Treating Murder: Book One of the Veronica Lane, M.D. series (medical thriller)

by Gabrielle Black

  ***

  Detective Chapman arrived at the station early the next morning to find Benny Jones. Benny was the brains around the precinct. If you needed to know anything, you asked Benny. Just as Chapman was the man to go to if you wanted a case wrapped up quick and clean.

  “Benny how are you? How’s the hand?” asked Chapman.

  Benny held up a wrapped thumb. “Better, I think.”

  “So how’d you manage to staple your thumb anyway?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “You got a lot of luck like that,” laughed Chapman.

  “I guess that’s why I feel safest inside this building. Imagine me on the streets.” Benny gave the thick walls an appreciative glance.

  Chapman shrugged. “You wouldn’t have to imagine for long. You would get squashed like a bug.” He waggled his brows and made an evil grin. Benny winced. “I need some info on David S. Lane, last known address 1514 Fairway Drive, number 221. No forward. Moved about a month ago.”

  “Have you tried information?”

  “Unlisted.” Chapman leaned over Benny’s shoulder to watch the computer screen. Hoping to divine Benny’s secrets from it. He hated having to ask for assistance.

  “Who’s this guy hiding from?” asked Benny.

  “A woman.”

  “So, not a major disappearing act.” Benny slid to the right, away from Chapman’s harsh coffee breath.

  “No,” huffed Chapman.

  “Still in the area?” Benny unobtrusively covered his nose.

  “He should be. That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “Where does he work?” asked Benny.

  “If I knew that, I would go there.”

  “You sure don’t know much,” ribbed Benny.

  “Look, you just find him. That’s what you do. I’ll be at my desk doing what I do.” He growled and stormed across the crowded precinct.

  Benny took a large relieved breath. Chapman was as touchy as usual. “Okay, let me make some calls. Give me a few minutes.”

  Chapman wandered to the break room to pour himself a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Hot coffee sloshed over the side of the overfilled pot and burned the tips of his fingers.

  “Damn!” he shouted, dropping the carafe back onto the hot plate and shaking his fingers, causing several heads at desks to swivel. “What moron can’t measure coffee?” The heads returned to their work. Spilt coffee sizzled on the burner as he resumed pouring. “Damn, damn, damn.” Chapman continued muttering, sucking on his injured fingertips as he walked back to his desk.

  He sat down behind mounds of papers. He stared at the piles, then picked up one requiring only signatures and started writing. Benny came over less than five minutes later, limping slightly.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” Chapman looked at him with a slight expression of disgust. The guy was a cop, but a blessed weakling for all that.

  “Ingrown toenail. It got infected last night.” Benny spread his hands out gearing up to tell the story.

  “No, never mind.” Chapman warded him off. “Too much information.”

  Benny grinned. “Okay, I got your info. The new address is 265 Ashmore. Phone is 762-555-1358.”

  Chapman said, “Ah, good. So how’d you find it?”

  “Trade secret,” said Benny.

  “Tell me.” Chapman edged forward.

  “No.” Benny slid back from the onslaught.

  “So what did you do?”

  “I have a contact at the power company,” shrugged Benny.

  Chapman nodded in approval and moved back again. In an atypical burst of goodwill he asked, “So you want to come with?”

  “No thanks,” said Benny, sliding farther away and trying not to limp on the tender toe.

  “Fine, stay here in your cinder block fortress,” Chapman growled, his goodwill evaporating as quickly as it had come.

  He grabbed his jacket and drove down to Lane’s new address. This place was a house, probably rented, about forty or fifty years old, but not bad. The mailbox had no name on it. If this guy really meant to disappear, he sure forgot to tell the power company, Chapman thought.

  He walked across the lawn. There was no answer to his knock. He rang the doorbell. No answer. Then he waded through a clump of ribbon grass to the side of the house and peered into the garage. No car. He went back to his car to wait. He only had to wait about half an hour before Lane drove up. This time, Chapman walked up the driveway as his target was getting out of his car.

  Lane jumped at his approach, “You startled me. I didn’t see you walk up.” He extended his hand to shake. “I’m new around here. Where do you live?”

  “I’m Jack Chapman. I don’t live anywhere near here.”

  Lane looked puzzled. “Pardon me?”

  “I’m here hoping to find someone.”

  “Well, like I said, I’m new. I probably won’t be able to help,” said Lane.

  “I’m looking for David S. Lane,” said Chapman.

  Lane’s brow furrowed. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Detective Chapman. I’m investigating the death of Sarah Summers. Are you Lane?”

  “Yes, I’m Steve Lane, but I don’t see what this has to do with me.” Steve’s shoulders instinctively hunched.

  “She was a patient of your wife’s,” said Chapman. “Did your wife ever speak to you about her?”

  “I don’t remember any specific instances.”

  “Why not?”

  “We haven’t spoken much lately.” Lane kicked a few stray pine blooms off the driveway.

  “Did she have any reason to dislike Miss Summers?”

  “If I can’t say for sure if she mentioned her, how would I know more?”

  Chapman spun, “She’s a suspect in the murder of Ms. Summers.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “You don’t believe that your wife could have killed her?”

  “No. Nic gets choked up when she sees a death on TV,” scoffed Steve.

  “Uh-huh.” Chapman grunted. “Did you know Miss Summers?”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” Steve answered slowly.

  “But you can’t recall your wife mentioning her?” Chapman’s voice grew testy.

  “I met her in the office. I met several patients there.”

  “Why was that?” asked Chapman.

  “Because I used to wait there for her to get caught up. I brought her dinner sometimes.”

  “She made you wait in the lobby?” Chapman was dubious.

  “No, I liked to be out there meeting people. I’m in sales. Plus, it was good personal relations for her office.”

  “Do you know your wife makes jewelry?” Chapman was not mollified.

  “Yes. So what?”

  “How long has she had this hobby?” Chapman impatiently shifted his bulk from one foot to the other. His feet were starting to hurt. He wanted to go inside and sit down.

  “Since before I knew her. I think she started in college.”

  “Could I go by and see the supplies?”

  “I don’t live there anymore. I can’t take you there,” said Steve.

  “Don’t you have a key to the house? It was yours, after all. Have you settled your divorce?”

  “I still have a key, but the house belongs to her. She bought it.”

  Chapman sneered at that. “I need to see that equipment.”

  “I can’t help you.” Lane turned up his palms. “Why don’t you call her? I’m sure that she would let you look at anything you needed to.”

  “So what’s the address?” Chapman whipped out his notepad.

  “113 Eyre Road.”

  “Thank you.” Chapman walked down the sloped driveway to his old police issue sedan.

  Steve watched him leave and went inside. He considered calling Veronica to warn her that the detective was coming. Instead, he tried to unclench his jaw, and opened a fresh beer. Then he went to the back yard to water the grass. He doubted Veronica would welcome his call.

&
nbsp; He glanced over his shoulder when he heard the sound of a motor in his driveway, fully expecting to see Chapman again. At first, he didn’t recognize the gold BMW. Then he shook his head. No one was supposed to know where he was and yet they all kept showing up. The Beemer belonged to Jacqueline Greene. Veronica must’ve told her where he lived. She told Jacqueline everything. He thought bitterly that Jacqueline probably knew more about their former sex life than he did. He shut off the water and walked around the side of the house to meet her.

  “Hi, Jacqueline. How are you?” He gave her a perfunctory smile.

  “Fine.” She swept her platinum hair behind her shoulders. “I just came to talk to you about Nic. I’m worried.”

  “Why?” He focused on her with renewed interest. Jacqueline had never sought him out before.

  “I know that you and Nic still speak from time to time,” she said.

  Steve was caught off-guard. He’d always had the distinct impression that Jacqueline didn’t like him, so why would she drop by to see him?

  “What do you care?” he asked slowly.

  “I care. I care for Nic. She’s my best friend and I’d do anything to help her,” she said.

  “Including coming here?”

  She gave a tight nod. “Including coming here.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought that maybe if you saw her, it might help. She seems to be having a hard time lately.” Jacqueline smiled warmly.

  Steve nodded. He wasn’t sure he’d ever noticed her smile. It was a beautiful, disarming smile. Maybe Veronica was right. Perhaps he had just been jealous of their strong friendship. He’d never noticed this warm side of her before. The one Nic swore she had.

  “Why don’t we talk inside?” Jacqueline gestured toward the house.

  Steve gave her a puzzled look. “Okay.”

  Jacqueline smiled again as they walked across the sidewalk.

  Steve walked through the living room to the kitchen to pull another beer out of the refrigerator, and called back to ask if Jacqueline wanted one.

  At her head shake, Steve returned to the living room and sat down to ask, “What kind of hard time?”

  “She has been spending too much time at work since you split up, she’s just lost a patient, and now she’s taking a leave of absence. I’m worried that she’s depressed. Maybe you could encourage her.” Jacqueline perched uncomfortably on a chair across from him. He thought she looked terribly ill at ease. Clearly he was not high on her list of people to visit with.

  “She hardly talks to me anymore,” said Steve. “What could I do?”

  Jacqueline shook her perfect, blonde head. “I think that you still have more influence than you think.”

  Steve perked up. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do.” Jacqueline paused. “Where is your restroom? I’m sorry. I can’t seem to make it from one place to another without having to go.” She lowered her lashes in embarrassment.

  Steve nodded, “Right down that hall past the kitchen.”

  He reflected while she was gone. Maybe he had been wrong to believe that Veronica had no more feelings for him. Maybe she had just needed time after the hurt. Jacqueline returned and stood in the doorway until he noticed her again. His thoughts had raced away with the thought of Veronica.

  Jacqueline said, “I hate to rush off like this, but I didn’t realize how late it was. I have to be in a meeting in half an hour. Don’t forget what I said, though.”

  “I won’t.” Steve escorted her to the door.

  “Bye, Steve.”

  “Goodbye.” Steve stared after her car as it drove around the bend, wondering what this visit meant about his relationship with Veronica. Jacqueline clearly knew more about Nic’s emotional landscape, than he did, and she thought there was something still there. Why else would she come to see him now, and trust him with Nic’s well-being? It was a cheery thought.

  Chapter 10

  I saw an unfamiliar sedan parked on the street in front of the house next door when I got home from the grocery store. Puzzled, I carried two grocery sacks inside, and then checked out the window before going back out. The man in the sedan had waited for me to walk inside, and then pulled into the driveway behind my car. I sucked in a breath in alarm. The man got out and stomped right across the yard to the front door. At least he wasn’t skulking. That was a good sign, right? I watched him smooth his hands over his gray crew-cut before he rang the doorbell. I hesitated, trying to decide whether to answer—and if I didn’t, what I would do. Clearly, he had seen me enter the house. He didn’t look like a salesman. He pounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” I called.

  “Police!” A badge was thrust at the peephole.

  I opened the door a crack with the chain still attached. “Hello, Ms. Lane. I’m Detective Chapman.”

  I asked, “Have we met?”

  “No. I’m with the police department. I’m interested in the theft of your jewelry. May I take a look at the area of the break-in?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “That was six months ago. No one has been around to look at the basement since the first day I filed the report.”

  “I’m also investigating the murder of Sarah Summers. I was exploring the possibility of a connection between the two cases.” He peered over my shoulder, but I knew he could see no more than the gilt-framed hall mirror and the back of a flowered recliner further in the living room.

  “You think it was the thief who poisoned her? That it was my arsenic that killed her?” My heart leapt in my chest. I had hoped that the police would clue in on the real murderer, instead of going for the obvious. Really, if I were going to kill someone, the arsenic that I had to have a federal license for would be the last thing I would pick.

  “Possibly. May I see the room?”

  I hesitated. Cooperation could only work in my favor, right? If I could show him that I had nothing to hide... “I can assure you that it was not me. But, I suppose that it’s okay for you to look. They looked over it the day I reported the theft, and of course the room isn’t the same as it was then. I’ve been using it.” I closed the door and removed the chain. I wondered, not for the first time since Sarah’s death, who would know that I had arsenic? Who would know that, and also know who my patient was?

  “That’s fine. I just want to see it for myself.” Detective Chapman pushed past me, his shoes ringing on the black slate of the entryway. I gestured toward the basement door. Downstairs, Chapman spent an eternity just moving around the room picking up tools and examining them.

  “Careful!” I exclaimed when he dropped a pair of tiny calipers, bending the tips. I frowned at him.

  Chapman returned the frown with a blank look. “So, where do you keep the bullion?”

  “Bullion?”

  “Yeah, bullion. Gold. Where is it?” He got down on his knees with a grunt to peer under my workbench.

  “It’s actually not bullion,” I corrected him. “It’s gold-plating. It comes in solution. Thus the arsenic. There’s some on that bottom shelf.” I pointed to a box of Erlenmeyer flasks three-quarters full of amber liquid.

  “This is what the thief took?”

  “Yes.”

  “So this is gold mixed in arsenic?” He opened a flask and smelled the contents. I knew that what he smelled was reminiscent of the smell of sweaty palms after they have been holding pennies.

  He put his tongue to the edge. “Can you taste it?”

  At that point irritation overcame my nervousness. “Just who do you think you are, and what do you think you’re doing? Put it down. I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish here, but that is quite enough. I will not have you damaging anything else.” I snatched the flask. “And that includes damaging yourself.”

  He looked at me with increased interest, but did not seem otherwise disturbed by my anger. “So, how do you get the gold out?”

  I blew upwards to lift my bangs off of my hot forehead, staring at him for a long moment while I gathered my comp
osure. There was a lot at stake here. I pointed to a stained rectangular basin with corroded metal attachments at each end. Wires dropped from these past the watermark on the side. “You fill that with solution, and place the object you want plated into it. A small electric current runs between that cathode and that anode, and separates the gold and arsenic ions. The gold migrates to this end. Because it is electrically charged, it bonds with whatever object is in its path. Once the immersed object is coated, you take it out.”

  “Is this easy to learn?”

  I pursed my lips. “I guess that the basic process is easy enough. It takes a lot of practice though to make anything you would be proud of.”

  “I’m not planning on taking it up.”

  My mouth opened slightly, then snapped closed again. “Is there anything else?”

  “No. Can I leave by this door?”

  “Oh, yes. Let me unlock it.” I grabbed the keys in my pocket, and shot back the deadbolt. I opened the door and stood by it.

  To my increasing irritation, Chapman didn’t leave, but instead peered out of the window. “Was this broken in the burglary?”

  “No, but the window next to it was open afterward.”

  He continued examining the sashes. “Do you lock them?”

  “Yes, I don’t like them open; the breeze upsets my work.”

  “What about your alarm system? Did it go off?”

  “I had it installed after the break-in.”

  Chapman looked thoughtful, but gave no explanation as he finally turned and went out the door. “Good afternoon.”

  I lingered by the door after Chapman was gone, trying to regain my peaceful state of mind. I locked the door, and went back upstairs only to the two shopping bags on the counter. “The groceries! Dammit!” I jogged back down to my car to bring in the cold things I had left. I put the gallon jug of milk in the refrigerator and hoped that it wasn’t spoiled.

  With the grocery shopping taken care of, I could pursue today’s mission. I searched the kitchen drawers for the scrap of paper with Steve’s new address, and copied it into my phone’s GPS nav.

  ***

  Steve answered the door with a smile of greeting. “Nic, I’m glad you’ve come by. I didn’t think that you were ever going to use the directions I gave you.” His impression after their breakup was that she wanted nothing to do with him, but apparently that was different from what she had told her best friend. The mission that Jacqueline had charged him with would be his path back home.