Part of me wanted to reach out to Stan with what we had, but I felt like we needed that next big find before I made the call. Maybe the SAPD would then decide to bring in one or both of the Kleins. Boy, how I’d love to conduct that interrogation.
Cristina and I had been pouring over the victim data and not getting anywhere. At a few minutes before five, the frustration finally punched a hole into the pragmatic side of my brain—I had to go straight to the source. I knew Kelly probably wouldn’t answer me, and Zahera was essentially off limits for some period of time. Given Megan’s off-the-wall behavior and her seemingly constant inebriated state, I wasn’t sure I could trust much of what she said. On top of that, I wanted an answer at that moment without waiting for hours or days for a return call. And I was almost certain that my hunch would pay off.
I called up Zahera’s office, spoke to a nurse not named Nancy, and was able to disguise my identity as an ER doctor to ask questions about the birth of Annie Espinoza, saying it pertained to the issues she was facing in the ER facility.
We didn’t get past the first question. The office had no records of Annie Espinoza being born through Zahera’s practice. I wasn’t a woman of a thousand voices, so I couldn’t use that trick on all of the remaining kids. I’d used my one and only ace card. I’d been thinking that the trail of evidence connecting the families could have originated right in Zahera’s office through all of the kids she’d helped bring into this world. I was shot down on victim number one—our client.
Undeterred, I put in a call to Megan, and as I’d expected, it rolled straight to voicemail. She could probably help, but it might take a day to find her, maybe more. I wasn’t confident.
For the moment, we were stuck. I felt deflated.
Pushing back from my desk, I rose and stretched my arms toward the ceiling. I could see the intermittent flash of yellow splashing across the white tile—the result of a faulty street light. I glanced over at Cristina, who was intently focused on her laptop screen—as she had been for the last two hours without a break. If someone were to walk in, they’d never suspect that she suffered from dyslexia. But thanks to her ILA teacher, she had figured out ways to reduce its impact on her life, without muting her desire to learn. I still wanted to drop by and visit her teacher, even if she might not be the same woman who’d taught me a decade earlier.
“You want to call it a night?” I asked.
Cristina immediately shut her laptop and rubbed her eyes. “I needed you to tell me to stop. Thanks.”
“Sure. No problem. We’ll jump on it tomorrow morning. Maybe by then we’ll hear from Zahera,” I said, walking to the door, looking up and down the street.
“Don’t count on it. She and Zeke are like hormonal teenagers. They can’t keep their hands off each other.”
“Says the teenager who’s dating a Hollywood star.” I glanced over my shoulder to see her shit-eating grin.
“Leo’s not a teenager. And I wouldn’t really call it dating.”
“What would you call it?” I braced myself for a more vulgar description.
“Good friends who occasionally mug down.”
“Ah, friends with benefits.”
“We don’t go that far. I think he’s cool with hanging out with someone who’s not trying to get something from him. Know what I mean?”
It was odd to think of Cristina in a mature relationship…or any relationship at all. She was like my little sister. Since she met Leo, though, she’d decided to go back to school and get her diploma, so it was nice to see her motivated by something other than a spontaneous adrenaline rush. “I’m glad you and Leo are happy.” Of course, I worried that she wasn’t the only one who was making him happy; but then again, I worried too much.
I moved the conversation to our investigation of the fake kidnappers. “Tomorrow morning, maybe we can figure out a way to reach out directly to each family, try to get the name of the pediatrician they use. We’d have to think of a convincing story. People are very protective with anything to do with their kids.”
“You know me, I like the direct approach,” she said. “Oh geez, Ivy, look.” She was pointing at something outside.
“What?” I raced to the window and saw a motorcycle cruising down the street. No big deal there. Then I spotted a pair of legs splayed across the concrete. I quickly opened the door to see Megan Espinoza sitting against the wall, barely able to hold her head up, paper sack in her hand.
The wall of booze hit me immediately as I leaned down. “Megan, what’s going on?” “Fucking Carlos, that’s what’s going on.”
30
She slowly began to tip over, and I grabbed her arm.
Cristina hopped to Megan’s other side to keep her upright.
“Let’s get her inside.” Against Megan’s wishes—she’d started out by cursing Carlos, but Cristina and I were soon added to the mix—we somehow dragged her into the office and sat her in Cristina’s chair.
“You’re not going to puke or anything, are you?” Cristina asked.
“Already did.” Megan held up the sack that contained a bottle of something clear. I was guessing it was tequila, judging by the invisible pungent cloud that surrounded her. “I’m going for round two.”
Cristina plucked the sack from her hand and tossed it in the trash.
“Hey, that’s mine. You can’t steal from me. I’m basically your boss. Give it back.”
“Fire me, but you don’t need any booze,” Cristina said.
Slouched in the chair, Megan brought a hand to her face. Her jaw began to quiver. “I’m…I’m not sure I can go on much longer.”
I crouched to my knees and touched her arm. “Megan, why are you drinking again? Is Annie okay?”
She rolled her eyes shut for a second, releasing a shaky breath.
“Megan, things can’t be that bad. You have your daughter. She’s safe, right? Everything else you can work out.”
She let her arm drop to the side of her chair, her gaze a blank stare. “My marriage with Carlos has basically disintegrated.”
“I’m so sorry, Megan. After everything you’ve been through, I’m sure it’s the last thing you need.”
She sniffled. “I woke up this morning with the intent of going to my first AA meeting. I know I have a problem. I don’t want Annie thinking she has a lush for a mom.”
“That’s cool,” Cristina said.
“It’s never too late to get help, Megan,” I said.
“Sure it is.” Her nasally voice was monotone, her eyes almost catatonic.
I gripped her arm, hoping to snap some life into her. “Megan, I’m sure Carlos is just trying to figure out how to deal with everything. He was probably just as traumatized as you were by the fake kidnapping. And then there’s your drinking. He might be at his limit as well.”
She slowly shifted her eyes to me. “He blames it on me.”
“The kidnapping?” I shook my head in disbelief.
“How the hell did he go there?” Cristina asked.
“He said that I was such an obnoxious bitch to everyone I interacted with and, as a result, we probably had a list of enemies a mile long.”
Cristina and I swapped wide-eyed glances.
“Don’t be so surprised. I told him he was right. I actually admitted that my bitchiness to everyone probably led to us being a target.”
I didn’t have time to remind her that was simply illogical—all signs told us that many others had been terrorized by the same group. She was singled out likely because a group of hackers had access to her personal data and because she had money.
A heaving sob came from deep within. It launched her forward, bringing with it a flood of tears. Cristina ran to the meeting room and grabbed a box of tissues, plucking out a few from the box and handing the fistful to Megan. She simply covered her face, her elbows now leaning on her knees. She wore faded jeans and a faded Trinity University T-shirt. She looked and acted nothing like the pretentious woman whom we’d first met.
&nbs
p; It took five minutes, but eventually her uncontrollable gasps subsided. She blew into a new tissue every few seconds, dropping the used ones into a pile under her chair that had grown into a sizable mound. When she finally took in a breath and said, “I’m sorry for breaking down,” Cristina handed her a bottled water.
Megan drank some water and paused, her eyes staring at the floor. She needed some space. I got up, gestured with my head to Cristina. Then we busied ourselves with cleaning up, organizing paperwork, reading this or that.
When Cristina walked by with a huge load of trash, she accidentally dropped an empty can of soda near Megan’s feet. Megan grabbed the can and handed it to Cristina. “Carlos kicked me out of the house. Said I can’t see Annie.”
Cristina froze and looked at me. It was obvious she had no idea how to respond.
With a handful of papers, I walked to the other side of the desk, hoping to avoid another emotional eruption. “Megan, this isn’t a very good excuse, but it sounds to me like Carlos is hurting too. It’s a shame he isn’t bonding with you over this.”
“He called me earlier, said he was getting a court order to keep me out of the house and away from Annie.” She gulped as tears pooled in her eyes. But surprisingly, she didn’t break down again. She sniffled, then said, “I know I only have to look in the mirror to figure out why this happened.”
“Why are you thinking this way?” Cristina asked, her arms still full of trash.
“Megan,” I said, getting her attention back to me, “I know you’ve still got alcohol in your system, so I hope you can understand this: you had nothing to do with that horrible incident. You, and to a lesser degree, your husband, were victims.” Of course, it irked me to no end that the husband was treating Megan like the enemy, like she had somehow caused all this. It wasn’t just sad, it was outright mean.
She shrugged, then rubbed the area under her eyes.
It still didn’t seem like she believed me. I pressed on. “Stan said there have been thirteen other families victimized in the same manner. You’re not alone, and it has nothing to do with your personality. I think Carlos is lashing out, or is just using this as an excuse to be mean to you.”
“I hear you, but it’s not registering. I just don’t know why.”
I’m not sure how, but this confident, tough-nosed, accomplished woman had the aura of an abused wife, one who was having a difficult time differentiating fact from fiction—or at least the fiction her husband was spouting. I altered my approach, recalling why we’d wanted to reach out to her earlier.
“Cristina and I are making some headway on this investigation.”
She blinked. “Really?”
“But we need some help. We figure there’s some connection between all the families—some similar thread that no one has picked up on yet. Our current running theory is that everyone used the same pediatrician or group of pediatricians. We’re thinking computer hackers accessed the patient files, retrieved all of the pertinent patient data, then determined the ones who had the most money and targeted them…meaning you.”
She licked her lips and seemed to have more energy.
“Can you tell us who Annie’s pediatrician is?”
“That’s an easy one. It’s…” She put a hand to her forehead. “My mind’s a little off. It will come to me.”
I badly wanted to say, “Stonebrook Pediatric Group, by chance?” Given her state of mind, however, I didn’t want to lead her on and have her just agree with whatever I threw out there.
She snapped her fingers, arching her back. “Raintree Pediatrics. That’s it.”
It wasn’t what I was hoping for. I looked at Cristina. “Does that name do anything for you?”
“I can start looking it up. Maybe there’s another Nurse Klein working there, who knows?” Cristina dumped the trash into a larger garbage bag and then went to her laptop.
“Hold on,” I said, putting my hand on Cristina’s arm. “Let’s do this tomorrow, or maybe you can tackle it later if you can’t sleep tonight.”
“I let you down, didn’t I?” Megan’s head slumped downward. Whether it was the alcohol or her general sense of self-worth—courtesy of Carlos—her life had been shattered. She wasn’t the same person.
“Megan, it’s nothing more than a factual question. What you told us, that Annie goes to Raintree Pediatrics, is a fact, correct?”
She nodded, but I could still sense her emotions teetering near the edge of another valley. There really wasn’t much she could do at this point for our investigation, and I was beginning to wonder if we were simply spinning our wheels. Maybe we should just fold it all in, turn over what we know to Stan and the other detectives, and see if they can figure it out.
I felt Cristina’s gaze on me, and I looked in her direction. She wore a quizzical expression. She seemed to sense my uncertainty, about the investigation, our role in the investigation, and certainly Megan’s ability to help us out.
I looked at Megan, who was gripping a tissue with both hands. Her hardened face was covered with splotches. Every few seconds, she’d blink and flinch at the same time, as if she’d been hit with an electric jolt.
My heart was torn for Megan, for her personal torment, being ridiculed by her unsupportive husband, and having to worry about being able to see her kids.
And what about the other mothers and fathers who were on the receiving end of the phone calls? Were they in the same condition as Megan?
I knew what we needed to do—and it didn’t include giving up on our theory. We needed to follow through with the other thirteen families. That would be our first priority in the morning.
“Megan, do you have a place to stay tonight?”
“The street. That’s where I belong. I’m going to find the first guy in a bar and fuck him. How do you like that?” She was still drunk, certainly belligerent.
“You’re coming home with me. Tomorrow, we can see if you have a family member you can stay with.”
“But—” She reached for me and missed.
“That’s how we’ll handle this, Megan.”
She teared up. “I’ll pay you extra. Thank you for being my friend.”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “It will be okay.”
The door opened. I huffed out a tired breath and turned to see Armand at the threshold.
“We need to talk,” he said. “Privately.”
More drama. Just what I needed.
31
Armand Roussel was a tough man. His presence would never go unnoticed in a room. And not because he always wore some type of army gear. He walked with purpose. He spoke with purpose. Even when he wasn’t speaking, his aura drew you in. Tonight was no exception.
He gripped the top of the leather chair in our meeting room, the lines on his face more pronounced than I remembered. He was intense, though he hadn’t said a word. He certainly had my attention, even as the sounds of Megan puking in the bathroom filled our space.
I waited for him to say something. But he didn’t. He just stood there, glaring at the table.
Cristina popped out of the bathroom. “She’s not very good at hitting the target.” She looked at Armand, then me. “I’ve been around a lot of lushes and seen people deal with a nasty hangover, but she is disgusting.”
I shrugged, palms up. “I know it’s not fun, but can you handle it? Please?”
She glanced at Armand again. “Yeah, I can handle it. Just giving you an update.”
“That she’s missing the toilet?”
“And she keeps…you know, going on and on about Annie and Carlos. It’s—”
“I get it. Just give me a few minutes, okay?”
“No probs.”
She disappeared, and I turned back to Armand. I wanted to ask him so many questions, but I could see he had something on his mind. I had to take it at his pace for now.
When his eyes finally shifted in my direction, I expected him to speak, but he just looked at me. Had he hit a wall of some sort? Had something happe
ned? Was he having second thoughts? Come on, Armand.
I heard another guttural heave from the bathroom, and then Cristina shouted, “Oh God, is there any way you can…?” Then the toilet flushed.
I grimaced, but Armand’s expression didn’t change. I was getting antsy and even irritated. If he wasn’t going to speak, then I had to decide what, if anything, I should bring up. I recalled Nick saying that he needed some time to check with authorities on possible next steps. He was concerned that he might have stumbled upon a case of espionage. The look in Nick’s eyes had been serious. While I wrestled with the urge to confront Armand about what we had found in the letters, I knew Nick would disapprove…vehemently.
And then there was the information we’d learned from Nick’s partner, Alex. Zeke’s name had been identified, along with Udovenko, in two memos originating from the Ukrainian SBU. Alex was trying to find out why Zeke’s name had been included, if or how he was involved in the drug trafficking operation. On the surface, I knew it didn’t look good for Zeke. But I still didn’t have definitive proof—hopefully that would come from Alex. But when? I’d been so wrapped up for the last several hours researching the fake kidnappings that I hadn’t asked Nick for an update. But he hadn’t reached out to me either. Surely, if he’d learned that Zeke’s involvement with Udovenko was not of a criminal nature, he would have called or texted, or even dropped by.
As for his quest to gather information on Armand’s past, I knew that might take longer than a few hours. But once he learned everything he could about Armand, I wondered how much he’d actually share. He might have finally reached the point of trusting me, but he worked for the FBI. And matters of treason, I was certain, were not something to be shared with just any civilian.
Was there any way that Zeke’s connection to Udovenko could be related to Armand’s interaction with the KGB spy, Anton Kovalchick? Besides their Russian names, was there a connection between Udovenko and Kovalchick? I had no idea. That would be a good question to ask Nick.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 39
