Send Me a Hero

by Rita Herron

  Later, the handwriting grew disjointed, as if her grandmother had been upset. She read on and realized her grandmother had written the entries after her parents’ deaths.

  My heart aches with the loss of Amelia and Robert, and to think that they destroyed themselves is more than I can bear. But I must protect my little Veronica, who the doctors say is severely traumatized from witnessing their deaths.

  She lies so still with her eyes so wide, and her skin feels cold and clammy, like she has taken ill. In a way I suppose she has. She has taken an illness in her mind and she may never be right again.

  The doctors talk to her, but she doesn’t respond, and the reporters hover outside the door and window, trying to get in. I want one day to see her run and play and be normal again.

  Veronica’s chest squeezed as she sensed the pain and frustration her grandmother must have felt. She had never felt normal.

  Weeks have passed and my little Veronica has finally come out of the shell she was locked inside. But her memory has gone with her parents’ deaths. Some say it is a terrible thing. I think it is a blessing in disguise.

  Veronica wiped her eyes and lay down on the couch, hugging her grandmother’s journal to her chest. “How could it be a blessing in disguise, Grandmother?” she whispered. Not only could she not remember their deaths, but neither could she remember them when they were alive.

  NATHAN FELT LIKE growling the next morning as he lumbered into the police station. A long night with only his electric blanket, his dog and the hum of his ancient refrigerator to keep him company had destroyed his sleep.

  Hell, who was he kidding? Veronica had destroyed his sleep.

  Or rather, the fact that she wasn’t with him.

  He’d studied her father’s date book and made a note of all the appointments Mr. Miller had the weeks prior to his death. Interestingly enough, Alma Jones, Eli’s mother, had scheduled a meeting with him only two days before he’d died. Had the woman been soliciting campaign contributions for her son or had she some other business in mind?

  He had to remember that Miller was the only attorney in town back then, so most of the people had used him. It was likely half the town had made appointments with him that month. Including Scroggins, the former police chief who had been less than eager to talk about Veronica.

  He slurped his morning coffee and made a list of the phone calls he needed to make. Last night after he’d finished with the book, he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t get Veronica out of his mind. He wanted her. Emotionally stable or not, he wanted her.

  “Got that report on the fingerprints,” Ford said, slapping a file down in front of him. “Only fingerprints in the apartment were hers and yours,” Ford said.

  “Even on the mirror?”

  “Yep.”

  “How about the computer disks?”

  Ford lit up a cigarette. Nathan really felt like growling. He’d come close to driving to the store the night before and buying a pack. He didn’t need this temptation now.

  “We got part of one, but couldn’t match it. Whoever touched them isn’t in the system.”

  “Meaning there could have been someone there, but they didn’t have an arrest record. Or they used gloves.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Ford said, raising his eyebrows in skepticism.

  “Did you find anything on Barrett?”

  “He’s got several offshore accounts. Could be anywhere.”

  “Keep checking. And run a background check on Louise Falk.”

  “Who the hell is she?” Ford snarled.

  “Veronica’s secretary. She’s one of the few people who had access to Veronica’s keys.”

  “And while I’m doing all the legwork, what are you doing?”

  Nathan gritted his teeth. “I’m checking up on her former boyfriend. And digging up the past.”

  “Found the shrink who treated the Miller broad after her parents’ deaths,” Ford said, waving a slip of paper in front of Nathan. Nathan snatched it and read the name. Dr. Sandler.

  “I’ll head over there after I make this phone call.”

  Ford shook his head as if he already knew what the psychiatrist would tell Nathan and ambled over to his own desk. Nathan punched in the number of his friend in Florida.

  “Bill, this is Dawson. What do you have for me?”

  The man on the other end laughed. “Always straight to the point, aren’t you?”

  “It’s important,” Nathan said. Too important. Veronica’s starting to mean too much to me.

  “Well, I found out something interesting on the Miller woman.”

  His stomach knotted at Bill’s tone. Guilt warred within him at checking up on her. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

  “She was seeing a psychiatrist in Florida, but he wouldn’t give me any information. Said her file was confidential.”

  Nathan sighed audibly and clenched the slip of paper in his fist. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but if Ford got wind of it, he’d be certain Veronica was mentally incompetent. “How about Cox?”

  “Cox is pretty boring. I could fall asleep just looking at him.”

  Nathan laughed.

  “Goes to work at six, out to lunch with several suits every day, night he works late, goes to a local gym once or twice a week, eats takeout dinner.”

  “Any women in his life?”

  Bill chuckled. “A couple of uppity attorneys. Certainly not your type.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Nathan said, realizing his type had never been dark-haired, dark-eyed mysterious women—until now.

  “Naw. Man’s a workaholic. Nothing interesting, including the car he drives.”

  “What kind?”

  “A dark sedan. Tinted windows. Real conservative.”

  Nathan remembered the dark sedan he thought had been following him and Veronica on their way from the restaurant.

  “And he’s been in Florida all week?”

  “Until yesterday. Left on business.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Drove to Savannah.”

  Hmm. Savannah was near enough to Atlanta for Cox to drive over in an evening. Veronica had talked to him the night before, too. What if he hadn’t been calling from Florida? What if he’d been right here in Oakland?

  VERONICA TUGGED her jacket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the January wind and glanced over her shoulder to see if someone was following her. She thought she’d seen a black car behind her on the highway, but it hadn’t turned in to the hospital. Maybe it was only her imagination.

  She intended to see Arlene Baits and question her about her birth. Somehow talking to the people who’d known her parents made her feel closer to them.

  All night she’d tossed and turned on the sofa, thinking about her grandmother’s journal and her reaction to the death of her parents. Which doctor had treated her after they’d died? If Arlene Baits had helped deliver her, maybe she had been around when she was taken in for trauma and could give her some answers.

  If she had to, she was prepared to visit the former police chief and ask to see the records on the investigation of her parents’ deaths. After finding out how much her parents loved her and each other, she couldn’t make herself believe the murder-suicide theory. Or that she had hurt them.

  And if she’d seen the real killer, whoever it was had gone free, because she’d been afraid.

  She might have been a traumatized little girl twenty years before, but now she was a grown woman and an attorney. Justice hadn’t been served, and if getting her memory back was the key to finding the person who’d ripped her childhood to shreds, she was determined to face it, no matter how painful.

  The small county hospital was a buzz of activity when she entered. She had a little over half an hour before she’d have to be at the office, and she’d promised to meet Tessa Jones, Eli’s daughter, for lunch.

  She still hadn’t understood the woman’s phone call this morning and her insistence on the meetin
g. She seriously doubted Tessa wanted to talk about her taxes. Certainly Eli had all his children’s financial matters well in hand. Distracted with her thoughts, she almost ran into an orderly pushing a wheelchair with an older woman sitting in it. It reminded her of her grandmother. And her reason for being there.

  She scanned the nurses’ station and spotted a friendly looking young woman. “Hi, I’m Veronica Miller. I’d like to see Dr. Arlene Baits.”

  The girl held out a clipboard. “Fill this out, please.”

  Veronica smiled. “No, I’m not here as a patient. I need to speak with her.”

  The young woman pointed to the waiting area. “I’ll see if I can find her.” She checked the clock. “It’s just about time for her shift to end. She’ll probably be out in a minute.”

  Veronica stared at the faded yellow paint on the walls and thought about Nathan. Had he found out who’d broken into her apartment and written the threatening message?

  “Ma’am, Dr. Baits can see you now.”

  Veronica followed the young woman to a small lounge where the doctor waited.

  “Dr. Baits, I’m glad you could talk with me.”

  The older doctor turned around, sloshing hot coffee over the rim of her cup. “Oh, my.”

  “Are you okay?” Veronica asked, approaching cautiously.

  The woman recovered, her hand trembling as she placed the coffee on the table and settled into a chair. Veronica sat down beside her. “Seeing me upsets you, doesn’t it, Dr. Baits?”

  “Please call me Arlene,” the woman said, patting her gray hair in place. “That’s what your mother called me.”

  “Really?” The thought of this woman and her mother being friends warmed her and slightly settled her jangled nerves.

  “Yes, you look so much like her, dear. It’s uncanny.” Dr. Baits took a sip of coffee. “You have the same dark hair and those eyes. I always thought your mom was a beautiful lady.”

  “She was,” Veronica said, her throat closing. She took a moment to get her emotions under control. “And you delivered me?”

  The older woman nodded. “Sure did. Course I delivered half the babies in the town back then. Wasn’t as many specialty doctors around, you know?”

  “I suppose not,” Veronica said, studying the woman’s neatly trimmed nails.

  “So what can I do for you, dear?”

  Veronica’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “You can tell me about my mother.”

  The woman smiled gently. “She was a sweet young thing. Delivery went fine, although a little long. Thought Robert was going to wear the floor out with his pacing.”

  Veronica laughed. “Did you treat me as a child?”

  “Oh, yes. But you were a healthy little thing. Never had much more than a cold or an occasional bout with the flu.”

  “And my parents—they loved me?”

  A look of surprise crossed Dr. Baits’s face. “Of course they did, child.”

  The lump in Veronica’s throat grew. “Dr. Baits, were they happy together?”

  Dr. Baits paused, her forehead furrowing. “They had a good marriage, a spat here and there, but nothing big, you know.”

  “They wouldn’t have killed each other, would they?”

  The sudden silence was deafening. Dr. Baits fidgeted in her seat, folding the cuffs of her lab coat.

  “I have to know the truth, Dr. Baits. I know I was with them when they died, but I don’t remember it.” Veronica paused, then went on in a more heated voice. “Maybe I’m grasping at straws, but from everything I heard about my parents, they weren’t the volatile type. I read my grandmother’s journal. I know my parents loved each other, even though they got married because my mom was already pregnant.”

  Dr. Baits shifted, her hands toying with the cuffs of her coat again. “I didn’t know you knew about that. What else did you read in the journal?”

  “Not enough,” Veronica said. “That’s why I’m here.” She sensed the doctor didn’t want to discuss the forced marriage. Perhaps she thought she’d get in trouble for lying about Veronica’s premature birth. “I can’t believe their death was a murder-suicide,” Veronica continued.

  The warm hand that covered Veronica’s was both gentle and strong. “I never believed that, either,” Dr. Baits finally said.

  “I have these nightmares. And I see this shadow. I think it’s a vision of somebody else who was there.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  Veronica shook her head in frustration. “I can’t see the face. But I was hoping you might have known if either one of my parents had any enemies. Who could have killed them?”

  Dr. Baits sighed. “I don’t know, child. I really don’t. It was a sad, sad time.”

  Veronica stood and wrapped her arms around herself. “Were you the one who treated me after they died?”

  Dr. Baits cleared her throat. “Yes, I was here. But you were in shock. Severely traumatized. We called in a specialist.”

  “Was it someone here on the staff? Are they still here?”

  Dr. Baits nodded. “A man named Dr. Sandler. You probably don’t remember much about him. He evaluated you, but you moved away before he finished treatment.”

  “No, I don’t remember him. But I have to talk to him,” Veronica said. She glanced at her watch, remembering her luncheon appointment.

  “He’s on the fifth floor,” Dr. Baits said.

  Veronica thanked her and rushed out the door. A long elevator ride later, her stomach was roiling. As she sidled off the elevator, she checked the nurses’ station.

  “Dr. Sandler’s with someone right now,” the nurse said, checking her calendar. “Then he has patients scheduled the rest of the day. I can give you an appointment tomorrow.”

  “That would be fine,” Veronica said. “Ten o’clock.”

  “Ten’s good,” the nurse said, scribbling the time in the appointment book.

  Veronica exhaled, feeling as if she’d finally made a start. Then a familiar face caught her eye. “Nathan?”

  He was sitting in the waiting area, his fingers steepled, his brows drawn in concentration. When he spotted her, his face registered surprise. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Veronica stopped in front of him. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “I—”

  The nurse cleared her throat. “Detective Dawson. Dr. Sandler will see you now.”

  Chapter Ten

  When Veronica’s eyes narrowed, he wondered if she’d somehow guessed his agenda. Guilt nagged at him, but he wasn’t prepared to tell her the truth. “I came by to check the profile of a perp in a case I’m working on.”

  “Oh, well…of course.” She looked embarrassed, and suddenly he felt like a big heel for lying to her. But what was he supposed to say? I came by to find out about you, to talk to the psychiatrist who treated you when you were a child.

  “Your turn?” he said, quickly recovering.

  She chewed her bottom lip, and he could tell he’d caught her off guard. “I had a checkup downstairs, that’s all. Thought I’d say hello to Dr. Sandler, see if he remembered me.”

  She was lying. He had no idea why, but the fact that her voice squeaked slightly and her pulse was jumping in her throat gave her away. Relief momentarily filled him. If lying about this was so difficult for her, perhaps she’d been telling the truth about everything else that had happened to her.

  But the realization she would lie to him also infuriated him. Couldn’t she see he was trying his damnedest to help her? Why didn’t she trust him?

  “I see,” he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “And did everything check out okay?”

  “Yes, well…” She checked her watch in a nervous gesture. “I’ve got to get to work. I’ll see you later.”

  Definitely. Nathan watched her tug her jacket around her and rush away, the wind whisking her hair around her face in long wild streaks of ebony, her long legs gliding like a dancer’s. He wanted to have her wrap th
em around him.

  Hell, he wanted to bury his hands in her wild tresses and sink himself inside her—in spite of the fact that she didn’t trust him or that he didn’t know whether she was lying about the attack. He’d never felt this way before, beguiled to the point of not caring if he lived on the edge, so turned on by one woman that his judgment was starting to feel impaired.

  And that was dangerous.

  He rubbed the base of his spine and hip. He knew the possible consequences of losing his objectivity. He had the scars to prove what happened when a cop let his personal feelings get in the way of his professional code. A siren wailed in the distance, reminding him he’d actually come here on business, to find out more about Veronica, not just to lust after her.

  Dr. Sandler met him at the door. “Hi, I’m Detective Dawson. I called earlier.”

  “Yes, come on in.” The tall, lanky doctor ushered him into a small office and motioned toward a chair. Nathan eyed the leather chaise lounge and wondered if he should lie down and ask for therapy—he had to do something about this emotional stuff going on inside him. If the investigation were over, it would be different, but he still—

  “Detective, you wanted to talk?”

  Nathan glanced up to see the doctor watching him with avid curiosity. He realized his silence had been more revealing than he’d intended.

  “I need some information about a case I’m working on.”

  The doctor removed his glasses and twirled them around with his fingers. “If this is about a patient, you know files are confidential.”

  Nathan nodded. “I understand that. But she’s not a patient now. It’s someone you treated years ago.”

  “Still—”

  Nathan held up a hand to stop the protests. “We can speak in hypothetical terms if you want, but I have reason to believe this woman is in danger. And I think it may be related to her past.”

  The gray-haired doctor crossed his long legs and linked his hands around one knee. “I see.”