Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  Fortunately, I’m saved from having to explain any more because Jonas returns with Toby’s laptop. He sets it on the counter where the charge cords are hanging, plugs it into a power strip, and boots it up. I watch, seeing that the computer no longer prompts for a password. As Jonas starts typing on it, I look over at Sofie, who is back at her picture, studiously coloring in the unicorn’s horn in a bright shade of purple.

  “I’m sure Laura has already been through his social media sites,” Jonas says. “According to her notes, Toby was active on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. Laura was probably looking for mention of any hookups that might have been disguised drug deals. She didn’t report anything, so I’m guessing she didn’t find any.”

  “I’m not interested in drug deals,” Bob says, taking out his phone and showing Jonas the picture that Lori let us have from her phone. “I want to see if he put up photos of the people in this gaming club he belonged to, and if he did, if he tagged any of them. I need a name for this guy.” He points to the middle-aged man standing behind Toby in the picture, the one that our drug dealer pointed out.

  “Okay,” Jonas says. “Let’s start with Facebook and see what we can find there. If this guy is on any social media, he’s more likely to be there than on Instagram. The Instagram crowd tends to be younger. And frankly, there’s enough overlap between these two apps that we can cover a lot of ground in both by cruising through one of them.”

  I figure it could take hours to wade through this online stuff, but Jonas proves himself quite adept at hunting down what we need. In a matter of minutes, he has found the same photo Lori had on her phone in one of Toby’s Facebook albums. And I can’t resist letting out a little whoop of joy when I see that Toby did, indeed, tag everyone in the picture.

  “Gotcha!” Jonas says with a satisfied grin. “Your mystery man is one Vadim Belov. Let’s see what he has in his Facebook account.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Vadim Belov doesn’t have much of a Facebook presence, and what little he does have seems geared toward picking up women. He has forty-six friends, all but ten of them women. Of the ten men, eight of them are college-age boys—including our fraternity friends—and I wouldn’t be surprised if most of them turn out to be gamers.

  Jonas starts clicking around and comes up with a couple of other names we don’t have. While he’s doing that, Bob walks off to a distant corner and talks on his phone with someone. I’m tempted to drift closer so I can eavesdrop, but think better of it and continue to watch Jonas’s efforts over his shoulder instead.

  After a couple of minutes on his phone, Bob says, “I need to go upstairs to my office and check on a few things. I’ll be right back.”

  I consider chasing after him, not wanting to be left behind, but he’s gone so fast that I don’t have a chance. The idea of simply heading back upstairs occurs to me, but I’m afraid I might get stuck in a hallway, unable to escape without an ID badge or key fob to swipe.

  Resigned to waiting, I continue watching Jonas’s mining efforts on Facebook. He goes back to Toby’s posts and scrolls through them. Nothing jumps out at me as significant, other than the fact that Toby quit posting anything not long after that group photo went up.

  “I’m not seeing much here that looks helpful,” Jonas says finally. “You?” I shake my head. “I’ll check out Instagram next, and then Twitter.” He switches websites and has barely gotten started when Bob returns.

  “I have some information on Mr. Belov,” he says. “I didn’t find anything about him in our usual databases, so I hit up a friend of mine at the FBI and had him check some federal databases for me. Lo and behold, our Mr. Belov is here from Russia on a work visa. Want to guess who his employer is?”

  I don’t need to guess, because I’m certain of the answer, but it doesn’t matter, because Bob doesn’t give me a chance to respond.

  “He works for a company called WIS Productions. One might assume that the WIS is an abbreviation for Wisconsin, and maybe it is, but it also happens to be the initials of the person who owns the company.”

  I make the connection instantly. “Warren Sheffield?”

  “Yes,” Bob says, looking surprised, and maybe a tad annoyed that I guessed so quickly, thus stealing some of his thunder. “And Mr. Belov lists Mr. Sheffield’s house as his home address.”

  “What does this company produce?” I ask.

  “They supposedly make videos, self-help stuff. But my friend at the FBI said that they’ve been trying to infiltrate Sheffield’s business because they think he’s really producing . . .” He pauses, glances over at Sofie, and frowns. “Adult movies,” he says finally.

  “Do we have enough to get a search warrant yet?” I ask.

  “Perhaps,” Bob says, looking thoughtful. “We have a victim who we’re certain was murdered, and we have evidence that he was at Sheffield’s estate. We also have a witness who says Mr. Belov bought some of the, um . . .” He glances toward Sofie. “He bought the substance that was found in our victim, and he lists Sheffield’s place as his home address. Now that we have connected Mr. Belov to Mr. Sheffield, I think I can convince a judge to at least let us have a look at the house and grounds.”

  “Are you planning to question both Mr. Sheffield and this Mr. Belov?” I ask, determined to be involved if this is the case.

  “I’ll try,” he says. “But someone with Sheffield’s kind of money and pull is bound to have a lawyer at the ready who will advise him to keep his mouth shut.” Bob shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to see how it goes.”

  “How soon can you get the warrant?” I ask.

  “Depends on what judge is on call,” Bob says glancing at this watch. “Weekends are always tough, and there isn’t any crucial time element involved here. My guess is it probably won’t be until Monday.”

  I curse to myself. Monday I will have to be back at work at the hospital, and if Bob goes out to the Sheffield place then, I won’t be able to go along. I seriously consider calling in sick, but then dismiss the idea. Sorenson is too small a town to tell a lie like that and hope to get away with it. Odds are I’d bump into someone from the hospital who would mention seeing me to my boss, Crystal, and then I’d get in trouble. I could call Crystal and ask to take a personal day. I’ve got enough hours built up to cover it. But doing so on such short notice feels wrong. And what if Bob doesn’t get the warrant until Tuesday? Then I will have wasted a day off and I’ll be facing the same dilemma all over again.

  “You don’t think we could go to Sheffield’s place now and try to talk to him or this Belov character?” I ask, trying one last time.

  Bob shakes his head, his expression firm. “I don’t want to tip them off before we get a warrant. It’s too easy to hide things or have people disappear if you know the cops are going to be nosing around.”

  Okay, I tell myself. Better to play it straight and take whatever comes. Skipping work at the hospital won’t look good to the police chief, and I don’t want to do anything that would make me look less than professional for this new job. If I can’t go along with Bob to the Sheffield place, then so be it. Surely Bob will fill me in on whatever he finds later. At least I hope he will.

  “I’m not seeing anything else in Toby’s social media that’s going to help,” Jonas says. He logs off of Toby’s computer and shuts it down, closing the machine and unplugging it. He then tucks it under one arm, grabs Toby’s cell phone, and starts to carry both items into the evidence room.

  “Hold on a second,” I say to Jonas. “I just remembered that Sharon Cochran told me Toby got a message on his phone right before he went out on the night he died. Who was that from?”

  “Some burner phone that was bought in Michigan,” Jonas says. “Toby had sent a message to it saying that he needed to meet and talk. All the reply said was ‘Meet in the usual place,’ and there was no name attached to it other than Mr. Moneybags.”

  “‘Mr. Moneybags’?” I repeat, scowling.

  “It’s probably a drug deal
er,” Jonas says. “That’s how a lot of them operate. Code names, code words.” He shrugs.

  “I think I’m going to call it a day,” Bob says. “I’ll work on getting the warrant paperwork done tonight and see if I can get it in tomorrow, though I doubt we’ll get an answer then.”

  I nod, and Jonas once again heads for the evidence locker to return the laptop and phone. I watch as Sofie boxes up her crayons and returns them and the coloring book to the drawer they came from. Then she turns to me. “When are you having dinner with my dad?”

  “Tomorrow,” I say, trying not to look at Bob as he starts the awkward fidgeting again.

  “Can I come with you?” Sofie asks.

  Bob tries to stifle a chuckle.

  “Are you asking if you can come with us to dinner?” I ask Sofie.

  She nods once emphatically, her chin sticking out in a gesture of what looks like defiance. “You know what, I think that’s a great idea,” I tell her. “As long as your dad says it’s okay.”

  She looks startled by my answer.

  “Of course, it will be a school night, so I don’t know if your father will let you stay out very late,” I add.

  “Stay out late for what?” Jonas says, returning from the evidence room.

  “Sofie wants to know if she can go to dinner with us tomorrow night.” Before Jonas can utter the automatic refusal I see on his face, I add, “I told her it was fine with me if it was okay with you.”

  Sofie manages to recover her composure and appeals to her father, her big brown eyes growing even bigger. “Please, Dad? Can I?” she wheedles.

  “Sofie,” he says, frowning. “We’ve talked about this.”

  The little girl pouts adorably, and Jonas sighs.

  “I think it will be fun,” I say. “I’d like to get to know Sofie better.” Jonas gives me a skeptical look. I nod slightly and smile at him. “It will be fine.”

  “Okay,” Jonas says. “But it’s straight home after that, and I don’t want you to give me any fuss about bedtime,” he lectures. “Monday is a school day.”

  “I promise,” Sofie says, her face alight with delight. She hops off the chair and runs over to her father, wrapping her arms around his legs and hugging him. The whole thing is utterly adorable on the surface, though I’m starting to realize that Sofie is quite the manipulator. I may have my work cut out for me.

  “Why don’t we try for an earlier time?” I say to Jonas. “I don’t mind at all, if that helps.”

  “It might be better,” he says. He looks thoughtful for a moment and then says, “Would you be okay with having dinner at my place? I’ll cook, and while I’m no chef, I have a few old reliables I can make.”

  “That would be fine,” I say. “What time?”

  “Can we get together around four, plan to eat around five, and then play it by ear after that?”

  “Sounds wonderful. Text me your address, and I’ll be there at four.” I like this plan, as it’s much more informal and leaves me with my own wheels should I need to escape.

  “See you then,” Jonas says. He takes Sofie by the hand.

  “See you then,” she echoes.

  “See you then,” I agree with a smile. I watch them go and then turn my attention back to Bob. “She’s a cute kid.”

  He makes some sort of grunting noise that might or might not be agreement.

  “Will you call me tomorrow if anything happens?”

  “I will, but it won’t. Sundays are dead around here. No pun intended.”

  “I have to work seven to three at the hospital on Monday,” I tell him. “I can be available after that.”

  “We can figure things out at the gym on Monday morning,” he says. “No gym tomorrow, remember. I don’t go on Sundays typically. It’s my one day a week of rest, and I suspect you’ll be a bit sore tomorrow anyway. I know I was at first.”

  Right, the stupid gym thing. I smile, trying not to show the mix of horror and relief I feel—horror at being reminded of my commitment to Bob, and relief that tomorrow morning will bring a reprieve.

  “Meet me there at five on Monday?” Bob says cheerfully.

  I wonder if my face has a deer-in-the-headlights expression on it, because that’s how I feel. His reminder of the gym thing makes me feel like I’m standing on a train rail wearing heavy, magnetic boots and there is a very big, very fast locomotive hurtling toward me.

  “Sure,” I hear myself say. I groan inwardly, and if it wouldn’t hurt so much just to move my arms the way I’d need to, I’d give myself a slap upside the head. “See you there at five.”

  “Great!” Bob walks over to the entry door, opens it, and holds it, looking at me. We head back upstairs, and as if the reminder has somehow enhanced my pain, my thigh muscles scream with every step. Once we are back on the first floor behind the dispatcher’s desk, Bob says, “See you Monday,” and starts to turn away. He might as well have said, “You’re dismissed.”

  I’m nothing if not tenacious, however, so I wrap a hand over his wrist, halting his escape. “Thanks for letting me go with you today,” I say with a smile. “I really like this work, and I’m very excited about this new job. You will keep me in mind for it, yes?”

  “Absolutely. You’re at the top of our list.”

  I beam at this, then remember our earlier discussion. “Wait, you haven’t officially listed the position, so I’m the only one on the list at the moment, right?”

  Bob smiles, looking guilty. “Busted,” he says. “But look at it this way. At least you have a head start over the others.” With that he wriggles loose of my grip, turns, and disappears down the hallway.

  I glance over at the dispatcher, who is someone new I haven’t seen before—clearly a shift change has occurred. Her name tag says Miranda, but she is about as far from my mental image of a Miranda as she can get. The name makes me envision a dark-haired, curvaceous, flirty woman dressed in bright colors, like Carmen Miranda, someone I remember one of my foster mothers watching on TV. But the dispatcher has a slight build with a boyish figure, big blue eyes, and a short blond pixie haircut.

  “I don’t think I’ve met you before,” I say, extending a hand. “I’m Hildy Schneider. I’m a social worker over at the hospital. I’m working with Detective Richmond on a case.”

  Miranda takes my hand with a surprisingly firm grip and shakes it. “Miranda Knopf,” she says, and her voice, like her grip, is surprisingly strong. I try not to wince, as even my hands hurt from this morning’s workout. “I’m new here. Just took the weekend evening dispatcher’s job. And I also volunteer with EMS, so you might see me at the hospital if you’re ever in the ER.”

  “I’m there all the time.” I’m sure I haven’t seen this girl before, so I ask, “Are you new here in town?”

  “I am. Moved here a month ago from Seattle.”

  “Seattle to Sorenson, Wisconsin?” I say with surprise. “How did that happen?”

  “I met a guy,” she says with a shrug. Then, letting me know she isn’t inclined to provide any more details, she buzzes me through the door to the main lobby.

  I take the hint, say, “Nice to meet you,” and step through. As I walk toward the entrance, I reach into my pocket to get my keys and feel something odd in there, something wrapped in plastic. Several somethings, in fact. I pull them out and look at them: it’s two packets of Chinese mustard and one packet of soy sauce.

  As I settle into my car I toss the offending packets on the seat beside me and stare at them accusingly for a few seconds, as if hoping to convince myself that they are somehow at fault. But I know better. This is too many pilfers in too little time, and I know what it means.

  I need an appointment with my shrink ASAP.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’ve been seeing some sort of counselor for most of my life. Thanks to my propensity for acting out in reckless and violent ways when I was younger, a psychiatrist was assigned to evaluate me for any mental health issues and to determine the need for medications. I didn�
��t take to shrinks well, and during the first five years of being in the system I went through eight of them. Most of them made recommendations for transfer to a different psychiatrist based on a “failure to establish trust and bond professionally with the client.” Later I learned that this was shrink-ese for “I don’t like this kid, so dump her on someone else.”

  When I was twelve, and at my fifteenth foster home, I was sent to Dr. Desmond Hyde. Like most of his predecessors, he began our sessions with some tests designed to identify my personality type and, apparently, my psychological shortcomings. He was older than most of my previous counselors—I guessed in his fifties—and his name sounded stuffy. This impression was enhanced by the fact that he always dressed in suits with bowties and had a hint of a British accent. I pegged him from the get-go as a rich, spoiled type who would never be able to relate to a gutter rat like me.

  I couldn’t have been more wrong. Not that I made it easy for him. I stubbornly refused to refer to him as Dr. Hyde and called him Mr. Jekyll instead, telling him he had his names ass-backward. He laughed at this, told me I was better read than most of his other child clients, and seemed unbothered by it. To be honest, I was flattered by his observation. It was true that I was well read. From the time I first learned how, my mother would ply me with books from the local library, most likely as a means of keeping me occupied and distracted in my room while she did things in her room. But I didn’t mind. I loved books and the stories I read. They provided me with an escape, with adventures I might not otherwise have, and with characters whose lives I could step into and borrow for a time to replace my own.

  Unlike the other counselors I had, Mr. Jekyll didn’t try to force topics on me, or even address issues that might have recently occurred, such as the time I called my then–foster mother a fat-assed pig and oinked every time she entered a room. In my defense, I only started doing this after the woman sat in front of me several times eating luscious-looking desserts—cheesecakes, baklava, tiramisu, ice cream sundaes—and refused to let me have so much as a lick, bite, or crumb. Rather than addressing transgressions such as this one directly, Mr. Jekyll simply let me talk at my own pace and on my own topics. Our sessions always felt more conversational than therapeutic, and yet they were the most therapeutic ones I had with anyone. I never felt judged, I felt surprisingly understood, and I came to enjoy my time with Dr. Hyde.