Taylor stopped, remembering suddenly. She turned, met the nurse’s gaze. “You’re a flight nurse, right?”
“I was.” The nurse swallowed, the anxious look returning. “We’ve met. I usually go by my middle name, Sloane.”
“Sloane Wilder. You’re Paul Stryker’s fiancée.”
“Was.” Her lips compressed. “We broke up . . . six months now.”
Taylor’s stomach sank. Paul Stryker. Greg’s basketball buddy, a volunteer firefighter. The number he’d called the night of the accident. The man who had no idea why Greg would have been driving in that area and—“You live near Elk Grove.”
“Not anymore.” Discomfort flickered across Sloane’s face. “New job, new hair, new zip code . . . Lots of changes.”
“I . . .” Taylor kept her voice steady. The last time she’d seen this woman was at Greg’s funeral. “I understand that.”
“I figured you would. Considering . . .”
Don’t make me cry. . . . I’m past crying.
Taylor shifted her gaze back to the computer, trying to ignore the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. “Now let’s see . . . Yes, you’re all set here. That’s it. Triage is officially yours.”
In less than two minutes she was out of the office, down the corridor, and inside the ladies’ room. She held herself together until the cleaning lady finished wiping down the mirror and clattered her cart back through the door. Then Taylor sank back against the sink. Her throat ached with unshed tears and her stomach was dangerously queasy. The strange thing was that all of it had less to do with Greg’s death than it had to do with her own life. Her continued failure. Wasn’t it only minutes ago that she’d applauded herself for being past the effects of grief? And then a simple encounter with a woman she barely knew sent her tumbling back down that rabbit hole?
Taylor closed her eyes, remembering the nurse’s words. “New job . . . new zip code . . .” Sloane Wilder had moved on by moving away. Maybe that’s what it took.
“That artist’s sketch is about as helpful as the one they had for the Unabomber,” the older deputy complained. Hank had caught Fletcher as he exited the briefing room. He grinned, waiting as Fletcher grabbed a shotgun from the armory. “You going to bring him down, Houston? Hog-tied and branded?”
Fletcher smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’ll watch for the YouTube video.” The man’s grin faded. “Seth says the kids of that bank manager sent a letter to Vince’s kids saying they felt bad about Titus.”
The slain K-9. Fletcher shook his head.
“Say . . .” Hank met Fletcher’s gaze as they walked on toward the parking lot. “How’s your mother doing?”
“Good. A little stir-crazy; they haven’t cleared her to get back to her volunteer work yet. But she’s keeping busy. And waiting for the next lab tests.”
“My sister was like a pincushion with all those tests.”
“That about says it,” Fletcher agreed, grateful once again for what this man had shared regarding his sister’s gastric cancer treatment. Surgery, radiation, chemo. Three years a survivor. She and her husband were “birding” in Copper Canyon, Mexico, right now, another annual celebration of her continuing health. “Hey, when she was going through all of that, did she get hounded by folks trying to sell her insurance? Financial assistance? That sort of thing?”
“Not that she said.” Hank’s graying brows drew together. “But medical information is confidential: HIPAA laws. It’s not like the hospitals bring vendors in and give them a list of potential clients. Heads would roll.” The man mimed a football move. “Because the Feds would be drop-kicking them from here to DC.”
“Bet on it,” Fletcher agreed.
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Something someone said.”
“Well—” Hank tossed him a salute—“strap on those spurs and go find yourself an old Buick, Houston.”
“Yessir.”
Fletcher hefted his pursuit bag and headed toward his assigned patrol car, thinking about what Hank had said. The police artist sketch, obtained from witnesses who’d seen a stranger in the Stockton neighborhood where the plates were stolen, was minimally helpful. A white male, early forties maybe, tall and lanky build, thin face, knit cap pulled low. Glasses. Maybe. Beard. Maybe. Hank had been right: it was about as useful as that hoodie sketch of the infamous bomber. Hank had also been right about federal privacy laws. The hospital or doctor’s office wouldn’t have divulged his mother’s AML diagnosis to a financial planner.
Elliot Rush was also the Sacramento Hope employee retirement adviser. He was on-site frequently. How difficult would it be to obtain patient information? Would he actually do that? Fletcher’s jaw tensed at the image of Rush the day they’d met. Out on the freeway the day of the first shooting. Defending his expensive car and his bloated ego. Even if he’d gone out of his way to be conciliatory since, something smelled very bad about this situation. Fletcher wasn’t going to let it rest.
He slid into the car, secured the shotgun. He’d called Rush’s office twice and left messages. Didn’t give details but requested an appointment later today regarding “some personal business.” Fletcher had almost mentioned his concern to Macy but decided not to bother her with it. Her priority was her sister. He could understand that.
His was protecting his mother from vultures.
37
“I SHOULD KNOW BETTER than to eat the pretzels,” the sixtysomething passenger told Macy, vigorously wiping her tray table. “Makes my fingers puffy.” A deep chuckle made the skin around her dark eyes wrinkle like California raisins. “Sausage fingers—that’s what my littlest grandson calls them. I think he’s a spy for my internist.” She glanced at Macy’s iPad, pulled up to the ER nursing staff shift schedules. “Was it business that took you to Tucson?”
“No.” Macy watched the woman’s bracelet dangle as she cleaned the table, small silver discs with multicolored stones and engraved names. Her grandchildren in Sacramento, probably. “I was visiting my sister. She’s pregnant,” Macy added, figuring she’d better get used to saying it.
“How wonderful!” The woman’s face lit. “First baby?”
“Yes.” Though wonderful hardly factored into these circumstances. Leah’s oft-repeated and pitiful death grip on the toilet bowl just after dawn this morning hadn’t been so terrific either. “First baby.”
“Nothing like it.” The woman touched a fingertip to her bracelet. “Except the second, third, fourth . . .” She chuckled again. “Though I have to admit grandchildren are easier. Haven’t had a single stretch mark this go-round.”
Macy smiled despite a crowding ache. She’d never known grandparents; neither had Leah. This baby wouldn’t either. No birthstone charms. But . . . “My first time being an auntie too,” she added, sending the new truth out there like fragile soap bubbles from a child’s plastic wand. Leah had agreed to move to Sacramento “for a while.” That this had been settled only after another racking bout of morning sickness—and some tears over Sean’s uncertain future—didn’t dilute Macy’s relief. Leah was coming. It was a reality now. “They’re going to live with me.”
“Ah.” There was a knowing look in the woman’s kind eyes, but not one speck of judgment. “A blessing for all of you.”
“Yes.” Macy blinked against tears. Something about this stranger’s gentle manner encouraged her on. “I wasn’t sure she’d agree, but she needs help. And now that it’s all settled, I’m . . .” A deep sigh escaped her lips. “So relieved. And really happy.”
Their impending arrival in Sacramento was announced overhead. Macy dutifully switched off her electronic device.
“Then I’m happy for you,” the woman said, patting her jacket sleeve. “After such good news, I’d say a celebration is in order.”
“I think so too.” A wave of giddy warmth buoyed Macy far beyond childish soap bubbles. More like champagne and—“Actually, I have a dinner date tonight.”
“With someone special.
” The woman smiled. “I can see that on your face.”
“Yes,” Macy agreed, telling herself she’d never see this woman again. There was no risk in being crazy honest. Right this minute she trusted her feelings more than she ever remembered. “He’s really special . . . like no one I’ve ever met before.”
Like someone I could love.
Twenty minutes later, Macy had traversed the Southwest Airlines concourse, caught the Terminal B tram—passing beneath the airport’s iconic fifty-six-foot-long fiberglass red rabbit sculpture suspended on cables from the ceiling. Before she could begin looking for the contracted transport van, the driver magically appeared. He was carrying a Starbucks cup of her favorite chai tea.
Leave it to Elliot to think of everything.
“Thank you, but no,” Fletcher said, passing on Rush’s offer of coffee or “something stronger.” There was a well-stocked bar in this man’s home office, an unpleasant reminder of how they’d met. Even more so was the obvious odor of alcohol on his breath right now. When they’d finally stopped playing message tag, Rush made a point of how he’d squeezed Fletcher in for this short afternoon appointment despite his daunting schedule. As a favor, he’d said. And now Fletcher had used up half the time wandering this expansive East Sacramento property trying to locate the office. Which ended up being down a brick walkway as narrow as a deer path, through a jungle of bushes, behind the pool. Fletcher had seen Texas wild game blinds not nearly as well camouflaged. He shifted on the upholstered chair.
“Well then, how can I help you today? Some information on investments?” Rush’s tone suggested he doubted the paltry commission would be worth his time.
“Not exactly,” Fletcher began, noticing a framed photo by the desk: a casual shot of the Rushes on the deck of a sailboat along with a tanned young woman in a swimsuit. Macy? He pulled his gaze away, set the viatical brochure on the shiny desktop. “You sent this to my mother, Mrs. John Holt?”
“I’m not sure.” Rush’s leather chair squeaked as he leaned back into it. “I have a variety of investment packets. With brochures from several vendors. It would be hard to know if—”
“There.” Fletcher turned it over, pointed to the inked logo at the bottom. “Your name, this address. Same as on the envelope.”
Rush looked at his watch. Then met Fletcher’s gaze, a so-what expression on his face. “Evidently, then, we did.”
We. As if there were a half-dozen assistants in this hidden art gallery and bar masquerading as an office. Fletcher let it pass. “Why did you send it?”
“My discussions with clients are confidential, Mr. Holt. So I couldn’t possibly—”
“She’s not a client. And she did not request this information.” Fletcher tensed as the financial adviser checked his watch a second time. If the man made a move to stand and dismiss him, he swore he would—“It says, right here, that this information is only offered to people with terminal illnesses. And you mailed it to my mother? You solicited her?”
“I’m under no obligation to explain my marketing plan.” Rush had the decency to show the smallest hint of nervousness. The slight slur in his voice had become more apparent. “What’s your point?”
“Never mind my point, how about federal law?” Fletcher challenged, enjoying the faint sheen of perspiration appearing at the man’s thin hairline. “My mother’s diagnosis and care are confidential, protected.” He wanted to punch this man for even suggesting his mother’s illness was terminal. “Even if your alliance with Sacramento Hope allowed you access to patient records—which it doesn’t—it would be completely unethical to use that information for personal profit. You did that!”
Rush’s eyes narrowed. But he said nothing.
Bile rose in Fletcher’s throat. For the first time in his career, he questioned the wisdom of carrying an off-duty weapon. If the man didn’t wipe that smirk off his face . . . He aimed his finger instead. “What are you doing, scouting the hospital for clients on your lunch break? Just who do you think you are?”
“Who?” Elliot stood, planted his hands on his desk. “I’ll tell you who I am.” He pointed to the wall behind his desk: College diplomas, certifications, and what could be twenty various plaques. Rotary symbols, awards with brass so shiny the engravings weren’t even discernible, sponsorship plaques from local Little League teams . . . and even a photo of himself sharing a cigar with Governor Schwarzenegger. “I’m the man people trust with their futures. I’m who they come to. I have the answers. I make success happen. People trust me to do that.”
“To break the law? Invade privacy?” Fletcher rose to his feet, stared at Rush, a hairbreadth away from reaching over the desk to grab him by the throat. “People trust you to offer odds on human life? How many decent people would be okay with that?”
Elliot smiled. “Maybe . . . people like Macy Wynn?”
Fletcher’s breath stuck. “What’s Macy got to do with it?”
“Plenty. Her portfolio includes viaticals—and she’ll get a nice return. I’ll see to that.”
Fletcher shook his head, trying to make sense of it. The man had to be lying. It couldn’t be—
“A woman her tender age doesn’t approach a million dollars’ net worth without maximizing her returns, even with trust fund seed money. Macy’s sharp. She trusts me—always has. We’ll see that million mark, together, before the year ends.” His lips twisted. “With all the right investments. And her valuable input, of course.”
Input?
“But Macy wouldn’t . . . You’re not saying . . . ,” Fletcher flailed, trying to wrap his mind around it. There was no way Macy would divulge his mother’s medical information.
“All I’m saying, Mr. Holt—” Rush tapped his Rolex—“is that I have another appointment. I’m sure you can find your way out.”
Macy stooped down, cupping the Labradoodle’s face between her palms. “You fuzzy mutt, have I told you lately that I love you?” She giggled, squeezing her eyes shut as the dog tried to lick her nose. “You have to promise Deputy Holt you’ve been a good guard dog. The man is pretty serious about my welfare.” That ridiculous champagne-bubbly feeling came back. It was true—Fletcher cared about keeping her safe . . . cares about me. A lot.
He’d just returned the text she’d sent to say she was home. On my way over—short, to the point. And much earlier than she’d expected him to arrive. Macy’s face warmed. Fletcher didn’t want to waste any time either; he was as eager as she was to start their evening together. Dinner overlooking Lake Tahoe. Pine-scented summer air, the Sierra sky glittering with stars . . . What had that woman on the plane said? “A celebration is in order.” Yes, it was going to be perfect.
She glanced in the full-length mirror the three roommates had struggled to install on the door of the hall closet. Not the best lighting, but . . . Macy did a little turn, almost a dancer’s pirouette. She smiled at herself. Not half-bad—the twirl and the choice of outfit: white cotton-and-lace tee, modestly clingy and soft, under a short denim jacket topping the same slim navy skirt and heels she’d been wearing the afternoon they first met. On Highway 99. It seemed so long ago now, like it had been some other cop and nurse butting heads out there. So much had happened, changed, since then. Good things in the aftermath of tragedy, sun slanting through rain clouds: finding that amazing house, Leah’s determination to stay clean and sober, her willingness to move to Sacramento, and . . . Fletcher. The bubbly feeling made Macy deliciously dizzy. Fletcher was definitely a good thing. She’d never felt this way before. Happy, hopeful . . .
Was it possible, what he’d said about God? That he had a hopeful plan for every single person? Goose bumps rose as she thought of Leah remembering Nonni’s assurances: “God knew me before I was born. And he even knew the exact number of hairs on my head. . . . Loved me . . . because I’m his child.”
Macy stared at her reflection, reached up to touch the carefully dyed strands in her hair. God, the loving Father? She thought of her answer to Leah’s question about fa
ith. “I think . . . it must feel really good to believe that.” It had been a half answer, a hedge. But right now it felt like the truth. Maybe she did want to believe. Maybe she finally would. Could she trust that finding Leah and meeting Fletcher was part of a bigger plan to—?
A text message buzzed:
Roommates there?
Only me, she typed back quickly.
Macy’s skin tingled, imagining Fletcher preplanning how he’d sweep her into his arms. She couldn’t wait to tell him about Leah and the baby and about how good she’d started to feel about so many unexpected things.
The doorbell rang. Dood lurched.
“No way! I get him first,” Macy laughed, scrambling close behind. She grabbed for his collar with one hand, fumbled at the lock with the other, and flung the door open at last, her heart racing like a rabbit.
“Macy.”
“Hey,” she blurted, ridiculously breathless. “What on earth took you so long? What’s a girl supposed to—?” She stopped short, her runaway heart hitting a wall. Fletcher looked agitated, undone. “What’s wrong? More news about the shoot—?”
“My mother,” Fletcher interrupted. “I need to talk with you.”
“Of course. Sure—come in,” Macy told him, fear creeping in as she stepped back. “Dood, down.”
She reached for Fletcher’s hand. “Has something happened?”
“Maybe.” He drew his hand away from hers. His eyes seemed more stormy gray than blue. “I just came from Elliot Rush’s office. He said something about you being a millionaire.”
She grimaced, hunted for words, but Fletcher kept talking.
“He said you’re investing in buying life insurance policies from people who have terminal illnesses.”
What?
Macy’s brows scrunched as she struggled to understand. “Look. I can explain about the money. I should have—would have. Only it’s so complicated . . .” Her knees weakened without warning. “What does this have to do with your mother?”
By Your Side Page 24
