No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Travis turned and Costello tugged sharply at the suture thread, causing him to yelp.

  “Stay still,” he ordered. “Unless you want an eyebrow piercing.”

  Noah stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Dispatch said Miller was on foot?”

  “Yes, sir. He had the car parked a block over, on Jefferson. I followed him as far as Roosevelt when the … um …”

  “The obstruction,” I prompted, and he nodded, then winced.

  “Stay still,” Costello muttered while I filed away the intersection of Jefferson and Roosevelt. The south side of town, not far from where Noah grew up.

  “The obstruction appeared,” Travis continued doggedly. “Were the other units able to apprehend him?”

  “Not yet,” Noah said. Travis twisted to face him, flushing with distress.

  “I’m really—”

  “Out.” Costello straightened and pointed to the door. “Now.”

  I didn’t think he meant Travis.

  “I need to speak with my officer,” Noah said evenly.

  Costello didn’t spare him a glance, merely bent closer to inspect the neat line of stitches. “In five minutes—assuming you people will let me work—you can serve him high tea for all I care. Right now, leave.”

  Noah didn’t move.

  “Stapleton, call security.”

  “Come on,” I said, tugging off my latex gloves and catching Noah by the sleeve. “I’ll find you some coffee.”

  “That guy is a piece of work,” he fumed as we headed toward the staff lounge.

  “Costello? You should see him on a bad day.” I spoke lightly, trying to ease the tension. The lounge was empty, and I gestured to the ancient plaid couch. “But he’s fast. You’ll be back in there before the coffee cools.”

  Luckily, there was still some left in the pot. I filled a Styrofoam cup and handed it over. “Black, right?”

  He took a cautious sip and grimaced. “This is terrible coffee.”

  “Better than the cafeteria,” I said, and he chuckled. “So Josh Miller? Sounds a lot like John Mueller.”

  Noah sobered instantly. “Not your concern.”

  “A little late for that,” I said. “Was it the fingerprints on the payphone?”

  He shook his head. “How’d you hear about that?”

  I simply propped my chin in my hands and smiled.

  “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he muttered. “Yes, we got it from the prints, then matched an old mug shot to the security footage. He’s a small-time dealer looking to move up in the world.”

  “What’s his connection to Kate Tibbs?”

  “You are familiar with the concept of confidentiality, aren’t you? Despite the fact you just weaseled information out of a police officer?”

  “I didn’t weasel anything,” I said. “I was distracting him while Costello put in sutures so he didn’t pass out and hit his head again.”

  “I’m not discussing Josh Miller,” Noah said, settling back against the couch. “And unlike young Anderson, I know how to handle you, so don’t bother.”

  “He is really young, Noah. He keeps calling me ‘ma’am.’”

  “And yet he lives?” The frown lines etched into his forehead eased slightly.

  I grinned. “We’ve come to an understanding.”

  Someone had left the day’s paper on the table, and I studied the front page article Esme had pointed out earlier. “This says Steven was at a fundraiser last night. Does that mean his alibi checks out?”

  “It does,” he said. “Which we assumed would be the case.”

  “Wonder why Kate didn’t go with him,” I mused.

  “According to Steven, she didn’t feel up to a night of schmoozing.”

  I’d done those nights of schmoozing and hated them—it was hard to imagine how much worse they’d be at eight months pregnant, the endless rounds of smiles and handshakes and fake cheer. I stifled a shudder and turned my attention back to the article.

  “Have you looked into the other candidate? Norris Mackie?”

  Noah’s eyebrows lifted. “Frankie.”

  “What? I’m just curious.”

  “One, I’ve already told you too much. No more. Two, it says right in the article that Mackie was also at a fundraiser.”

  “He could have hired someone,” I said. “Politicians never do their own dirty work.”

  “And three,” he continued, “you are never ‘just’ curious. You’re never ‘just’ anything.”

  “I’m not! You looked at Steven, so checking out his rival seems like a logical next step.”

  “Some people,” he said mildly, “would be insulted at the suggestion that they were not capable of running an investigation.”

  “You’re more than capable.” I tossed the paper onto the scarred table, frustration giving voice to an ugly truth. “But I’m the one who patched up Miller. I’m the one who should have called security. He escaped on my watch, and that makes me responsible.”

  He leaned forward, caught my hand in his. “Miller is responsible for his actions. Not you. You think Travis is to blame for Kate’s death, since Miller gave him the slip tonight?”

  “No, but—”

  “This isn’t on you. It was never on you, so let it go.”

  Before I could explain how very unlikely that was, the lounge door swung open.

  “I hate to interrupt your coffee klatch, but I’m finished with Babyface,” Costello said. “Get him down to imaging, then take care of your fan club in Exam Five.”

  “Fan club?” Noah asked.

  “It’s nothing.” I set off for Travis’s room again, chagrined.

  “You’re sure?” He followed me in. “Because the phrase ‘fan club’ definitely sounds like something. Something I’d like to hear more about.”

  I helped Travis into a wheelchair, ignoring both his protests and Noah’s ribbing. “All I’m saying is, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to check Mackie’s alibi.”

  “There’s no need,” Noah said as I maneuvered the wheelchair out. “We know who did it.”

  “And why,” Travis chimed in. “Revenge.”

  Next to me, Noah ground his teeth.

  “For what?” I asked. “Hold on. Kate was a social worker. Did she take Miller’s kid?”

  Noah sighed. “Miller has a five-year-old daughter. Kate had been the caseworker of record for years, but after his last arrest, she finally convinced the judge to grant custody to an aunt up north.”

  “You think Miller killed her to get even.” Murder, then. My mother was right. And yet it felt wrong. If Miller wanted Kate dead, he had no reason to call 9-1-1. He would have wanted to give himself as much time to escape as possible, so why call attention to the crash? “So that’s it? Revenge, open and shut?”

  “Not that open and shut,” Noah said as we continued down the maze of corridors. “We still have to find him. He’s dropped off the radar—not even his customers know where he is.”

  I dropped off Travis with the imaging technician, then led Noah back toward the ER. “That’s why Travis was staking out his house. You were hoping he’d come back.”

  “We have people watching his usual hangouts. The house was one of them.”

  “He should have known you were keeping an eye out. Why would he risk going back to his house?”

  “Josh Miller is not known for his towering intellect,” Noah pointed out. “We’re assuming there was something there he didn’t want us to find.”

  “You’ve already searched it, haven’t you?” I took his silence and the faint curve at the corner of his mouth as assent. “He would have known you’d toss the place and were watching—and yet he came back anyway. That’s a desperate man.”

  “Killers are,” he said. “Murder is rarely someone’s first choice, unless they’re a sociopath, and I don’t believe Josh Miller is a sociopath.”

  No, I didn’t think so either. A sociopath wouldn’t have called in Kate’s accident. A sociopath
would have been pleased by what he’d done. He would have manipulated me, tried to get me on his side. All Josh Miller had wanted was a shoulder reduction and narcotics.

  Which brought us right back to desperate, a thought that didn’t strike me as reassuring.

  “Why are you telling me all of this?” I asked, coming to a sudden stop. “You didn’t even want to give me Miller’s real name. One slip from Travis, and you’re practically looping me into the investigation.”

  “Hardly,” he said. “Fact is, we’re releasing Miller’s name and picture tomorrow morning, announcing him as a person of interest in the investigation and asking for the public’s help in locating him. So while I’d rather you didn’t shout it from the top of the water tower, I’m not overly concerned if the word gets out early.”

  “Why wait until morning?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to get the word out as soon as possible?”

  Noah grimaced. “That’s Ted Sullivan’s call. He felt hitting the morning news would maximize our exposure; he didn’t want the story to get lost overnight. The sheriff agreed.”

  Ted’s approach somehow managed to be both savvy and smarmy. Every move he made was to maximize exposure, to increase Steven’s appeal by serving up a man’s private tragedy as public spectacle.

  “You’re absolutely sure it’s not about the election?” I asked again.

  “Frankie,” he said tiredly, “I am never sure about anything until I get a signed confession. Sometimes not even then. But right now, I have what Steven would call a preponderance of evidence that Josh Miller is our guy. So while I am never sure, I’m almost certain. And I’m not inclined to wait.”

  Who could blame him? I’d waited, and Miller had escaped.

  Stress and exhaustion roughened his voice. I studied him, noting the stubble along his jaw, the tension etched around his eyes and mouth. He always took his work seriously, but a case like this, high-pressure, high-profile, would only spur him to work harder—not because he wanted the attention, but because he wanted the attention over as soon as possible. “The reporters must be driving you nuts.”

  “They’re everywhere,” he said, leaning against the wall. “Like crows on carrion. My phone’s ringing every five minutes from people wanting updates. State police, governor’s office, state’s attorney, district attorney. It never ends.”

  “How are you supposed to chase down leads if you’re on the phone all the time? You hate the phone.” He used to, at least. Some girls stayed up all night talking to their boyfriend on the phone, but I’d preferred sneaking out of the house. I’d meet up with Noah a few blocks away, and he would drive while we talked. In warm weather, we’d go to the quarry and swim in the moonlight. Once the weather turned, we’d go to Henderson’s, build a campfire in one of the abandoned worker cottages, and talk for hours.

  Sometimes we didn’t talk too.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he said, poking me in the shoulder. “We have plenty of people investigating. Trained people. Official people. I do not need your help to find Josh Miller.”

  “You’re asking the public for help. How am I different?”

  “We’re asking the public to notify us if they see him. We are not asking them to actively seek him out, which is exactly what you’re planning.” I started to protest, but he cut me off, the set of his mouth flat and unamused. “Do not tell me otherwise, because you are a terrible liar.”

  I paused, regrouped. “I was helpful with the Clem Jensen case.”

  “Investigating Clem’s death nearly got you killed. So the answer is no. Do not help. Do not ask around. Do not do anything that might bring you into this investigation. You do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

  “I have been! I was doing my job when I pumped air into Kate Tibbs’s lungs as they were shutting down. I was doing my job when I helped bring that baby into the world.” I’d been doing my job when Josh Miller came in too. Whether victim or killer, it’s my duty to treat my patients to the best of my ability. But letting Miller escape was my failure, no matter what Noah said, and I needed to make amends. “I’ve been a part of this from the beginning. I’m not quitting now.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to quit. But your work ends at the hospital doors. Mine is just starting, and I can’t focus if I’m busy worrying about you.”

  The sentiment caught me off guard, and my temper softened. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Maybe not.” His mouth quirked, caught between amusement and irritation. “But I do.”

  I stepped closer, touched by the admission, until he added, “This is too important to let you interfere.”

  Stung, I turned away, saying, “Esme will bring the discharge papers for Travis once he’s back from imaging. It should only be a few minutes.”

  “Frankie …”

  “Are you Francesca?” asked an older man, slowly approaching. “Francesca Stapleton?”

  A hospital bracelet circled his wrist, and I pasted on my best nurse smile. “That’s me. How can I help you?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Art Gundersen.” He hooked his thumbs into his suspenders. “I’ve been in that room down the hall.”

  Exam Five. I should’ve known. “Thank you for waiting, Mr. Gundersen. Let’s go back in, and I’ll fix you up.”

  “Frankie,” Noah said.

  “We’re done here,” I told him and began escorting Art back to his room.

  “Busy night,” Art said, glancing over his shoulder at Noah as if sensing the tension. “Your mother didn’t say …”

  “My mother?” My gaze snapped toward him, then flashed to his left hand—no ring—and mortification began to roar in my ears like a fast-approaching train.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Lila suggested I come in and see you.”

  Behind me, Noah snickered.

  I stiffened my spine and lowered my voice, as I ushered Art down the hall and back into the exam room. “What brings you in tonight?”

  “Oh, nothing terrible.” He settled onto the bed, cheerful as if he’d only been here a few minutes. “A bit of a cold, but your mother said I should get it checked out before it turned into something more serious. She recommended I see you, nobody else, and said that you’d make sure I got the proper care.”

  “Did she?” I managed through gritted teeth. “So thoughtful, my mother.”

  Art agreed, and I logged in to read his chart on the computer terminal.

  Art, it seemed, was sixty-three and widowed. Closer to my mom’s age than mine, in fact. Clearly, my single status was bothering her more than she’d let on.

  I started taking his vitals. “Did you get the pneumonia vaccine this year, Art?”

  “No, not the flu shot either. Those things will make you sick.”

  “Actually, they won’t. The virus in the vaccine is dead, so it’s impossible to contract the illness from the shot.”

  “Huh. My daughter”—he paused to cough—“she’s a bit younger than you, and she told me otherwise.”

  I kept my voice breezy despite the black mood overtaking me. Compartmentalization worked as well for annoying ex-fiancés and interfering mothers as it did for work stress. “Ah, well. You can set her straight. Show her dad still knows best.”

  “Might as well go ahead and get it now since I’m here.” He winked. “Promise you’ll be gentle.”

  “Breathe in,” I said, stethoscope in place. There was a crackling in his lungs that confirmed my suspicions—it was too late for the vaccine. Art had contracted pneumonia. “Breathe out. Good.”

  I logged the results as Art said, “Your mother’s told me a lot about you.”

  “I’m sure she has.”

  “Family’s important. It’s nice you’ve moved back. Shows your priorities are in the right place.”

  “I’m not that nice,” I assured him. “I’m only here temporarily.”

  His bushy eyebrows lifted. “That’s not what Lila said.”

  “She’s …
biased.” Delusional, actually, if she thought I was here for longer than my initial commitment. Considering she was trying to use the ER as a matchmaking service, delusional seemed generous. “Dr. Costello will be with you shortly.”

  I escaped into the hallway, ready to flag down Costello, but there was no need.

  “Hear you made a love connection with Exam Five,” he said as he caught sight of me.

  “Pneumonia,” I said shortly. “Pulse eighty-two, temp ninety-seven point eight, phlegmy cough and crackling in the left lung.”

  “And a broken heart,” Esme chimed in, giggling.

  I rounded on her. “Really? We need to do this now?”

  She shrugged, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “Your guy wasn’t exactly subtle.”

  Neither was my mom. “He’s not my guy.”

  “Night’s young, Stapleton,” Costello said and went to examine Art.

  I fixed Esme with a glare. “What else have we got?”

  “We’re quiet right now. The deputies left a few minutes ago. Is it true you and Noah MacLean used to be engaged?”

  I ignored the twinge behind my sternum. “Six or seven lifetimes ago, yes.”

  Right after high school, actually, in a burst of hormone-fueled dreams. By the time I’d graduated from nursing school, the dream had turned to ashes. I couldn’t bear the idea of living in Stillwater for the rest of my life, and Noah couldn’t live with himself if he left. Twelve years later, the memory of what we’d said to each other still scalded despite our efforts to move past it.

  “That’s gotta be awkward, right? Seeing him here?”

  Awkward wasn’t quite the word. There wasn’t a single word that summed up the tangle of emotions I felt every time Noah and I crossed paths, but the current frontrunner was annoyance. “It’s fine. All part of the job. For both of us.”

  Do your job, Noah had ordered, and I would.

  My free time, however, was my own.

  Six

  Some nights, the ER never slows down and there’s barely enough time to use the restroom. But for the second night in a row, I was able to grab a few minutes with Rowan in the NICU. Charlie would appreciate the report, and I relished a few minutes away from the staff teasing me about Art. My mother had a lot to answer for.