"COME IN GIRLS." Kayla opened the connecting door to Emily and Sophia. Both girls had long blond hair and wore sundresses. The smell of marijuana on them was unmistakable, but she knew it wasn't her place to say anything. Angie had told her Emily was seventeen and Sophia eighteen. Kayla remembered being just like them, fifteen years ago, but she'd had pulled it together and gone to college.
Emily spoke first. "Sophia knows who tied her up."
Kayla looked at them impassively and waited for more.
Sophia said, "A man broke into Patrick Whitehead's house when I was there and tied us both up. I was frightened that he was going to rape me—but he didn't. He left me in a dark closet for hours, and I peed myself."
"You're the victim of the home invasion I heard about?" Kayla asked.
"It was horrible. The guy wore one of those ski masks and funny-looking goggles. The police didn't seem to believe me when I said I had no idea who'd done it." Sophia's blue eyes flashed with excitement at the notoriety the event had bestowed on her. "Patrick wants to keep seeing me, you know, but Emily and I think he's into something illegal. My mom has grounded me, but I can come here. It's my dad who frightens me. If he ever finds out I've had sex with Patrick, he'll kill both of us."
Emily said, "He's violent to Sophia and her mom, while her two younger twin brothers do whatever they want."
"So how do you know the person's identity if he wore a ski mask?" Kayla asked.
"She recognized his voice," Emily explained.
Sophia continued, "I was screaming after he tied me up. He called me a stupid little bitch, but he said he wasn't going to harm me, and help would arrive soon. He had a distinctive New York accent. I heard the same voice at the supermarket checkout when I was bagging groceries there after school."
"She took a picture of him. Show her the scary looking dude, Sophia," Emily elbowed her friend.
Kayla gasped when she saw the picture on Sophia's phone. It was none other than the bald man with a stubble beard again—Kent Brickman.
CHAPTER 42
WHEN I ASKED OFFICER SMITH to drop me off at the station, he tried to insist that Townsend had told him to take me straight home from Lightning Self Storage where I'd shot Hildegard. But he saw I was in no mood for arguing.
In the squad room, I found Detective's Assistant Jackie Orvar speaking excitedly to Prentiss. When she saw me, she said, "I've made an interesting discovery about the names on the list you found in Beth's locker. It's taken me hours to figure it out. But it finally came to me."
"Spit it out, Jackie." I wasn't in the mood for guessing games.
"Remember I discovered the names were all children who died on the dates shown on the list. Well, they all died of cancer. Not just Ananda's kid." Orvar looked like a dog awaiting a treat.
"So, the lists are about something medical?" I retorted.
"Malpractice, maybe?" Prentiss suggested.
"But why did Jack Bennett have a copy when he died?' I asked. "You have to admit the cases are connected."
Prentiss gave me a blank look and shrugged.
"Did Beth or Matt discover something wrong with the treatment the kids received?" Orvar fixed her eyes on me.
"I can't imagine that's what Beth was onto, because of the difficulty in proving it," I said. "Unless it's blatantly obvious: a doctor taking out the wrong kidney, amputating the wrong foot. But even then, the medical board investigates, not the police. Dr. Walker's patients are very sick, and a percentage of them are going to die. Others may stay sick for a long time. How would anyone prove his patients are not getting better as quickly as they should?"
Prentiss said, "If Beth found evidence of crimes, we can too."
"Yes and no. A reporter isn't bound by the same rules of evidence as we are. She could have come by the information illegally. Or what she had might not be enough to stand up in court at a criminal trial. Let's pay another visit to Dr. Walker and see what he has to say." Maybe Beth had found something rotten about the doctor. I picked up Prentiss' desk phone and dialed the hospital. Anna answered the call. I told her I wanted to speak to Dr. Walker, and she replied:
"If it isn't the impatient Detective Riley again. Dr. Walker is on his way back from surgery. Oh wait, he's here now." After a pause, she continued, "You're in luck. A procedure was canceled. He'll see you if you can come over right away."
As we headed to the hospital in Prentiss' car, I related the events at the self-storage facility. "Townsend now has a perfect excuse to suspend me."
"Suspension from duty is standard procedure after an officer-involved shooting death," he replied.
"While I'm out, Townsend will give you my case, but I'm going to keep working on it. I must see this investigation through for my sanity. Just don't tell him what I'm up to."
"Do you honestly think you should be doing that? He'll fire your ass if he finds out." Prentiss fixed his eyes on me for a moment, narrowly missing another car.
Ten minutes later, we were walking out of the elevator on the second floor of the pediatric building at Abbey Mount Hospital.
This time, the waiting room was crowded with anxious parents and sick-looking children of all ages. Anna came to the window and directed us to a nearby office. I knocked on the closed door, and Walker called us in. We found him seated in an overstuffed leather chair at his desk. He closed the file he was reading and waved his hand for us to sit while flashing his perfect white teeth.
"Thanks for seeing us, doctor," I said.
"A surgery was canceled at the last minute. What can I do for you?"
"How long have you worked here?"
"I was appointed the head of the pediatric unit just over five years ago."
"And before that, you worked at UC Davis Medical Center?" Scott asked.
"Correct."
"If a local child has cancer, what is the likelihood you will be their doctor," I asked.
"One hundred percent will come to this hospital. But no patient sees one doctor exclusively. Cancer treatment is lengthy, and in the course of their disease, a child will see interns, residents, and attendings. Their treatment dictates who they see."
"But would it be safe to say you oversee every patient's treatment."
"Yes, but I don't see why it's a police matter."
"Bear with me, doctor. Can you please look at this?" I handed him a copy of the list we'd found in Beth's locker.
Walker's eyes widened for a moment, then he seemed to catch himself. "What is this?"
Had he seen the list before? I wondered. "Each of those names is a child who has died of cancer, and the date of their death is shown there. A good percentage have died in the time you've worked here."
"I've told you before, I can't comment on specific cases and names. But in general, although we're making inroads into curing childhood cancers, the mortality rate is still quite high. You'd expect to see a list like this in a demographic like the one we cover."
"Let me ask my question another way. If I told you a reporter had a list of your patients, who'd died, what would you think?"
"I'd think there'd been a data breach because there's no other way they could get the information."
"Do you send data on local cancer patients anywhere else?" Scott asked.
"We send a monthly report to the Department of Health. They track rates of diseases in the country. Hospital Management also gets statistical information, but there's no legitimate way for anyone else to see it." Walker was unruffled.
"We think this list is a very significant piece of evidence. Is there any way of finding out what type of cancers they had, and if anything about their illnesses was out of the ordinary?" I fixed my eyes on Walker.
"Not without a court order. The judicial system is very protective of medical information, particularly that of children."
"I might get one. The two people who had this list in their possession are both dead. The reporter was murdered, and the businessman's death is suspicious.
"Alright, but I still don'
t know how I can help."
"Can you tell me what the most common childhood cancers are?
"Leukemia and tumors of the central nervous system are the most frequently seen forms. We've seen an uptick in the aggressiveness of some of the common cancers, and an increased incidence of the rarer ones like kidney and bone tumors."
"Beth Gervais, the dead reporter, was investigating something about these children. I don't know if it was the treatment they received or the causes of their cancers." I was hoping for a reaction.
"The childhood cancer survival rates at this hospital are as good as anywhere in the country, and I must warn you that to suggest otherwise will open you to litigation. Abbey Mount Hospital is very protective of its excellent reputation. As for causes, some are genetic, and others are environmental. For many cancers, we just don't know why patients get them. Factories and cars dump an enormous quantity of toxins into the air we breathe and the water we drink. That's a fact of life. Is it criminal? Certainly, in the broadest sense of the word. But not in the context of crimes investigated by police, such as yourselves." Walker's politeness bothered me. By the second interview, people usually get testy, especially those with as tight a schedule as a hospital doctor.
"Is the uptick you've seen anything like a cancer cluster or hotspot?" Scott asked.
"Goodness no. Certain parts of the country have higher rates of particular types of cancer—pancreatic in the southeast, uterine on the east coast. We can't explain these variations. There are also smaller locations with higher than average overall cancer rates. What we've seen here over the past twenty years is slightly higher mortality rates in childhood cancers than surrounding areas. You expect to see variations like that in any random process. It doesn't mean anything."
Walker looked at his pager. "I'm getting summoned to a sick child. I hope this discussion has cleared up your questions. You're wasting your time looking here for the people responsible for the crimes you're investigating."
CHAPTER 43
"WALKER DIDN'T TELL US ANYTHING NEW." Detective Prentiss drove his Toyota Highlander out of the hospital parking lot and turned right onto Abbey Way.
"He's seen the list before," I said. "Did you see his reaction?"
"If you say so, Riley. Where to next?"
"Drop me at my house. I don't want to give Lieutenant Townsend the pleasure of giving me another earful. I need to stop and pick up a phone. Being without one is nearly as inconvenient as not having a car. I hope they release my 4Runner soon, so I can have someone look at it. It's six years old, so I don't know whether it will be worth fixing."
"When you get home, you need to stay there, like Townsend said. Do not work on the case."
"The people who helped Hildegard lure me to Lightning Self Storage with the fake message knew it was heads they win, tails I lose."
"How do you mean?"
"I shot Hildegard, and I'm off the case—an officer-involved shooting. If it had gone the other way, I'd still be off the case. They couldn't lose."
"Maybe Hildegard sent the message. It would make more sense than someone faking it."
"What might the message have said if it was from a moron like Hildegard. Did you think about that?"
After dropping me at home, Prentiss rolled his window down and said in an overly reasonable voice, "Hang tight and don't do anything stupid. You'll be back at work in no time."
I SAT AT MY BREAKFAST BAR and unpacked my purchase. Prentiss had stayed in the Highlander while I picked up a prepaid smartphone at Target to replace the one destroyed in the gun battle with Hildegard. While it charged, I opened my laptop and created an online account, so I could top it up with a credit card. The folks who lived in the old Victorian kindly let me use their Wi-Fi.
My first call was to retired Detective Mark Davies. I gave him the short version of the shooting at the storage facility, and my 4Runner's demise. He offered to lend me an older model Jeep SUV. He would be at his house for another hour; otherwise, he'd leave the keys under the back-door mat.
A skinny guy with greasy hair and a protruding Adam's apple Ubered me to the outskirts of the city. When he pulled to a stop in front of a palatial hacienda style villa, I had to double-check Mark's address.
At an iron gate set in a stone archway, I rang an ornate bell-push. Beyond, I could see a fountain in the center of a flagstone paved courtyard. Shrubs in oversized terra cotta planters were everywhere.
How had he afforded this place? Not on a police salary, that was for sure.
An ebullient Mark opened the gate and greeted me. He ushered me across the courtyard and through a door into a farmhouse-style kitchen. Bronze pots hung from the ceiling, and the white walls were covered with sombreros and colorful ceramic platters. He showed me to a seat at a table and poured a glass of lemon water from a jug, setting it in front of me.
Mark looked me in the eye. "How are you holding up?"
"Okay, everything considered." Mostly the revelations about my Dad were what weighed on me, but no way was I going to discuss them with Mark. "Wow, your house is amazing. I never imagined—"
"That I'd live anywhere so grand? My father-in-law was a wealthy man and left us the place when he died."
"You haven't spoken about your wife."
"Martha died two years ago, but it still seems like only yesterday. She loved to turn pots and made all the ones you see around the house and courtyard. Her pottery wheel and furnace are still in the barn with her tools. I don't have the heart to let them go." A nostalgic look flashed across his face. "But tell me more about what happened to you."
I gave him details of the gun battle and my suspicions that Hildegard was helped by the people I was pursuing.
Mark fixed his eyes on mine. "You've kicked over a hornet's nest and upset some powerful people. You need to be very careful. I don't want to see on the news that something has happened to you."
"What are you saying?"
"That you should enjoy your time off. Go for runs. Leave the case to others for a while."
"So everyone keeps telling me." I wasn't entirely sure of Mark's motivations in advising me to stay away from the case. But I may have become too suspicious for my own good. He said his villa had once been a working farm and showed me rooms done out in a traditional Mexican style.
"No children?" I asked.
"We kept putting it off. Then Martha became sick and couldn't have them. She fought ovarian cancer for ten years before she passed."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. We enjoyed our time together. It does get lonesome on my own in this big house. I've thought of moving to something smaller, but there are too many memories here for me to leave."
Mark looked uncomfortable, so I changed the subject. "I've been looking into the Bennett investigation."
"I thought I said to stay away from that case. If you must, you should speak to Jack's wife, Angie. She has a story to tell. But only when you're reinstated. Until then, don't let Townsend discover you're working on any case—yours or his closed one—or he'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. You have a promising career ahead of you."
"He needs to get in line with everyone else who wants me gone. What do you know about a pediatrician at Abbey Mount Hospital, named Walker?"
"Not much. Good at his job, I hear. Golfs with Olsen and Townsend. I'll see what I can find out if you want."
"That would be great."
"Have you seen this yet?" Mark handed me a newspaper folded to show Kayla Ellis' latest article.
I read it in stunned silence, then said, "How is she discovering this stuff about me so quickly? And where did she learn the details of my investigation? There must be a direct pipeline from the station to her. I should look her up and ask for the name of the mole."
"I'll bet there's no shortage of people who want to talk to her. If she has any sense, she won't be easy to find."
"Did I tell you I'd seen Marcus Pascoe working at Olsen's construction site? I recognized him from the posters, righ
t before I was 'accidentally' hit on the head."
"I heard all about it. Chief Kane said it sounded like a false memory due to your concussion."
He'd had been talking with Kane about me? I should be less open with Mark. Who knew what else they were discussing?
He held the back door open for me, and I stepped into the late afternoon sunlight. Chickens were pecking at the ground in front of a barn. Beyond them were stacked bales of hay. It was clear Mark had bought into the farming lifestyle. To my left stood a newish three-car garage. He pulled a tarp off a boxy Cherokee 4x4 parked in one of the bays. Two late model Beemers occupied the other spaces. The Jeep's red paint had oxidized in places, and when I opened the door, the interior smelled of mold.
"It's fifteen years old, but don't let the appearance fool you. I service it myself, and it's in tip-top running order. It won't give you any problems." He handed me a set of keys. It wasn't a guy magnet, but I didn't want to rent a car. It would suit my purposes.
As I drove away, I called Chris Andrews and left a message for him to retest the pistol which killed Bennett, for fingerprints and DNA. I told him to keep it strictly between the two of us. Chris wasn't someone who'd let my suspension get in the way of what he needed to do.
Next, I placed a call to Angie Bennett and was surprised when she answered.
CHAPTER 44
AFTER THE ATTACK at Buddy Olsen's construction site and the shootout with Hildegard, I felt safer sleeping in the loft. My landlords, the McKenzies, had converted it into a tiny second bedroom. The only disadvantage was the single bathroom on the ground floor. A nuisance if you or your bed partner drank too many beers right before bedtime.
At 9 o'clock, I checked the doors were locked, and the windows latched, before climbing the steep stairs. Due to the slope of the roof, I could only stand upright in the center of the room. I set my pistol on the nightstand and crawled under the covers of the queen size mattress laying on the floor. Running always lowered my stress level, so I wore my shorts and T-shirt as pajamas for a quick getaway in the morning. Most nights, I would listen to Coltrane and fall asleep while he played. But my mind was too active for sleep to come quickly.
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