Deacon had driven her to Birch’s estate on that awful Saturday night. The night of sickness and delirium. The night when they hit the deer. The night when her body was burning up and the nicest thing in the world was to have Caprice carry her to that lavish guest bedroom that smelled of vanilla and coconut and to see, hovering behind her, that smiling, fleshy, familiar face. Dr Smeltz. Her doctor. He would make everything better.
He was already there when we arrived.
That was the connection she’d failed to make all these years. Why would a child give it a second thought? He’d already been called to the house. Not for her. For something else entirely.
Something bad.
Justin must have found out, and Justin was dead. Had Cab Bolton found out, too? Had Dr Smeltz told him? It didn’t matter. She needed to know for herself.
*
Peach grabbed her phone and shut off the power. She checked the downtown street. Awnings on the storefronts flapped madly, like baseball cards in a bicycle spoke. The trees bent down as if they were praying. Branches, leaves, and dirt spat through the air. She knelt in the plaza, which was lined with loose red bricks. It was easy enough to dig her fingers into the gaps and pry them free. She uprooted them and scattered them around the plaza the way the storm would. Gusts of wind could lift up rocks and hurl them like javelins.
She took one brick and walked ten more feet to the edge of the plaza, where she stood in front of the three floor-to-ceiling windows that looked in on the lobby of the clinic. I’m sorry, Dr Smeltz.
Peach hurled the brick into the center window. The glass shattered, caving inward, leaving shards on every side that looked like a shark’s mouth. The crash banged loudly in her ears, but the howling wind drowned it out. No alarm sounded. No strobe lights flashed. She kicked some of the glass teeth out of the frame with the toe of her shoe and carefully squeezed through the hole into the building.
Rain flooded inside, pooling on the floor. The brick lay in the middle of the sandstone tile, surrounded by fragments that crunched under her feet. The water made the floor slippery, and she stumbled. Her skirt tore, and a gash opened on her knee. When she touched it, the cut stung, and her fingers came away with blood. She sucked them clean.
The waiting room was small. It smelled of antiseptic cleaner. Behind the receptionist desk, she saw a door that led to the rest of the clinic. She’d been here many times, heard the young nurse call her name, and followed the woman nervously to the examining rooms in the back. Peach pushed through the wooden door, the way she had as a kid. When she closed it behind her, the hallway was black. She fumbled for a light switch and found it, and fluorescent lights flickered to life overhead. There were no windows; no one outside would see.
Most of the doors in the hallway were open. They led to different examining rooms. She saw cushioned tables on which she’d sat as a child, pedaling her legs. The doctor’s little wheely chair. The cabinets where he’d grabbed bottles and needles. In one of the rooms, she saw green Legos that had been made into an alligator, and she smiled. Some things didn’t change.
Dr Smeltz’s name was on a plaque in the middle of one door. She opened it, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her, turning on the lights. The office smelled of Dr Smeltz, which meant it smelled of coffee and those little chocolate mints he kept for patients, but which he mostly ate himself. Peach saw a bowl of them on a table near his computer. She couldn’t resist taking one and biting down on the candy shell. The taste brought a wave of memories.
Something in the office made a loud chunk, and she had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming. When it happened again, she saw rainwater dripping from the ceiling into an orange bucket. She giggled at her overreaction, but it reminded her that she had broken into an office building and was mounting an illegal search. She couldn’t waste time.
She spotted the doctor’s locked steel filing cabinets. Like she had in Ogden Bush’s office, she did a search of the desk, and it took her less than five minutes to find a key. She unlocked the filing cabinet on the wall and opened the middle drawer, which was labeled with a handwritten D–F.
Peach pawed through bulging folders. The files were squeezed together so tightly that she could barely separate them. Dr Smeltz had been practicing in Lake Wales since the 1970s, and the spidery ink on some of the folders had faded. Papers were yellowed. The alphabetizing wasn’t always perfect. Peach went from front to back, checking each folder, but found no files on Diane Fairmont. The name Fairmont didn’t appear at all.
Ms Fairmont’s maiden name was Hempl. Dr Smeltz had probably treated her before she married Birch. Peach repeated her search on the drawer labeled G-I, but again, the effort was fruitless. She began to feel frustrated, and her nervousness grew as time passed. The last cabinet on the wall had three unlabeled drawers. She checked them, but they were empty except for unmarked file folders and a box of markers. Finally, she unlocked the other filing cabinets on the wall and began to search all of the remaining drawers.
She expected to find her own medical file, but she never got there. She had reached the M files when she heard voices.
Peach froze, and her heartbeat soared with fear. Someone had spotted the broken window. She remembered that she’d left the outer hallway light on, which was stupid, stupid, stupid. She closed the drawer where she was searching and locked the cabinets with soft clicks. Her eyes traveled the room for a hiding place. She dove for the light switch, flicked off the office light, and groped her way to the desk. Finding it, she felt for the doctor’s armchair and nudged it backward. The casters squeaked. Peach folded herself inside the small space under the desk, then pulled the chair as tightly against herself as she could. She held her breath.
She wondered if she’d been dripping on the floor, leaving a trail.
The office door opened, and the overhead lights came on again, harsh and bright. The voices got louder. There were two men. She heard their footsteps. At least one of them had a body odor problem.
‘I’m telling you, the storm broke the window,’ said one.
‘Yeah? Did the storm turn the light on, too?’ The second man had a Spanish accent.
‘They probably forgot.’
The footsteps moved around the office. One of the men came up to the desk; she could see the shadow of his legs. He walked behind the desk; he was next to the chair. If he bent down, he would see her. She could have reached out and pulled up his sock, which had fallen to reveal a bare ankle.
‘Nobody,’ said the first man.
The second man grunted. He was the one who was close to her. ‘Check the drug cabinet.’
‘It’s locked.’
‘The book says always check the closet if there’s an alarm. The combination is 0630.’
The second man moved away from the desk. Peach let out her breath in a slow, silent hiss. She heard the clicking of metal buttons, and the door to the supply closet opened. The floor was concrete; she could hear the difference in the sound of their footsteps.
‘All clear here. Man, he’s got a stash, huh?’
‘He’s a doctor, what do you expect?’
The two men returned to the office and locked the storage closet door.
‘That it?’ said the first man.
‘We have to call Dr Smeltz,’ his colleague replied.
‘He’s not going to be happy coming out in the storm.’
‘He’s not going to be happy seeing his window broken and his lobby looking like it’s in the middle of Crooked Lake.’
‘We hanging around?’ asked the first man.
‘You are. I’ll go to the next call. I’ll swing back and pick you up after the doc arrives.’
The first man muttered unhappily under his breath. Moments later, the office light went off. Peach waited, not moving. She heard footsteps receding in the hallway. The voices continued, muffled and distant, and then they went silent. She heard a door open and close.
Immediately afterward, a radio blared in the waiting room. Lou
d, hip-hop music. She wasn’t alone. The first man had stayed behind, waiting for Dr Smeltz. She knew that the doctor would only need ten or fifteen minutes to make his way back to the clinic. She needed to be gone before he arrived.
Peach scrambled out from under the desk. She could still smell the mildewed aroma of sweat the men had left behind. Her instinct was to make an immediate break for the rear exit that led to the alley, but she still hadn’t found a file for Diane Fairmont. Dr Smeltz didn’t keep her file with his other patient records, but she realized that was no surprise. He would keep the records separate and secure. Even so, she didn’t think he would keep the file offsite, in case he needed to access the information. There was only one room in the building that had a heavy door and a secure lock. That was the drug closet ten feet away from her.
The lock that opened with the combination 0630.
Peach wasted no time. She turned on the office light again and quickly keyed the buttons to gain access to the storage room. Inside, with a quick review of the room, she found herself disappointed. There were no filing cabinets. No lock boxes. The room was lined with metal shelves that were stocked with pharmaceuticals and medical supplies. She saw nowhere to hide files. Her face fell. The clock was ticking, and she needed to go.
Then she spotted a red metal chest shoved into a corner. It was two-feet by two-feet and twelve inches high. She’d almost missed it, because boxes of gauze and bagged patient gowns had been stacked on top of the lid. A small padlock latched the chest shut, and a handwritten sign had been taped to the front. The sign read, in bold black letters: BIO-HAZARD.
She stared at it, frowning. Why would a hazardous materials chest be covered up with supplies? Why a handwritten sign? She knew Dr Smeltz. He wasn’t fussy about a lot of things, but he was particular when it came to the safety of his practice.
Peach crossed the room and used a hairpin to pop the tiny padlock. She shifted the clutter off the chest, undid the latch, and opened the heavy metal lid. There were no used needles or contaminated waste inside. Instead, the chest was empty except for two thick file folders.
One folder was labeled DIANE (HEMPL) FAIRMONT.
The second was labeled DREW HEMPL.
Peach stared at the folders and thought: This is wrong. However, she’d already left the line between right and wrong far behind her.
She gathered the files into her arms. Quickly, she relocked the chest and replaced the supplies, so it looked as if nothing had been disturbed. She hoped Dr Smeltz didn’t look too carefully. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she shut the storage room door again.
Music thumped from the waiting room. It was Nicki Minaj. Peach switched off the lights and inched the office door open. The hallway lights were dark, but she pushed her face out to peek down the hallway, and she saw that the lobby door was open. A male voice rose above the music; the first man was on his cell phone. As she watched, he wandered into view, his back to her. He was tall and meaty, wearing a tight gray uniform.
Peach slipped into the hallway. A red EXIT sign glowed at the end of the corridor to her left. The medical files were snug under her right arm. Rain drummed on the roof above her. She backed up, keeping her eyes on the man in the lobby. Nicki sang about ‘Beez in the Trap,’ and the security guard did the worst white man’s dance Peach had ever seen. He was still on the phone.
‘Are you kidding? No way I’m apologizing to her. Okay, so I yelled at her kid. Big deal. She’s lucky I didn’t put my foot up his ass. Little twit was sticking peanut butter in my Blu Ray player! Is that supposed to be funny? I mean, the thing’s completely f—’
He spun around, still dancing, and then he stopped dead.
Peach was a shadow halfway down the hallway, but he stared right at her. Their eyes met across the dark space. His mouth fell open in surprise.
‘HEY!’ he bellowed.
Peach turned and sprinted. Footsteps pounded behind her, but a scream and crash intervened as the man slipped in the pooled water and wiped out. She stole a look behind her; he was struggling to get up. He shouted curses after her, but she widened the gap and hit the emergency exit door with her shoulder. It flew open, and she bolted into the storm. Her heart was thumping, her mouth open, swallowing water that sprayed into her face. It was night, and the rainfall was a black shroud.
She was across the plaza before the man made it out of the building. She raced into the darkness and disappeared.
33
Cab perched his long legs on the motel bed, which took up most of the room. The motel had a musty, old-cigarette smell. He sat by the window with an open bottle of red wine in front of him. The hammering of rain on the glass was hypnotic. The wine was delicious; he always kept a bottle of Stags’ Leap in the rear of the Corvette, in case of emergency.
Sitting alone in a cheap motel room in the middle of a storm definitely counted as an emergency. He was on his second glass.
He thought about what he had discovered so far and what it all meant.
Ten years ago, Birch Fairmont committed some unspeakable act that Diane and the people around her had kept a closely guarded secret to this day. Only two weeks later, an unidentified assassin shot three people at the Bok Sanctuary, including Birch. Back then, no one made a connection between the two events. Instead, the Liberty Empire Alliance got the blame for painting a target on Birch’s chest. Hamilton Brock went to prison but claimed he was set up by a mole inside the Alliance. Chuck Warren lost the election but saw a conspiracy orchestrated by the Democrats and the media.
Conspiracy or not, the crime went unsolved.
Fast forward to now.
Rufus Twill, who had led the media wolf pack going after the Liberty Empire Alliance ten years ago, was singing a different song. So was his niece, a former employee at the Fairmont household. They were both spreading rumors that Diane’s son Drew hated Birch and wanted him dead. Drew also had a relationship with a hip, violent young drug dealer named Frank Macy. If Cab connected the dots, then maybe Birch’s death wasn’t what everyone originally believed. Or maybe he was being played, and this was just a new political conspiracy aimed at Diane.
Rufus Twill had an agenda in pointing a finger at Drew after all these years. That was obvious. He wasn’t the kingpin; someone else was orchestrating the rumors. Money had changed hands. It felt like the usual election-year games – but Justin Kiel’s death wasn’t a game. He’d been executed.
Justin had found something that made him a mortal threat. He’d been asking questions about Birch’s murder. He’d searched the office of Dr Reuben Smeltz. He’d followed the trail of Drew’s drug dealer, Frank Macy. And he wound up with a bullet in his brain.
Definitely not a game.
Cab knew the least about Frank Macy of any of the players in this drama, but what he did know troubled him. Macy had a criminal record and access to guns. He also had connections to a woman who would very much like to see Diane’s downfall. The Attorney General and Republican gubernatorial candidate, Ramona Cortes.
Cab didn’t know what to believe anymore. He was in a shadow play, where he couldn’t trust what his eyes told him. The wine swam in his head. His clothes were still wet; he was cold. The rain fired at the motel window like a machine gun. He picked up his cell phone and did what he always did when he couldn’t sort out what was real and what was not.
He called Lala.
Signal was weak as the storm fought the satellites. He didn’t expect an answer, but this time, on the second static-filled ring, he heard her voice.
‘Hello, Cab.’
He almost forgot to say anything. Then he recovered. ‘The storm’s bad. Are you safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you alone?’
God, what a stupid thing to say. He could hear her smile. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?’
‘I have no interest in Caprice Dean,’ he said.
‘Liar.’
‘Well, I have interest, but I’m taking your advice to heart.’
&
nbsp; ‘Good.’
She was quiet and far away. The storm felt as if it were coming between them. He expected the call to drop and split them apart. He felt the physical distance and the desire for her body; it had been weeks since they’d made love. More than that, he felt ungrounded without her.
‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘At Tarla’s place?’
‘No, I’m in Lake Wales.’
‘Because of Diane Fairmont?’
‘Yes.’
Her words broke up. He held the phone near the window. ‘What? I didn’t hear that.’
‘I asked if you’d found out anything.’
‘Only that you were right. I’m swimming with sharks.’
‘Well, your teeth are pretty sharp, too,’ Lala said. ‘I should know.’
Cab grinned. ‘Nice memory for a man alone in a motel room. Tarla says we should try phone sex.’
‘Yes, because sexual suggestions from your mother really turn me on.’
‘You, too?’
He heard her laugh. He could always make her laugh. Then, as the silence drew out, he remembered where he was. ‘Honestly?’ he told her. ‘I’m worried.’
‘About what?’
‘I have this feeling that the past is about to repeat itself, and I’m not going to be able to stop it.’
She didn’t answer. He thought he’d lost her again. He wondered if she realized he’d been drinking.
‘Lala?’
‘Cab, if you find anything at all, I want you to call me.’
He was surprised by the intensity in her voice. ‘I haven’t. I have puzzle pieces that don’t fit together. I have motives layered upon motives. None of it tells me who really killed Birch Fairmont. None of it tells me whether Diane is really in jeopardy.’
He waited for an answer, but didn’t get one.
‘I’m not working for Caprice anymore,’ he went on. ‘I want to know what’s going on, but I can’t do that with politicians trying to manipulate me.’
‘I know how you feel. Really, I do.’
‘Caprice wasn’t happy. I think she wanted a detective boy-toy.’
Season of Fear Page 24
