“Any suspects?” Chapman leaned down toward the desk.
“Not really. The case was never solved,” answered Byers.
“What was the kid’s name?”
“Dylan Jones.”
“Can we find him?” Chapman was itching to track him down. The details of going through papers were not his style. He liked to be out on the beat, which was— he told himself— the only reason he was not chief now.
“Yes, we’ve got his address, but it’s been six months. What’s he gonna be able to tell us?” Byers dismissed the kid.
“He has to be able to tell us something. Does it list the husband’s name on there?”
“Let’s see, not on the report.” Byers flipped the pages of the document. “Uh, here it is. David S. Lane was interviewed. He knew nothing about it.”
“Why not?” Chapman was naturally suspicious of the ignorance of loved ones. Interrogation ran in his blood. His family knew everything about everyone, family or not.
“He wasn’t living in the house at the time.” Byers explained. His curiosity got the better of him. “So what did the lady die of?”
“Arsenic poisoning. Somebody’s been feeding it to her for six months, and the pathologist thinks she did it to herself,” scoffed Chapman.
“You’re kidding.” Byers dropped his feet to the floor and jumped up, nearly knocking into Chapman.
“No. I guess it’s a good thing he’s not a cop.” Chapman dropped back two steps rather heavily, and grunted when he ran into a partition wall.
“I mean about the arsenic. When’s the last time you heard that stuff mentioned?” Byers’s voice rose in excitement.
Chapman frowned in dismissal. “Dunno. When I was a kid maybe.”
“You’re not going to believe this. That jewelry-making stuff that she reported? There’s a special report on here that had to be sent in because the gold-plating is controlled. It’s mixed with arsenic. You’ve got to have a license to get it.”
“You’re right, I don’t believe it,” grinned Chapman. His shaded eyes brightened. “We’ve gotta find the ex-husband and see what he has to say. What’s his address?”
“1514 North Fairway Drive. #221.”
“That’s not far from here. You got any dinner plans?” Chapman had no objections to being partners at dinner time.
“Hey, my wife will kill me if I bring you home for dinner again.” Byers held up both hands in a warding gesture. “She thinks you’re trying to move in.”
“No problem, I’ll just go eat some fried chicken.”
“You gotta get married again. This lifestyle is going to kill you,” said Byers.
“Not a chance, women and I don’t get along too good.” Chapman rolled his eyes at the thought.
“She was no good Jack, and she was home alone most of the time. Maybe if you had come home and taken care of your conjugal duties once in a while, she wouldn’t have found a replacement.”
“You saying her screwing around was my fault?” asked Chapman.
“I’m saying you’ve got trouble leaving your work at work,” said Byers.
Chapman scrubbed his scalp with a palm. His face started to redden. “I’ve got a job to do.”
“Relax.” Byers held up a hand. “Don’t take this out on me. We all have a job to do, and we got families too, but you gotta take time for both. You’re gonna burn yourself out hitting the streets at all hours. You’re out there even more now than when Lacy was still around.”
“Don’t say that name to me.”
Byers went on, “It ain’t just the food that’s gonna kill you, Jack.”
“Somebody’s got to be out there keeping all those precious families safe.” Chapman growled back. Dexter’s father was a dynamic, soulful pastor at First Black Methodist church across town, so Chapman figured that Dex came by his preaching ways honestly. It didn’t make it easier to listen to though. “What difference does it make to you whether I get married or not?”
Byers grinned showing a mouthful of bright white teeth that glowed against his dark skin. “Kira sure would appreciate it.”
Chapman chuckled and relaxed a degree. He nodded and turned to leave again. “Tell Kira I said hi.”
Chapman headed toward Fairway. The streets became more crowded as he reached the commercial section of town. The rain had stopped, leaving sluggish traffic in its wake. He pulled into a fried chicken place that was advertising with a flashbulb marquis. He ordered two pieces of extra-crispy dark meat, with a side of mashed potatoes with gravy, thinking this stuff probably would kill him. He pulled the old cruiser back out into traffic. Eating as he drove, he kept two fingers on the wheel, and wiped his greasy fingers on a shredded napkin. Damn Dex and his talk. He wasn’t about to trust another woman ever. His ex-wife had moved out two years ago, taking all of his possessions when she left. To top it off, she’d won her case for alimony payments even though she was now shacking up with the guy she’d been sleeping with when he’d caught them in bed together.
1514 N. Fairway was a large, new apartment complex with cedar siding stained gray to make it appear weathered. The manager was locking the door for the night. She jumped in surprise as Chapman approached.
“Hello sir, I was just closing up. Are you looking for an apartment?” She swung her highlighted blonde hair back over her shoulder, then brushed at the knee of her tights where a piece of lint had attached itself.
“Yes, number 221. Which way is it?”
The manager answered, “221 is left around the curve, second floor of the first building on your right. That apartment is a floor model, it’s empty.”
“Could I see it?”
“Yes sir, I’d be happy to show it to you,” said the manager. “Let me go back inside and get the key.
The burly detective followed her into the clubhouse, and snorted. These places were resorts. She stepped back out of the office, and said brightly, “We can take the golf cart. This way.”
The apartment had the smell of new paint, and the furniture was professionally placed— new, but mass production, with a shiny stereo system/entertainment center that Chapman doubted even worked. A large artificial green and red bird-of-paradise flower stood alone in a vase on the slick coffee table. There was no trace of any former occupant.
“How long has this been a model?” He walked through to the bedroom and opened closet doors. Immaculate.
“Just one month,” she said.
“Do you know the name of the former occupant?”
“I can’t reveal that information on residents.”
Chapman flashed his badge. “I’m Detective Chapman. I’m looking for a man who listed this as his address. Do you know the name of the man who used to live here?”
The girl’s eyes widened, but she answered quickly. “His name was Lane.”
“Where did he go?”
“He didn’t leave a forwarding address with us. There was some woman who wouldn’t leave him alone, so he moved,” she said.
“How do you know all of this?”
The girl looked at her nails. There was no sale to be made tonight. “He told me when he vacated.”
“Why you?”
“We used to talk a lot when he’d come down to pay his rent.” She looked at her watch.
“Who was the woman?”
“I don’t know. I never met her,” she said, running her hand over a black, lacquered bookcase to clear off the dust.
“So why did he talk so much to you?” prodded Detective Chapman.
“He was a nice guy. I guess he was just lonely.” She dusted off her hands, and surveyed the room for anything out of place.
“Lonely? He had to move because of all of the company,” said Chapman.
“Oh, that woman. She was sick or something. He felt sorry for her but she drove him nuts. I wouldn’t count her as company. Is there anything else? I really had a long day, and I’m ready to go home.”
“No. I’ll walk back to my car.”
“Wha
tever,” said the girl, with her eye on the door.
Chapman finished eating his cold chicken on the way home. It was too late to go back to the precinct tonight.
***
I pulled my silver gray Prius up to the front of Jacqueline's stucco condominium building. She'd been my roommate in college, and had stood by me through the anxiety-ridden days of medical school applications, when I had been afraid of not being accepted anywhere.
By a stroke of luck we had ended up in the same town after finishing our training, and now hardly a day went by when we did not at least speak to each other. Steve used to tease me that Jacqueline knew more about me than he did. Deep down I knew that he was right, and that he’d resented her for it.
We were like the odd couple though. Jacqueline was just about as careful and precise at home as she was at work. No one, except maybe me, ever saw her without her makeup. I frequently chose not to take the time to put on makeup, and when the day ended and I needed to relax, the household entropy went ignored as well.
“Well Jackie, I’m not going to be sued for malpractice,” I said as she opened the door and I stepped into the modern living room.
Jacqueline stood back from the doorway to let me pass. “So they backed off? I knew they would.” She showed only polite interest, seeming confident in the fact that they could not win a case against me.
My face sobered. “They think that she committed suicide.”
“What?”
“They found arsenic poisoning. I don’t believe she would have killed herself. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.”
Jacqueline’s eyes widened. “They found arsenic? When did this happen?” She sat down on her zebra striped couch. Then she stood up again, as though not sure what to do next. “Why don’t I make us some hot tea? Dinner isn’t quite finished.” She walked across the room into the kitchen.
I looked around at the strange shapes in the paintings around her place. Jacqueline had expensive taste, but I didn’t care for the bizarre look of modern art. The paintings on the wall were bright primary colors in abstract forms. I always thought the one across from the couch looked like a tornado sprayed in purple splatters. The water came to a boil rapidly and in a few moments Jacqueline carried out two cups of our favorite orange pekoe tea.
“That’s unusual, right?” Jacqueline sat down next to me and delicately sipped the tea.
“Yeah. For the most part it’s been banned, and what there is of it is tightly controlled. You have to have a license to get it and be able to prove that you are using it legitimately.” I said.
“Where would she have gotten it from?” asked Jacqueline.
“I don’t have any idea.” I was thoughtful. “But the police have been notified; they’ll figure it out.”
“Why do they think it is arsenic?”
“Her appearance in the morgue was consistent with it. Anyway, they’ll have the lab reports soon.”
Jacqueline’s brow furrowed and her jaw clenched. She sighed. “Nic, I know a man, a defense attorney, for whom I have the highest respect. I think that we should give him a call.”
“What? They aren’t going to sue me now!” I exclaimed, suddenly tense again.
“You have arsenic right? In that jewelry equipment?” asked Jacqueline.
I nodded, still not comprehending.
“And you’ve spent plenty of time with her?” Jacqueline pulled her legs up under her, eying me narrowly.
I nodded again. “So? I know damn well that I didn’t poison her.”
“Well, the cops don’t ‘know’ that. You are the only person I’ve ever heard of who actually has arsenic, and you are probably the only person she knew with it either. You will be a suspect for murder if that ever comes out. I guarantee it.”
“But... crap. Well, won’t it make me look guilty if I hire a lawyer ahead of time?” I asked.
“Better to look guilty than to be found guilty,” said Jacqueline. “I’m your friend. I love you. The last thing I want to see happen is for you to get hurt.”
“And do I look guilty?” I closed my eyes and shifted on the hard couch. Things were spinning out of control again.
“You took time off right after it happened. You over-reacted.” Jacqueline leaned toward me in emphasis.
“You know that isn’t why I took the time off! You can’t tell me that makes me look guilty. That’s ridiculous. Jacqueline, really!”
She put down her teacup with a clatter, and jumped up again, stalking the carpet in front of me. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she kept her eyes steadily on me as she paced back and forth on the other side of the coffee table. “Veronica, I know that. Look at me. I know that. But who’ll believe it? Honey, I’m a prosecutor. I know better than to believe it.”
“I’ve got to find out how she got that arsenic. I can’t let this happen.” I tugged viciously at a dark lock of hair that had strayed into my face.
Jacqueline stopped mid-stride. “Don’t. You’ll dig yourself in deeper.”
“Well, I can’t help that can I?!?” I snapped at her. “I can’t wait around on my ass until they decide it was me. I’ve come too far and worked too hard to let the world collapse around me this way.” Dr. Krauss was right. I could turn the situation around.
Jacqueline pressed her lips tight together, obviously biting back a sharp retort. “I think that dinner is ready.” She turned and walked into the kitchen. I got up and followed her, mutely, compressing my own lips. I glanced around the kitchen breathing deliberately, slowly. In; one, two, three. Out; one, two, three. The counter was bare except for a porcelain canister collection next to the electric stove. The sink was empty, the floor swept; it was hard to imagine that a meal had just been prepared in there.
“Jackie, did you just make dinner in here or did you have it catered?” I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. There were too many negative emotions locked in there.
She gave me a scrutinizing look. “You know I made it. It’s just the two of us.”
I tried to achieve a neutral tone of voice. “Sorry. How do you keep it so clean? I’ve never understood how you do it.”
“There’s a proper place for everything. It just takes discipline to remember to keep it there.” Jacqueline wiped the spotless brushed steel faucet with a towel, and pulled out two plates to serve on.
“All I know is that it’s a good thing you don’t have children. Something would have to give,” I said with a tiny smile.
Jacqueline loved to make spaghetti with white mushroom sauce, and did so frequently. Fortunately, she did a superb job of this, and I was willing to eat it as often as she prepared it. I wasn’t much of a cook, so I’d eat anything home cooked, no matter how often it was served. Over dinner, talk shifted by mutual consent away from me to Jacqueline’s work. She had done well in the seven years since she had graduated from law school and she had acquired quite a reputation as a workaholic among workaholics. She also had a reputation for chewing up defense attorneys in the courtroom. Jacqueline rarely lost a case.
Jacqueline began buttering a roll and said, “Today in the office, one of the guys said that he didn’t think we should pursue the highest conviction that we could get on a guy accused of wife-beating. He said that the guy had repented and had completed an alcohol rehabilitation program, that he was a changed man, and that maybe we could save some time with a plea bargain.”
I frowned, veteran of the ERs where such wives frequently appeared, but said nothing.
Jacqueline banged her fist on the table, making the silverware and me jump. “I almost ordered him out of the room. It’s our job to prosecute offenses and let the judge worry about the rest. What about the poor wife, would she be happy to have him coming back after her sooner?”
I shook my head no. In the emergency room, I had seen the results of releasing abusers back to their helpless families. Some of the women had died.
“I asked him, ‘What if it was your daughter who had been beaten? Would you want
leniency then? No, I don’t think so.’ Finally old Woodhouse tuned in, and for once he backed me. That shut Rick up.”
“Who’s Woodhouse?” I asked, gracelessly twisting a strand of pasta onto my fork.
“He’s one of the older guys in the office. I think that he wants to run for district attorney next term, but he’s usually napping during discussions and he can’t legislate like that. I’d be a much better choice. He is a helluva prosecutor though, and he’s hard on abuse. He’ll always go the extra mile where that is concerned.”
“You’re going to run for District Attorney?” I repeated, almost dropping my water glass.
“Maybe, I don’t know. Someone needs to do it. All they seem to care about down there is case turnover. They plea down everything— nobody ever gets the full punishment— so people, like that guy today, roll right back out on the street tomorrow. It’s not prosecution; it’s not even justice.”
I nodded as I sipped my water. It was a hard line approach, but Jacqueline would make it work if anyone could. Her sense of discipline had propelled her through law school even when she had to work two jobs to pay for it. I’d never told her, but I was proud of her accomplishments.
Chapter 9
The drive home gave me time to absorb what Jacqueline had suggested earlier. I could no longer put it out of my mind. Around and around in my head, it swam. Could the police really think that I had committed murder? Murder! I missed seeing a red light, and skidded past a pickup turning in the intersection. My tiny car squealed a ninety-degree turn away from him and then fishtailed back into the lane, barely missing the curb as I came through the intersection.
“Oh, shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” I cursed as I slammed on the brakes. My God, I hadn’t even seen that light. My heart was pounding to my fingertips. I gripped the wheel for dear life. At the next driveway, I pulled in to catch my breath. The pickup had just kept right on driving. The streetlight above me was out, and the lot was particularly dark. I recovered enough to check the door lock and look around into the darkness. After fewer moments than I would have liked to have had to pull myself together, I realized I was more frightened of the empty lot in this neighborhood than of the road. I carefully pulled back out, but I drove home at thirty-five miles an hour with my hands clenched at ten and two o’clock on the wheel.
Treating Murder: Book One of the Veronica Lane, M.D. series (medical thriller) Page 8
