professional execution.”
“You been watching too many crime shows.” He turned away and kept going.
I could pull out my license to indicate I knew more than the average Josie parked in front of Law & Order. But Nameless Asshole didn’t want a complicated case, and I would get the opposite of thanks if I pointed out the holes in his robbery gone wrong theory.
“Am I free to go?” I yelled.
He didn’t bother answering.
I took that as a yes. They could stop me if they really didn’t want me to leave.
They didn’t. No one even glanced my way as I drove off.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I was beyond tired by the time I got home. It had been an emotionally exhausting day. I shut my brain off, helped by gulping half a glass of Scotch and fell into bed, only pausing long enough to toss off my clothes. My teeth could survive missing one brushing.
But the alarm clock woke me early—I had set it—and the events of yesterday loomed over me.
Cordelia was in the hospital. I needed to get up there and see her.
Lydia was dead.
Lydia hadn’t sent the text.
I had the kind of hangover that doesn’t come with alcohol. In retrospect, I should have just jumped through whatever hoops Nameless Asshole would have required for me to give him all the info. Lydia and I were supposed to meet last night to look at records and see if someone was cooking the books. She hadn’t showed. She had been what I thought was paranoid about secrecy, worried that someone might find out she suspected. Someone wanted her silenced.
Someone had walked up to her car, put a gun against her skull, and pulled the trigger. It had probably happened so quickly, she had no time to react. If she was lucky, she had no time to think and realize she was about to get killed. It had been a cool, professional hit.
If she had died shortly before I found her, then it was likely that the two cars I saw had something to do with it. If she had been dead for a while, then maybe it was just coincidence that they left around the same time. She was parked in a dark area—or had the light been destroyed? I saw her because I was looking. Most people would have just gone to their cars and left.
A dark SUV and a red sports car. I had seen a dark SUV and a red car out in New Orleans East. No, it wasn’t the same. The car out in the east had been a very high-end car. Even though I’d managed only a glimpse, this one was not nearly as fancy.
And how could these two cases be connected anyway?
But they could. Reginald Banks had been a patient with this group and he had taken The Cure. For the kind of money
he was making, Grant Walters had to be doing more than NBG and selling The Cure. How about insurance fraud? That would be a moneymaker.
He would have the connections to bring the kind of professional who killed Lydia. He could even be that kind of killer. His eyes were hard and flat, as if people were only to be used or shoved out of his way.
The only thing that didn’t make sense was the text. That was amateur. Someone panicking and hoping that a few words could make it all go away.
I grabbed my phone and replied, Okay, cool. Glad things are okay. You have a great weekend.
It was a long shot—the phone was probably in a landfill by now, but I wanted them to think their ruse had worked. Meth heads like Dudley were bad enough, I didn’t need a pro after me as well.
I felt numb, surrounded by circling events that felt like they were spinning out of control.
I forced myself to eat a good breakfast, resisting the urge to add a Bloody Mary to it.
Cavalry. That’s what I needed.
Really wanting that drink, I picked up the phone and dialed Joanne. She wouldn’t be happy that I’d made a mess for her to clean up—withholding information from an asshole. But it was info the cops needed to have, otherwise Lydia would be another victim of a senseless robbery and no one would look any further.
“What?” she answered the phone.
I gave as brief an explanation as I could. The silence when I finished didn’t bode well.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Not giving me time to answer, she said, “Look, I’m in Baton Rouge, I’ll deal with it Monday when I’m back in the office.”
“But…”
“The woman is dead. Nothing is going to bring her back. You made a bad decision to not tell him everything. I’m not going to upend my life to make up for your bad decision. Didn’t want to talk to that detective? I don’t blame you—if it’s who I’m thinking of, he is a major asshole. But you can do what other citizens do and call someone else. Nothing is stopping you from doing that.”
“Okay. Got it,” I said. She had a point, not one I wanted to concede.
“Look, I’m sorry. But…I just can’t do it all, okay?”
“Yeah, I know.” I did know—we were all stretched too thin—she could be here or with Alex in Baton Rouge. I had taken a case, then another case, and somehow stepped off the ledge and Cordelia had cancer. Pulled too tight and in too many directions.
“I’ll see you Monday morning and we’ll take care of it,” she offered.
“Thanks. You didn’t even need to answer the phone. I’ll see you then.” When we hung up I realized I didn’t know if she was with Alex or had some other reason for being there. I hoped it was for Alex.
If you can’t have the cavalry you wanted, you went with the cavalry that was available. I called Rafe. He didn’t answer. Probably too early in the morning for him.
That left me staring at my hands, wondering what the hell to do next.
Go see Cordelia. Pretend that none of this is happening.
I stopped at a florist on the way there and got a big flower arrangement. Every hospital room needed something to brighten it up. I also went Uptown and ran through the grocery store. I got her some cut-up fresh fruit, a really good chocolate bar, and some magazines to read. Maybe I was being nice; or maybe I was being guilty at all the things I was withholding from her.
Temporarily, I reminded myself as I looked for parking on the street. It would be a long time before I’d park in the garage again. She would know soon enough that Lydia was dead, and I’d have to tell her my part in everything. But maybe it would wait until Monday. We could have a weekend with a calm surface.
“Hi, a stranger bringing gifts,” I said as I entered her room.
She smiled at the flowers, at the same time saying, “You didn’t need to do that.” But her smile won the battle, especially when I produced the fruit and the chocolate.
She shook her head, but opened the wrapper and took a chunk.
“Chocolate on Saturday. Let’s make it a rule from now on,” she said. Then she prudently put the candy away and nibbled on the fruit.
We didn’t talk much, mostly it was enough that I was here and could see her, how she was doing. Maybe I needed it, but she seemed better than yesterday. She pointed to the IV tube; it was making up for her lack of appetite.
The day was punctuated by nurses coming by to check her vital signs, our occasional talk.
Rafe called me back to say that he’d flown to Dallas on Friday evening to check on some things and was on an early morning flight tomorrow. We could connect then. I’d stepped out of the room to take his phone call.
As long as Cordelia didn’t hear about Lydia, I wasn’t going to mention it. She needed to focus on herself and getting better.
But I couldn’t help thinking about Lydia and wondering what she had wanted to show me. What was hidden in those records across the street?
In the late afternoon, Cordelia’s doctor came by. They were waiting on a few more tests, but she could probably go home tomorrow. I did another food run after that, getting her a fancy smoked turkey sandwich with avocado. Also a very good dark chocolate bar. And some fruit. Her appetite seemed to be better—maybe because it had been a while since the chemo, so I wanted her to eat while she could.
After supper—the one the hospital delivered—she told me to go home. But I stayed for another hour. Mostly to be with her. Partly because I was considering not going straight home.
“Do you want me to take your clothes home? Bring you clean stuff?” I offered as I was getting ready to leave.
“Would you? I’d appreciate that. Just take everything. That way I don’t need to worry about carting home my purse and briefcase tomorrow.”
“Not a problem.” I smiled at her and kissed her good night.
The last place I wanted to go was back into that garage and office building. So why was I rooting through Cordelia’s briefcase to get her keys and access card?
Because there had been something in those files worth killing to protect. It was likely they’d disposed of whatever it was yesterday. But they might have assumed that with Lydia out of the way, they had time. Maybe even with her out of the way and her death written off to a chance robbery, they were in the clear.
They wouldn’t expect me to be able to get into the building at all and certainly not late on a Saturday night. The sooner I—or anyone, but I seemed to be the only one available—took a look, the more likely I’d find something.
Lydia had died. Cordelia, even inadvertently, was involved.
I’d be quick; I’d be careful. I put her stuff in my car, keeping the keys and swipe card. I also stuffed some latex gloves and a small flashlight in my pocket, put on my holster under my jacket, and took my gun out of my glove compartment. That and my phone, in the other pocket, were my protection.
I again entered through the garage, but this time went up the stairs and carefully scanned each floor looking for red sports cars and dark SUVs. I saw a number of the latter, but closer inspection revealed a toddler seat in one, a dog blanket in another, a rainbow flag on a third one. Of the ones that didn’t so clearly eliminate themselves, they seemed the wrong shape or size; the one I’d seen was big and brutish.
I took the stairs back down to the bridge into the office building, listening carefully before opening the door. No one was around. From there I took the stairs up to the floor where the office was, again listening carefully before entering the elevator lobby. Again, no sound.
I held there for a minute, listening for any noise. First from the elevators, then with my ear against the office door, in case anyone was there. Still quiet, no sound.
I took a deep breath, then put the key in the lock. Cordelia hadn’t mentioned an alarm, so I was hoping they relied on multiple keys and access points. Now was not the time to ask her.
I opened the door and stepped inside. It was dim, only a few lights left on. No alarm sounded. It was lame, but if someone caught
me here, I’d claim Cordelia left her house keys here and needed them. Very lame. I’d only been here once. I tried to remember the layout of the space. Latex glove time. My fingerprints would be on Cordelia’s keys—she’d given them to me, after all. But nowhere else here.
On the first door I came to, I gently tried the knob. It opened to a sparse exam room. The next two were also unlocked and also exam rooms. Across the hall from them was a small reception cubby and, next to it, a waiting room.
I didn’t want to linger, certainly couldn’t stay here long enough to check every room. When she’d retrieved the charts, Lydia had turned to the left on her way to get them. I quickly bypassed the exam area and went back to the door to the conference room and used that as my point of reference.
From there the first door was a bathroom. But the next was locked, with a door swipe pad. I used Cordelia’s. It was an office. A messy office, with piles of paper on the desk and the floor. Only the chair behind the desk wasn’t covered. On it was placed a note—clearly the lone place that it would be noticed—Dr. Hackler, Mr. Bernstein from your bank called. He needs an answer ASAP.
Dr. Hackler? I searched my memory. Ron Hackler, the aloof one from Ole Miss. A bank calling. Did he need money? But his office was a mess. I would need a lot more time than I had and some idea of what it was I was looking for. In truth this was a fishing expedition, with some vague hope of turning up something.
I closed his door, making sure that it locked.
The next was also an office, but almost as opposite from Ron’s as it could be. The desk was neat, only one small pile of journals in the far corner. This was clearly Brandon Kellogg’s office. The walls were framed with his diplomas and certifications, several fishing trophies, and a picture of a blond woman, presumably his wife, and two equally blond boys. Nature was either generous or she’d paid for her bustline. And probably her perfect white teeth and blond hair. He was a doctor; he could afford a good-looking wife. Cordelia was also a doctor, so maybe I was misjudging him. Perhaps she was a cardiologist and he loved her for her brain.
Ill Will Page 30
