She rolled the window down.
“You okay?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
Hal returned the nozzle to the pump and closed the cap on her tank.
She took a few deep breaths. “I probably imagined it,” she told him.
His eyes narrowed. “That’s what you’ve convinced yourself in the last ten minutes?”
She didn’t answer. Was it all in her head?
“I’ve got a cruiser heading over there. Let’s go find out.” He turned away and then looked back. “Leaving and calling me was the right thing to do.”
He believed it, too. And she was grateful, but Hal couldn’t run to her side every time she got a little scared. He had a life, although the way the two of them worked, neither had much of one.
Occupational hazard.
“Okay?” he said again.
“Okay.”
“Follow me back.” Hal returned to his car, and they drove back to her street. With everyone home for the evening, the curb was lined with cars, so Schwartzman took the only spot she could find, and Hal double-parked his department car beside the patrol one, hazards on.
“Stay here,” Hal whispered as he walked to the front of her house.
Buster barked as the two patrol officers emerged from their vehicle. The three went inside, and Schwartzman held her breath. Would she feel better if there had been some sort of break-in, or would she be relieved to find out it was all in her head?
She had been careful, diligent. She never forgot to lock a door or leave the lights on. But this case had her worried, distracted. She’d been consumed with thoughts of the missing girl, Naadiya Laughlin. Perhaps she had forgotten, just this once.
Sitting in the car, she texted Colton Price, the private investigator in Greenville.
Any change?
He would alert her if Spencer wasn’t there. She’d gotten the “all clear” message last night. His team had a camera in the tree across from Spencer’s house that recorded anyone coming or going through the front door or the garage. Plus, Price had a source at Spencer’s work as well, and they’d confirmed that he’d left the house and had arrived at the office. Anything unusual was reported. Her safety measures should have been foolproof. How could Spencer have slipped through?
When the three men emerged from the house ten minutes later, she still hadn’t heard from the PI. The two officers got into their vehicle and left. When the patrol car had disappeared from view, Schwartzman opened the door and let Buster out. She gathered her purse and met Hal on the sidewalk.
His eyes were guarded, afraid. “Nothing appears out of place.” He motioned toward the house, and the two walked together, Hal locking the door behind them. He let Buster out into the backyard and filled his food and water bowls as though he were Hal’s dog and not hers. She checked the switches on the two lights that should have been illuminated. Both bulbs were dead.
She retrieved new bulbs from under the kitchen sink, and Hal took the box from her hand. “You want a glass of wine?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
He pried the box of light bulbs from her hand. “I’m not leaving.”
She opened her mouth to argue.
“And you’re coming with me for Thanksgiving.”
“What?” She shook her head. “No.”
“At my sister’s. She lives up by Sacramento, and I’m only going for the day. Maybe one night.”
“No. I’ve got to stay home.” Blood heated her cheeks. “I’ve got Buster. I’ll be fine.”
“There are at least a dozen children on this block who would happily take Buster for a night while you’re gone. Or he could go to that doggy day care place over on—”
“Hal, I promise I’m fine.”
“It’s not a pity invite, Schwartzman. I mean it. I’d like you to come. And my family would love to meet you.”
“Hal . . .”
He lifted a hand. “It’s one night. It’ll be good to get out of the city.”
She rubbed her arms at the memory of coming home tonight. The unlocked door, Buster emerging from the dark. A night away would do her some good. She nodded.
“Good,” Hal said, the relief thick in his voice. “As for tonight, I can hang out in the den or hide out in the backyard, but I’m not leaving.”
“Thank—”
“Don’t.”
She closed her mouth and nodded. “There’s a bottle of red on the counter.”
He uncorked the open bottle of wine, poured her a glass, and set it in front of her. Then he switched out the dead light bulbs and helped himself to one of the bottles of Guinness in the fridge.
She took a long sip of the wine, letting it wash around her mouth and then slide down her throat. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Her lungs opened up. Breathing was easier.
Her phone buzzed on the table.
When she opened her eyes, Hal stood at the table.
The message on the phone said: All Clear.
Hal read it, too. “Good.” And before she could speak, he repeated, “I’m not leaving.”
She cupped her hands around the wineglass.
“You want to be alone?” he asked, standing.
“No,” she said. “What I want is to order dinner. I’m famished.”
Hal broke into a smile. Those brilliant teeth, the low chuckle. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
And she was grateful that she could make him smile, make light of the situation.
Because she couldn’t talk about what might have happened in this house today. She didn’t even want to think about it.
Just because Spencer was in Greenville didn’t mean she was out of harm’s way.
Not by a long shot.
24
Hal had left Schwartzman’s house around six on Friday morning. His back ached from sleeping on the couch, which was eighteen inches too short for his body. But he was glad he’d stayed. She had a bed in the back bedroom, but it was far from her bedroom, and he’d wanted to be closer. They’d ordered Mexican and watched part of Some Like It Hot, which was outrageous enough to take their minds off what had happened.
Maybe the unlocked front door and the darkened house had been a false alarm, but something about the way Schwartzman had acted told him it was real. At least for her.
And that was enough.
He was walking into the morgue building to check on her after lunch when Dispatch put a call through from the State Department.
“Laughlin’s back on base,” the army officer told him. “He’s likely been awake for the last seventy-two hours.”
“What am I supposed to do with that?” Hal asked.
“I’m reporting what I was told.”
“So he’s been awake for three days, probably huddled in a ditch, fearing for his life, only to return to the relative safety of his base so that I can tell him his wife is dead.”
“No, sir. His regiment leader relayed news of the wife’s death but not the cause,” the officer answered stiffly.
“So, it’s up to me to tell him that his wife was stabbed.”
“Yes, sir. Specialist Laughlin is in the communications center on base. I emailed you the Skype address.”
“The base in Nangarhar?” Hal asked.
“I’m not privy to that information, sir.”
It was only a guess on Hal’s part. American troops in Nangarhar were headquartered in Jalalabad. Proximity to Pakistan made the fighting in the province of Nangarhar particularly heated. “Thanks,” Hal told the officer before ending the call.
Hal debated going to the department and decided Skyping from the morgue was as good as from his desk. And as much as Hal would discourage it, Jared Laughlin might want to view his wife’s body.
He hadn’t expected Schwartzman to have Aleena Laughlin’s body laid out on the table with a fiberglass rod inserted into the site of the stab wound. On a nearby table lay the second victim, Malik Washington, in a similar state.
Hal halt
ed in the doorway as he noticed the angles of the rods. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. I was going to call you,” Schwartzman said. Holding a protractor on Washington’s abdomen, she read the angle between the body and the rod.
Hal pulled his gaze from the bodies. He had a lot of questions, but they would have to wait. “I got a call that Laughlin is available to talk. You okay if I Skype from here?”
Schwartzman glanced over at the bodies. “Sure.”
“You want help?”
“No. It’ll be quick.” She drew the rod from Washington’s abdomen and laid it on the metal gurney beside the body before pulling the sheet back over his head. She removed the second rod from Aleena Laughlin and covered her as well. “You think he’ll want to see her?”
“We can carry the computer over to the table if he does.”
Schwartzman motioned to Malik Washington.
“And we’ll make sure the camera is aimed away from him,” Hal said.
The two sat side by side at the narrow desk in the corner of the morgue, the wall behind them.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m good,” she confirmed. “Locksmith came this morning, so everything’s secure again. And I’ve got someone coming to do a sweep of the house.”
Her voice was calm, but he couldn’t read what went on beneath the exterior. A sweep of the house meant someone would be checking for cameras and microphones, in case Spencer was behind the break-in. “When?” he asked.
“Tonight.”
He nodded to his computer. “You ready to talk to Jared Laughlin?”
Schwartzman scanned the room as though to check that she’d covered all the dead bodies. “Ready.”
Hal followed the instructions he’d gotten via text and typed in the Skype code.
Schwartzman increased the volume, and the cold, quiet morgue filled with the strange bubbling music of Skype.
After the click, a pale-yellow light filled the square video screen. A face moved into its center. Despite his youthful appearance, Laughlin’s face also appeared hollowed out by the shadow of a beard, and his eyes were bloodshot and puffy. He looked broken. Hal sensed the soldier’s bewilderment. He knew plenty of men who had been soldiers, who had gone to fight for America. Many of them experienced times when they were certain they would never come home. But none expected tragedy to strike at home while they were gone.
Laughlin wore his fatigues. On the front left panel of the shirt was a green triangular insignia with a rounded top and a gold eagle in the center. The insignia meant Jared Laughlin was a specialist, class E-4.
It was twelve and a half hours later in Afghanistan, which made it after two a.m. But it wasn’t the hour that wore on Jared Laughlin. Hal had had enough experience to recognize from the man’s expression that Jared Laughlin was in shock.
“Specialist Laughlin, my name is Hal Harris. I’m an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department.”
“Hello, sir.”
Hal motioned to Schwartzman. “This is my colleague, Dr. Schwartzman.”
Laughlin blinked, a fresh glaze forming over his eyes. “Doctor.”
He sensed Schwartzman stiffen beside him as though she, too, were about to receive bad news. This might have been the first time she’d been present for this kind of conversation. Was she remembering her own loss? Her aunt’s murder eighteen months ago?
“Do you know why we’re calling, Specialist?”
“Aleena.”
Hal waited a beat.
“She’s dead.” His eyes widened like a frightened animal’s and then narrowed into the grieving expression Hal had seen too many times. “That’s all I was told.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hal said, repeating the dumbest, most impotent words in a police officer’s vocabulary. And yet, in sixteen years on the force, Hal had never come up with anything better.
“How?” The single word fell from Jared’s lips like a hammer on steel, reverberating down Hal’s spine.
“I’m afraid your wife was stabbed, Specialist Laughlin.”
Laughlin’s hand filled the screen as he cupped it over his face. His shoulders shook, but he made no noise.
For several minutes, Hal let him cry without interrupting. Schwartzman retrieved a box of tissues from the counter across the morgue and set them on the desk beside the computer as though to offer Laughlin a tissue through the screen.
Instead, she snuck one from the box and held it in a tight fist.
When Laughlin looked up, his face was red and wet. Snot ran from his nose, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across his face. Grief was ugly business. Hal had witnessed every iteration.
“How?” The word came out as if Laughlin were being choked.
“A single wound to her stomach,” Schwartzman said automatically, the anatomy of death her business. “The blade struck the major artery that runs through the abdomen along the spinal cord. She died quickly.”
Laughlin looked upward. Was it a relief to hear that she might not have suffered? Or was he hoping to feel something from her? His head dropped. The hand on his face became a fist. “Kaelen and Naadiya? Are they . . .” The fist curled over his mouth again. The word impossible to say.
“They’re okay,” Hal said quickly. “Kaelen was in the park with your wife, but he’s fine. He was drugged with diphenhydramine, commonly found in allergy medications and over-the-counter sleeping pills. The doctors have cleared him. Ben and Phyllis Johnson picked him up, and he’s with them now. As is Naadiya.”
“Drugged? The park?” He looked confused. “Was Naadiya drugged? She’s only eight months old.”
“No,” Hal assured him. “Your wife left Naadiya with Parveen Yasmin on Tuesday for the night.”
Jared wore a puzzled expression. “All night?”
Two nights, Hal thought, but didn’t say. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t she keep Naadiya with her? She loves the park.”
Hal assumed he meant Naadiya loved the park, but he didn’t ask. It didn’t matter.
“Wait,” Jared said. “What park? Dolores?”
“No. Aleena was in Golden Gate Park.”
Laughlin’s face changed. Confusion softened the grief in his face, knotted his brow. He looked surprised rather than sad. “Why was she there?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
The grief returned in a wave across Laughlin’s face, and he was more stricken than before.
“Your son was wearing a uniform,” Hal continued. “Does he have a martial arts class near there?”
“He takes karate on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but the dojo is down on Church at Seventeenth Street.”
That was only a couple of miles from the Laughlins’ apartment. Again Hal wondered why Aleena would have taken him to Golden Gate Park. “Is there any reason why your wife would have been in the park?”
“What time was this?”
“About eight p.m. According to a witness, your wife and son were in the front seat of the Jeep, parked along one of the park roads. And your wife was in a full burqa.”
“No,” Laughlin said. “She doesn’t wear a burqa. She wears a hijab.”
Schwartzman caught Hal’s eye, the slightest shake of her head.
“I’m sorry,” Hal said. “I should know the difference . . .”
“A burqa has a veil—a ruband—that covers the eyes. Aleena wears only the headscarf, so her face is visible.”
Schwartzman pressed a finger on his leg.
“We have a witness who says that Aleena’s face was covered as well. Not her eyes, but her lips.”
Jared Laughlin face went slack as though all the muscles in his face had failed. Then the furrow of his brow pulled taut as though the muscles had knotted there. “Her niqab,” he whispered.
“Her what?” Hal asked.
Jared searched their faces and shook his head. “She used to wear a niqab. People often mistake it for a burqa, but the niqab doesn’t have the veil over the eyes. The
eyes are visible through an opening in the fabric.”
“Yes,” Schwartzman whispered.
“That is what our witness saw,” Hal added quickly. “Your wife must have been wearing the . . .”
“Niqab,” Laughlin supplied. “But . . .”
Hal waited for the soldier to continue, and when he didn’t, he prompted, “Anything you can think of may be important in finding her killer. Anything at all.”
“She hasn’t worn the niqab in years—not since we were married.”
“Why the change?” Hal asked.
Laughlin fell silent, as though lost in thought. “It was harder on us when she wore the niqab. People were less accepting of our relationship. I hated that she would give it up because of that pressure, but something shifted in her about that time. She became more liberal. Felt safer, more comfortable. She no longer felt the need to be covered to honor her religion.”
Schwartzman seemed to rise up beside him as though holding her breath.
“In the end, she said she didn’t need it anymore,” Jared said.
“So there was no specific thing that made her stop wearing it?” Hal pressed.
“She said she wasn’t afraid anymore.”
Schwartzman’s breath came out in a quick, hard exhale.
Fear. “What was she afraid of?” Hal asked.
“She said she used to wear it because she was afraid,” Jared whispered, not answering the question. He spoke the words as though realizing only now what they meant.
“Afraid of what?” Hal repeated.
Hal stared into Jared’s wide eyes as the man blinked once, twice, and said, “I used to think it was her parents, but they weren’t in our lives anymore.” His lips formed a thin line. “I have no idea.”
“Was she ever assaulted?” Hal asked. “Any history of abuse?”
“No, no,” Jared said quickly. “There was nothing like that.”
Hal held his expression straight, refusing to show his disappointment. He had always believed that the simplest theory was the correct one, but this case had no simple theory. Aleena Laughlin lived a good and safe life, and then she’d gone into the park and been killed.
Expose (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 3) Page 14
