“Yeah. And it might be less plausible that someone laced a bunch of mints with a hallucinogen and convinced her to eat one, but unless the champagne glass pans out, I don’t know how else she could have ingested it.”
“If she didn’t do it voluntarily,” Portman pointed out.
“If,” Jesse agreed. “But if you look at the time she left the reception – and we have verification for that – and the time the driver who hit her placed the call to nine-one-one, there’s only about a thirty minute difference. Most hallucinogens take that long to kick in.”
“So maybe she took it when she got into the car.”
“Because after a long, stressful, tiring day, she decided to experiment with drugs that generally tend to keep you awake for at least seven or eight hours?”
Portman shrugged. “Maybe she thought it would relieve stress. Who knows? People do stupid, nonsensical stuff all the time.”
That, they did. But Jesse still didn’t buy it. Not this time.
He dumped the contents of the purse onto the bed. It was a small handbag, thankfully, the dressy kind that women sometimes carried to fancy events, and not the bottomless pit variety that he was always halfway convinced contained a small department store or perhaps an entire civilization of which scientists were previously unaware.
Wallet – containing credit cards, driver’s license, a few dollars, but no wrapper. Lipstick. Pens. A few stray coins and a receipt for gas. A small package of tissues. The cops had taken her cell phone and the envelope of cash as possible evidence.
If they didn’t give her cell phone back when they released her, Jesse would remind Brian to make sure she had a backup phone to use until hers was returned. Given the situation, she couldn’t be without the security a cell phone could provide.
“Check the little inside pocket,” Brian said from over Jesse’s shoulder.
Jesse did. It contained a tampon.
And now he felt even more like a creep.
“Maybe it fell out,” Brian said. “When the other cops went through it. Or maybe her car.”
“I can go look in the car,” Detective Portman offered.
Brian fished a ring of keys from his pocket. “Here you go. It’s the silver SUV out back.”
“Thanks. I’ll be back.”
Portman left and Jesse began stuffing things back in the purse.
“It was kind of a longshot anyway”, Brian murmured. “But thanks for trying.”
Jesse glanced up. “I’m not looking for evidence as a favor to you.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Frowning, Jesse continued returning things to the purse. “I have to remain impartial. If the evidence goes the other way and it points to her being a user, then she’ll have to face the music. I hope you understand that.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Jesse stopped, glared at Brian, and then shook his head. “I’m just saying.’” When he went to put the package of tissues back into the purse, he noticed that part of the cellophane was red instead of clear. He pulled the package out, looked closer.
And then pulled the small, red wrapper from where it had become lodged inside.
“Bingo.”
He pulled a small evidence bag from his pocket, dropped the wrapper inside. And stared at it, knowing that he was basically full of shit. He was pretty much desperate for his theory to be correct. For Jillian not to be a user. It wasn’t an ethical position for him to take, as an investigator.
But as a man, he didn’t much care.
The realization scared him.
“I love Jillian like a sister,” Brian said, drawing Jesse’s attention. “But Katie is my sister. And if Jillian is doing drugs and she got them from Losevsky, well, that sucks, but it’s not the end of the world. You know? Given that this would be a first offense she’d probably get off fairly lightly. But if it’s deeper than that, if McGrath – despite him saying he has no knowledge of any of this – is behind some sort of revenge plot, that puts Jillian, and by extension Katie, in more danger. And if, God forbid, this isn’t some kind of payback and Jillian is somehow…” he circled a finger around “connected to Losevsky’s organization, that’s just almost too damn scary to contemplate.”
“So you’d rather Jillian just be on drugs.”
“Yeah,” Brian admitted. “God help me, I would.”
“That still doesn’t explain the squirrel.”
“A warning not to admit where she bought the drugs.”
“Which brings us right back to her being under the scrutiny of Losevsky’s organization.”
“You’re right. Shit. Maybe it would be better if this is McGrath getting his rocks off. And Gannon, I don’t know. Maybe he knew we were going to connect him after you found that toothpick outside.”
“Maybe,” Jesse said. But he had the feeling that all of the scenarios they’d kicked around were entirely too simple. That there was something else they were missing.
He glanced over at the box of photos. “Do you know if Jillian has any relatives still in Russia? Cousins or anything?”
“If she does, she’s never talked about them. I was under the impression that her mom sort of cut all ties when she ran off with her dad.”
Jesse considered that for a moment, and then decided it probably wasn’t important. “I’ll drop this by the lab, ask them to put a rush on it. I guess we should tell Portman that she can stop searching the car.”
They headed back down the stairs and Jesse glanced over at the spot where he’d pinned Jillian against the wall and distracted, bumped into the table, spilling the fruit basket and several of the wooden dolls onto the floor.
The same table she claimed to have bumped into last night while hallucinating.
Jesse frowned.
“What?” Brian said when he realized that Jesse had stopped.
“Weren’t there seven of these doll things?”
“I don’t know,” Brian admitted. “I picked up the ones I could find and put them back on the table.”
“There were seven,” Jesse said. “So either one is still missing, or one of the cops took one.”
“Does it matter?”
“Maybe not,” Jesse admitted. But something, some feeling he couldn’t exactly identify, made him want to locate the other doll.
The doorway to the parlor stood on the other side of the table, and Jesse glanced around that corner, scanned the floor. He remembered Jillian saying that she’d dropped it. In the throes of her hallucination, she’d imagined that it had turned a different color, and when she picked it up, the doll’s face melted. Or appeared to melt. So she’d dropped it on the floor.
Jesse bent down, saw a small roundish shape on the far side beneath the chair. He reached under, drew it out.
The face was, of course, intact. That little Mona Lisa smile.
A blue Mona Lisa smile.
Jesse glanced at the other dolls on the table. The very red dolls.
“Son of a bitch.”
His furious tone brought Brian closer, and Jesse glanced over his shoulder. “She wasn’t hallucinating everything. The bastard’s been in the house.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JILLIAN’S hand trembled when she lifted it to press the doorbell. It was an unfortunate outward manifestation of the fact that internally, she was a mess.
Being the target of apparent psychological warfare tended to have that effect.
But she couldn’t – wouldn’t – go into hiding. She wouldn’t allow herself to be driven from her house. She wouldn’t let Mike or… anyone else turn her back into the woman who’d run away, run home, who’d married the wrong man because he was familiar and safe and she was desperate for the safe and the familiar.
Jillian refused to be that person. This was the second time in her life that someone had brought a fight to her, and she wouldn’t leave the ring again.
When no one came to the door, Jillian considered that perhaps Mr. Pratt was napping. Or maybe he wasn’t h
ome. Although she’d seen a nurse go inside a short while ago, so she assumed that he was here. Perhaps he was with the nurse, who’d come to assist him in caring for his brother. The elder Mr. Pratt had been bedridden following his stroke, incapable of speech or caring for his personal needs. The younger Mr. Pratt might be a pain in the butt, but she couldn’t fault him in the way he took care of his brother. He could have stuck him in a care facility, but wanted to adhere to his wishes to finish out his life in his own home. Nurses came by regularly.
Jillian was just about to give up when she heard the thump of a cane hitting the wood floor on the other side of the door. She pasted a smile on her face.
The door creaked open, and Mr. Pratt peered at her through thick glasses, his thinning white hair sticking up in tufts. He looked not unlike Ebenezer Scrooge having been disturbed from a long winter’s nap.
He frowned when he recognized her.
“Mr. Pratt. I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Bah,” was his response, only furthering the resemblance. Then he glanced down at the festive tin she held in her hands.
“I made pryaniki. Cookies,” she explained, when he glanced up sharply. “My mother’s recipe. I make them every year at Christmas. Your brother expressed a particular fondness for them last year, so I wanted to be sure to bring some by for both of you.”
“Surprised you’ve had time to bake cookies, what with all of the commotion at your place over the past couple weeks.”
Jillian could almost feel herself shrinking, like a turtle pulling back into its shell. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m sorry about all of that. I hope it hasn’t disturbed you or your brother too much.”
“Cops all over the place, flashing lights and sirens. You putting up a fuss in the middle of the street. What do you think?”
She thought that he was a crotchety old jerk, but she couldn’t deny that he had a point. “Again, I apologize for the disturbance.”
He peered over her shoulder. “You got some kind of van parked outside today.”
“We’re getting a new security system.” Because someone had gotten into the house. Twice.
That they knew of.
He frowned and then stood aside. “You might as well come in.”
Jillian’s heart sank a little. She’d hoped to make the handoff at the door. “Thank you.”
He grunted.
He smelled a little odd, she noted as she walked past. Like… talcum powder, maybe? Her aunt had been a nurse, and frequently smelled similar, as at that time it was used to make latex gloves easier to don. Elderly people, she knew, often used talc or cornstarch as a grooming item.
The smell brought a wave of familiarity that was both comforting and depressing.
He led her into the parlor. The townhouse was set up in a very similar manner to Katie’s, though being an end unit it featured more windows on the wall across from the fireplace. Despite that – and the low fire burning in the grate – it seemed dimmer, more oppressive.
Possibly because there were no holiday decorations, no season’s greetings from friends and family displayed on the mantel. Quite a bit different from last year, when she’d delivered the cookies to Mr. Pratt’s brother. The older man had had a small tabletop tree and an old-fashioned radio tuned to a jazz station playing Christmas carols. Jillian was charmed.
She was suddenly very glad that she’d brought the cookies. Scrooge the younger Mr. Pratt might be, but it still saddened her to think of anyone spending this time of year in such a bleak fashion.
He gestured her toward a seat. “Would you care for a drink? Some hot tea, perhaps? It’s a bit chilly for these old bones today.”
“I’m afraid I can’t stay that long. But I do thank you for the offer.” She slowly lowered herself onto the sofa.
“Is something wrong with your leg?” he asked, frowning.
“Ah, it’s still a little stiff,” she admitted. “From… my collision with the car.”
He nodded, and then dropped into the wingchair beside the fireplace with considerably more agility than she’d displayed. Resting his cane against the arm, he glanced at the tin as he balanced it on his lap. “They’re not laced with anything, are they?”
Jillian blinked. “Pardon me?”
“A joke,” he said, surprising her again.
Jillian smiled, uncomfortably. She wondered if that was somehow a reference to her arrest? She knew the neighbors had to have discussed the circumstances as they’d interpreted them – which probably amounted to her being a junkie, and likely crazy to boot.
Or maybe just an acknowledgement of the fact that they hadn’t always seen eye to eye.
“Not unless you consider sugar a drug or a poison.”
He watched her for a moment, and then pried the lid from the tin. “Your mother’s recipe, you said?”
“Yes. She was from Russia. This is an old family recipe. A traditional spice cookie. They’re very good with tea.”
He leaned over, drew the scent into his nostrils with a single, prolonged inhale. “They smell wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
He re-secured the lid. “It’s important, don’t you think, for family traditions to be passed down? Mother to daughter. Father to son.”
“I guess that would depend upon the tradition,” she said. “But in this case, I’m glad that I have this particular legacy by which to remember her.”
“Honoring the dead is important.” He paused. “Especially those who are taken from us far before their time.”
She tilted her head. “You know about my parents?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Franklin likes to hear herself talk.”
That she did. Jillian had forgotten that she’d mentioned the way her parents were killed. It was last summer, when a young woman had drowned in the waters off Tybee. Mrs. Franklin had pontificated for days on the dangers of swimming in the ocean, and why she never got near a body of water any deeper than her bathtub.
Of course, statistically you were much likelier to be killed in your bathtub than you were in the ocean, but Jillian hadn’t brought that up.
“Do you fear the water?” Mr. Pratt asked, seeming to read her mind.
She glanced at him, startled. “No. That surprises some people, but I was only five when it happened. I seem to have blocked it out, or maybe just didn’t fully understand what was happening at the time.”
He seemed to consider that as he stared at the fire. “Perhaps that is the benefit of experiencing a tragedy at such a young age. We are not aware of the extent of our loss. When we are older,” he looked back at her. “It is very difficult to let go.”
The moment stretched out, with only the soft crackle of the fire and the ticking of the mantle clock to break the silence.
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” she said, thinking that might be what he was talking about. “Is his health continuing to decline?”
“It certainly does not improve.”
Jillian didn’t bother to ask to see him. Mr. Pratt had already told her months ago that he didn’t like outside germs to be brought into his brother’s environment. The nurses he put up with because there was no other choice.
“Well, if you will convey my holiday wishes to him, I would appreciate it.”
“I’ll let him know that you stopped by.” He sat the cookies aside so that he could rise. “Thank you for the gift,” he told her. “You are a lovely girl.”
Surprised by the compliment, Jillian swallowed. “Thank you.”
“I’ll see you to the door.”
When they reached the entry, Jillian noticed some dusty footprints on his wood floor. “Oh. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I must have tracked that in. The new alarm system,” she explained. “They had to cut through the plaster in a few places. There’s quite a bit of dust around.”
He stared down at it. “It’s of no concern.”
She smiled, a slightly more genuine expression than when she’d arrived. “I hope you have a wonderful h
oliday.”
He raised his head, and his bright blue eyes held some dark emotion – sadness or bitterness, she couldn’t tell. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You do the same.”
Jillian heard the door close behind her as she limped down the steps. Her knee bothered her, but she’d refused to take any sort of pain medication. Not after her experience the other night. She didn’t want chemicals of any sort altering her system. She’d just have to tough it out.
She was halfway down when she noticed that Brian was standing on the sidewalk just down the street talking to someone.
Jesse.
Her heart did an uncomfortable lurch.
With the radar he seemed to have where she was concerned, he looked past Brian’s shoulder, spotted her on the stairs. His mouth set into a grim line.
Well, she wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him either. She’d been released on bond yesterday, but hadn’t laid eyes on him since he’d questioned her in the interrogation room. The lingering humiliation of that caused her cheeks to flush. Sure, he’d seemed to believe her story – had in fact gone out of his way to look for evidence that she hadn’t voluntarily ingested some illegal substance that night – and, according to Brian, was the one who’d discovered that the house had been broken into, the smallest matryoshka switched with a blue one. At least she hadn’t hallucinated that.
But she had hallucinated other things. Things that were more disturbing.
She started down the steps again, hoping to make it back up hers and inside before Jesse could speak to her. If he spoke to her. Two different agents – or one agent and one detective, anyway – had questioned her about the nesting dolls and whether she knew anyone that would want to mess with them – and her. The detective – his name was Goode – hadn’t liked it when she’d mentioned Mike or one of his cronies, but she didn’t much care if she offended him. At the moment, she was pretty damn offended that someone had killed her squirrel and apparently drugged her. The results of the more extensive blood tests had revealed LSD. Not good for her legal case, but at least Jillian knew that she didn’t have a brain tumor or some other condition that caused her to hallucinate.
That was something.
The Southern Comfort Prequel Trilogy Box Set Page 20
