Antoinette van Heugten

by Saving Max (v5) (epub)

  She closes her eyes. “Max,” she whispers. Her eyes fly open. “Tony, you’ve got to get a T.R.O. against Fastow and Maitland. Max is still in there taking that medication—except for what he’s been able to hide under his tongue and flush away. They’ve got to be stopped. God knows how many other patients he’s poisoned.”

  “My plan, which you’d know if you’d been here, is to put Fastow and Smythe on the stand tomorrow and move immediately for a T.R.O. on Max’s behalf. That’ll be the quickest way to have the court grant it,” he says. “I’m tracking down the patent lawyer on the medication so I can subpoena his records. I probably won’t get them in time for the hearing, but we’ll get them, all right.” He pauses. “Where exactly are you?”

  Danielle looks outside. The traffic is now moving. “We’re about ten minutes away from O’Hare.”

  “On your way back.” His words do not form a question.

  She is silent. Danielle can’t deny his logic. Still…

  “Sweetheart.” The word is awkward, but somehow feels right. “Please. You know I’m right.”

  Her heart leaps at his endearment, but her head takes over. “I’m sorry, Tony. I know what I’m doing seems preposterous in light of the risks. But I have to follow up on this lead about Marianne.”

  “They’re gonna lock you up and eat the key,” mutters Doaks.

  An exasperated noise comes through the receiver. “We’ll reassess our defense once Fastow testifies.”

  Danielle looks at Doaks. She can tell that Sevillas convinced him of this path before he handed her the phone. He shrugs.

  She pauses for a moment. “All right,” she says slowly. “I’ll come back. But you have to promise me you’ll file that T.R.O. for Max first thing in the morning.”

  “Done.”

  “And that Doaks will leave when the hearing is over and go straight to Phoenix.”

  “Fine.”

  Danielle sighs. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Safe home.”

  She rings off and hands the cell phone back to Doaks.

  He shoots her a look. “What he’s sayin’ makes sense, ya know.”

  She doesn’t answer. The cabdriver finally enters the ramp and pulls up to the curb. She and Doaks grab their bags, pay the fare and get in line. Doaks rummages around in his pocket and pulls out his ticket. “We got a few minutes. I’m gonna hit the head.”

  “Go on,” she says. “Give me your bag. I’ll check in and meet you at the gate. Could you get me a cup of coffee on the way back?”

  “Sure, sure,” he grumbles. “I’ll mop the floors while I’m at it.”

  She takes his overnight bag and watches him walk away. As soon as he is out of sight, she yanks out her laptop and checks her e-mail. The confirmation is there. She grabs both bags and heads for the opposite end of the terminal, where she has booked a flight to Phoenix, Arizona.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Danielle looks out of her window seat. The flight from Chicago to Phoenix will give her an opportunity to at least try to think calmly about what she is going to do. She is not ignorant of the gravity of her situation. Tony is absolutely correct. He has taken a seemingly hopeless murder case and developed a viable suspect. He will put that suspect on the stand tomorrow and most likely glean even more information helpful to an otherwise lame defense. He will advocate strenuously, and most likely persuasively, for her bond to remain intact.

  She, on the other hand, has gone nuts, possibly destroying every brick he has laid in place on her behalf. She is a loose cannon who has committed felony after felony in direct contravention of his sound advice. And why?

  Because she knows that, as the State’s star witness, Marianne will crucify Max when she takes the stand. She will be enormously sympathetic as a perfect mother shattered by her autistic son’s brutal murder. Her tearful recounting of Max’s violent behavior will go uncontroverted. Danielle has to find something—anything—to impeach her.

  If not, Danielle is terrified that the jury, with the Court’s blessing, will have no choice but to convict Max. Given that, she must pursue all leads, no matter how far-fetched. Just one thread, if followed painstakingly, could provide that evidence. And right now that thread is Phoenix. If Tony weren’t so worried about her own legal situation, she knows he would agree.

  After Chicago, she knows that Marianne is a con artist and an extortionist, but Jojanovich won’t testify against her. Yet a strange, strong instinct tells her that Marianne must have conned others. Perhaps she is even a suspect in other crimes. Danielle has to go where Marianne lives, think as she thinks, and tear her place apart if she has to.

  She also doesn’t believe that Fastow would kill Jonas and Max—at Maitland, no less—to conceal the fact that he was using experimental drugs on his patients. His only plausible motivation would be to avoid detection, and Tony’s theory that he killed to accomplish that end, no matter how well crafted, is painfully thin. It strains credulity that brutally murdering one of his patients would lessen suspicion of him. The opposite is true. The bodies would be autopsied, and the blood analyzed. All roads would lead to him. And although a bastard, Fastow is no fool.

  Another reason Danielle is convinced that going to Phoenix now is the right thing to do is that she will still get back to Plano in time for the hearing. If the 5:00 a.m. flight to Des Moines is on time and the moon and planets are properly aligned, she will make it to the courthouse well before the preliminary motions are argued. Before the sheriff gets his search warrant.

  She shakes her head at the stewardess. A lifeless sandwich of stale bread, limp lettuce and salt-riddled luncheon meat is not what she needs. She points at a small bottle of gin. Rocks, no tonic. Dutch courage, isn’t that what they call it? Thankfully, she has the entire row of seats to herself. She pulls Doaks’s overnight bag from under the seat and roots through it. She knows the damned thing is in there.

  Danielle extracts a worn golf shirt, a wrinkled pair of khakis, socks, underwear, assorted lint and detritus. She piles it all on the seat next to her and peers into the bag. Empty. Damn. He must have it on him. He said he never goes anywhere without it. He told her with pride that he had a police buddy of his build a special lead tube around the instrument, which fitted neatly into the frame of his carry-on. If only she can find it. She spies four zippers and yanks on each one, inspecting the exteriors of the black round frame pieces that hold the bag together. There is nothing until she gets to the last one. She slides it open. Inside is a cylindrical leather case. She takes it out, opens it and smiles at the strange instrument. It looks like a small metal toothbrush with a little ball on one end. Certainly nothing that would alert security. She puts everything back into the bag, reinserts the tool into the round piece of black framing and slides it shut. The warmth of the gin floods her. It almost makes her believe her plan will work.

  She stands on the sidewalk in front of the Desert Bloom Apartments. The dark blue cool of the Arizona night takes her by surprise. She knows that in the daylight, the low humidity would evaporate her sweat before it forms on her skin. Now, though, she shivers—not from the night—but in preparation for yet another performance. And another felony. She tousles her hair, picks up her bags and walks toward the mud-colored adobe kiosk that stands between her and the entrance. This place is nothing like the house Doaks described in Chicago. Behind the gate, elaborate fountains spill over volcanic rock and into intricate botanical gardens. The apartments seem to be newly constructed, tri-level townhomes, each with its own yard and pool.

  She stops in front of the kiosk and puts down her bags. She taps on the window, which slides to reveal a young man in a stiff, blue uniform. On the pocket of his jacket is a name tag. “Brett” gives her an uncertain look. “Can I help you?”

  Danielle tries to look weary and world-worn. “Morrison, Marianne Morrison.”

  “Uh, just a minute.” He pulls out a laminated sheet. His index finger leaves a sweaty smear in its wake as it stops somewhere near the e
nd of the list. He looks up. “What unit?”

  She gazes skyward and sighs. “Four-one-one. Look, would you buzz me through? It’s almost one in the morning and I just got in from the airport after a very long flight from New York. All I want to do is get into my house, feed my cat and go to bed.”

  He pores over the list. “I’m sorry, but I’m new here. Chuck is sick—”

  “Well, Chuck most assuredly knows who I am.” She points at the gate. “Now, let me in. I don’t have time for this. I have two hip replacements tomorrow morning, and if I get into the O.R. even half an hour late, it’ll throw off my schedule for the rest of the day.”

  He stares at her. “You’re a doctor?”

  She groans. “No, I’m a yardman. Now, are you going to let me in?”

  “Do you have some ID?”

  “Good God.” She drops her bags and pulls furiously on the zipper of her purse. She yanks out her cell phone and flips it open. “What is your last name, Brett?”

  He turns white. “Oh, hey, what are you doing?”

  “Calling management,” she says calmly. “Once Carl Mortenson hears that you’ve kept me waiting—”

  He holds up his hand. His voice shakes. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? I told you. I’m just doing Chuck a favor.” A buzzing sound comes from the door on the side of the gate. “Go on in, Dr. Morrison. Sorry about the confusion.”

  She picks up her bags, wheels around and marches through the gate. She kicks it closed behind her. She doesn’t look back.

  The antique grandfather clock that stands on the plush carpet of the lobby entrance bongs. By the time it has stopped, Danielle’s heart has almost stopped with it. She takes a few steps into the hall. It is deserted. On the wall is a framed, colored map of the complex, complete with unit lots and numbers. Danielle winds her way around the communal areas until she locates Marianne’s unit. She hides her bags in a concrete niche. The front door is solid and locked. No surprise there.

  She swings open the teak gate and enters the backyard. The pool glistens in the desert moonlight as small waves lap against its concrete lips. She tiptoes to the back door. Luck has found her once more. She stands in front of a large, glass door. Her reflection stares at her. She reaches into Doaks’s bag and removes the small, leather case. She pulls out the four-inch glass cutter. In the dark, she can’t make out how to use it. She curses and fumbles in her purse until she finds her key ring. On the end is a tiny flashlight. She presses the button and illuminates the tool. The name Fletcher appears on the thin metal shaft. On the toothbrush end, she finally spies it—an impossibly small wheel. That must be how it works. Just like pizza.

  She turns her attention back to the glass door. With the aid of the narrow beam from her key ring, she estimates the path the tool is to take. She presses the pizza wheel against the glass—harder than she thought she would have to—and scores a neat square directly next to the handle of the sliding door. She’s not really sure how to do the next part, but she’ll have to wing it. Further examination of the bottom of Doaks’s bag reveals a modest red rubber suction cup. She licks its bitter edges and affixes it to the section of glass she has scored. After a silent prayer that there is no burglar alarm, Danielle flips the instrument in her hand and, using the golden ball on its end, lightly taps the glass. As she hoped, the tap breaks the tensile strength of the glass at the point of fracture.

  She puts the glass cutter back into the secret hiding place in Doaks’s bag and pulls gently on the suction cup. The glass comes out in one piece. She spies a large flowerpot outside by the pool. She puts the glass underneath it and tosses the suction cup into her purse. With trembling hands, she unlatches the switch and slides open the door.

  An unbearable stench stops her dead in her tracks. She covers her nose as she tries to locate the source, but it takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She feels her way to a floor lamp and slides the switch until an eerie halogen glow fills the room. She moves cautiously forward.

  “Hey, you!” A loud voice comes from somewhere outside by the pool. Danielle freezes and then moves swiftly across the room and down the hall. She crouches in front of what looks like a spare room. She spies a closet, ready to provide temporary shelter if need be. The odor she smelled when she first entered the house is horrific here.

  “Come on, Barry, we don’t have all night!” The voice sounds like it is two feet away. She stands very still, her back against the wall.

  “I’m in the water, asshole,” shouts another voice.

  “You sure they’re not here?”

  “Nah, been gone for weeks.”

  Danielle slips into the living room and peers, unseen, from the side of the sliding door. Teenagers. She sees the blurred outline of two nude boys in the dimly lit pool. She feels her breath come a bit more slowly. She reaches out, unobserved, and locks the latch on the door. After a few moments, she returns to the spare room, draws the curtains, and turns on a desk lamp, which sends out a slim halo of yellow light. A computer and monitor are on the table.

  Wedged into the opposite corner is a wooden desk. Odd green lights shine dully from a bookcase onto the desktop. They make a strange, buzzing noise. The table is completely covered with small plastic disks and glass containers of varying shapes and colors. She leans over them and sniffs. The foul odor does not emanate from them. Danielle flicks on her tiny flashlight and passes it slowly over each item. Petri dishes nestle against one another, a neat white label affixed to each. Angry puffs of mold in all shades of the color wheel fill each container to bursting—as if what is inside wants out. She comes closer. Stachybotrys atra. Aspergillus. Fusarium. Claviceps purpurea.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispers.

  It looks like a Level 4 lab at the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta. She flashes the light around and finds a large sky-blue binder. It is very heavy. Inside, detailed charts and logs fill hundreds of pages. The sections are tabbed with more strange names. Aflatoxins. Ergotism. Mycotoxins. Danielle shuts the book and searches the rest of the room. All she finds is a stack of bills. Nothing else—no postcards, no personal correspondence, nothing that reveals any more about Marianne or Jonas than she knew before she left for Chicago. What can she bring back to Sevillas and the judge? Evidence that Marianne does odd scientific experiments in her guest room? Maybe she has a research job in a lab and does part of her work at home. Whatever it is, it doesn’t spell murder.

  She turns off the lamp and feels her way into another room. The curtains are drawn here as well. It has the stale, unused odor of an abandoned space. She turns on a table lamp. Marianne’s bedroom. The king-size bed has a lace coverlet that is barely visible under a sea of pillows that suffocate the bed. Everything is covered in a cloying, flowered fabric. The room overflows with knickknacks. China dolls crowd tables and fill bookcases. The curtains bloom from the window in strangled floral patterns of soft pink and vibrant red. Out of place amid the Southern Home décor are wooden bookcases crammed with thick medical and pharmaceutical texts.

  A perfunctory inventory of Marianne’s closet reveals nothing unusual. She quickly searches the drawers, but her curious fingers find only a plethora of lacy undergarments. In the last drawer, under a pile of garter belts, she finds a tiny key. She searches the room for a jewelry box that might hold its contents. Nothing.

  She walks to another room at the end of the hall. It is weakly illuminated by two night-lights. At least here the stench is less horrific. This must be Jonas’s room, although nothing indicates it belongs to a teenager. The bed is neatly made and covered with a cheerful red-and-blue throw. On the wall is an embroidered scene of a small boy kneeling at the feet of his mother, while she sits in a chair with her hand on his head. Underneath, in painstaking cross-stitch, are the somehow ominous words: Every good boy does fine. The room has no window. On top of the dresser is one photograph—Marianne holding Jonas as a baby. He is wrapped tightly in a blue blanket. She clutches him to her chest and looks straight into the camera. H
er smile stretches beyond pride.

  The only other furniture is a small wooden desk that looks as if it were used long ago in an elementary school. It’s marred with pencil gouges. The corners are chewed. Danielle opens the closet door to a neat row of shirts and pants. In plastic cubes on shelves are underwear, socks and shorts—arranged as sternly as the contents of an army footlocker.

  Danielle pulls back the bedcovers. A thick metal ring catches her eye. Leather restraining cuffs are tethered to either side. Danielle feels her pulse quicken. She holds one in her hands. The buckles are made of cast metal, heavy and menacing. The leather is lighter and cracked at the point where the cuffs meet the straps that fasten them to the bed. They look worn and weary—beyond broken in.

  Perspiring now, she gets down on her knees and shines the light under the bed. She pushes a tennis shoe out of the way and hits something. Twisting her arm, she pulls out an object covered with dust. Danielle stands, fingering the small black box connected to red nylon. It is an electronic dog collar.

  She makes a quick inspection of the kitchen. No dog bowl on the floor; no dog food in the pantry. She thinks of the crude holes that were punched in the neoprene collar to make it smaller—small enough to fit around a boy’s neck. Danielle feels sick. She puts the collar back under the bed. The glowing hands of her watch show that she has been here almost an hour. The noise outside has stopped. She slips out of the room and stands in the living room. Silence. The boys must be gone. A quick inspection of the bathroom reveals nothing other than a medicine cabinet and everyday toiletries.

  She walks back to the spare room and opens the closet. A stench so vile hits her that she fights an overwhelming urge to vomit. This is the source of the putrid, stifling odor that emanates throughout the house. She clamps her hand to her mouth and flips on the wall switch. Everything touched by the light has an odd, bluish glow. Winter clothes hang from the racks, bathed in the foul smell. Could a rat have died in the walls? She starts to flick off the light when something catches her eye, something on the corner shelf. It seems to have a light source all its own. Danielle pushes aside the hanging clothes that hide it.