First Do No Evil: Blood Secrets, Book 1

by Carey Baldwin

  V-fib: Paddles!

  Clear!

  Do it again!

  Clear!

  And then, finally, the moment he’d been waiting for arrived. A golf-ball sized chunk of hail cracked against the window, and all eyes turned toward the terrifying sound. Garth shot his hand into the back left corner of the fourth drawer of the code cart and closed his hand around a glass vial. Slipping the drug into his back pocket, he headed for the door.

  By now, the crowd was thinning, with more personnel heading out of the room than in. Code etiquette dictated that those individuals arriving too late to play a role might gape only so long before they were expected to wander back to their floors and go on about their business. Garth joined the exodus. It made no difference to him if the patient lived or died.

  As he squeezed out the door, he heard Dr. V.’s dejected voice. “I’m calling it, folks. Time of death…”

  Pushing open the stairwell door, he glanced back over his shoulder and around the unit. He saw Rachel kneeling on the carpet in front of the nurses’ station, head bent, one arm wrapped around the woman kneeling beside her. The two appeared to be praying. The woman’s back was turned. He couldn’t see her face, but he recognized her wrinkled cardigan. One of the woman’s hands stretched heavenward; the other gripped the wheel of a stroller. A toddler’s hand batted the string of a foil balloon.

  Oh.

  That was too bad, really.

  But he couldn’t control who occupied the room nearest the exit any more than he could control the weather that had ruined his expensive car wax. Like he’d told the woman’s husband, earlier, it wasn’t personal. It was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He turned back to the exit.

  Unconcerned about being noticed, he descended the stairs slowly. He would be hard to recognize with this mask covering most of his face, and it didn’t matter much anyway. No one would watch the hospital surveillance videos because no one would know a crime had been committed. A critically ill man had stopped breathing. His heart had stopped beating. That was all.

  If the man’s wife requested an autopsy, it would reveal nothing. Garth hadn’t injected him with poison, or loaded his IV with potassium, or bludgeoned him to death or used any of the other murder methods popularized by Hollywood movies. He’d simply covered the target’s mouth—gently—with his hand until death had ensued. The man hadn’t struggled, and Garth hadn’t used force, so there would be no bruising, no petechial hemorrhages. Let them do an autopsy. They would find no trace of foul play.

  Arriving at the surgical floor, he entered the restroom for the third and final time that day, locked the door, and yanked off his scrubs. He’d dump them in a laundry bin on his way out. After splashing cool water on his face, he combed his fingers through his hair. He bent and retrieved his scrub bottoms off the bathroom floor, fished one hand into the back pocket. He pulled out a glass vial about half an inch tall with a metal cap.

  Sure, the bottle would be documented missing from the cart, but the code review team would assume the nurse in charge of recording medications had forgotten to mark down its use. She’d have to fill out an incident report. The missing vial would be chalked up to code chaos and human error. Who would suspect that a murder had been committed to steal a few milliliters of non-narcotic fluid? What a shame it would be though, if he’d grabbed the wrong bottle. Garth held the vial up to the light and read the label, just to be certain. He smiled.

  It was Vecuronium, all right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The whir of an engine sounded, and then a greasy plume of smoke trailed through the parking lot as a bus pulled out of the station. Sky had availed herself of the transit time between her home in Doney Park and the Greyhound depot to fill Danny in on the events of the past couple of days. She’d even told him about the lawsuit and the missing files because he’d asked her to tell him everything—whether she thought it was relevant to the robbery or not. And though Danny had remained silent throughout the telling of her tale, though he’d offered her no insight or advice, she felt somehow relieved of a heavy burden.

  Unlike her brother, Danny didn’t take it personally when she didn’t accept his advice, which made it easier to share with him what was on her mind. Anything she hadn’t told him yet was simply because there hadn’t been time to do so. At the moment there was a burning question on her mind, but they were here, now, standing at the entrance to the bus depot. She’d have her answer soon enough.

  Danny slid his arm behind her and opened the door for her. Turning to thank him, she squinted against a cloudless sky. Funny, the turns the weather took at this altitude. Over the past hour a hail storm had both come and gone, leaving behind no evidence that it had ever existed—except of course for her memory that it had. After stepping inside, it took a moment for her pupils to dilate in order to accommodate the change from the brightness of the outdoors to the dimly lit interior of the bus depot. She blinked rapidly until her vision sharpened, and then she scoured the sparsely populated room searching for the location of the lockers. They were in the back, kitty-cornered to the cubby of vending machines and rickety tables that were charitably referred to as the snack bar.

  Her palm, currently clamped around the key she’d found beneath Edmond’s desk, was itchy and sweaty. Forcing her tight-fisted grip to relax, she unfurled her fingers to reveal the small brass object. Such a distinctive key: a short cylindrical shaft, and a flat round bow painted with red nail polish. A ridiculous image of the bus station night shift, sitting around, painstakingly manicuring the bows of keys drew her smile.

  Most likely she would never know the reason they used nail polish on the keys, but thank goodness they did. That little detail had set off instant bells of recognition with Danny. She shook the tension out of her arms and asked him the question that had been eating at her all morning. “What could Edmond be hiding in a bus depot locker?”

  Shrugging his good shoulder, Danny replied, “You’d have a much better idea of that than me.”

  Would she? She was beginning to wonder how well she’d really known her fiancé. The whole business in Edmond’s office, not just finding the key, but the incident with Halston, had left her nervous and confused. Ignoring her discomfort, she found a half-smile for Danny. “Well, the only thing that comes to mind is the files. Nothing else is missing.”

  “Far as we know. But there’s no reason to think Edmond was hiding something related to the malpractice suit.” He stroked his stubbled jaw, and it dawned on her that she might’ve offered Danny the use of a razor this morning.

  “I think the files are in the locker,” she said.

  “You also thought they were in the safe in Edmond’s office.”

  Why were they wasting time guessing when the lockers were mere yards away? They but needed to cross the room to have their answer. She took a step in that direction, but Danny halted her with an outstretched hand. “Bear with me a minute. I’m thinking.” He covered one eye with his open palm, and then uncovered it. “Suppose the files are hidden in the locker. That suggests something out of the ordinary about the lawsuit, doesn’t it? Suppose the lawsuit and the murders are pieces of the same puzzle.”

  “If you ask me, that’s quite a stretch. Anyway, no point speculating what’s in the lockers since it’s an empirical question.”

  “Point taken. Let’s go get our answer.”

  But before they could move, a hunched man brushed past them. The smell of unwashed clothes and whiskey hung in the air behind him. Noticing the man’s pronounced limp, she made a slight detour and trailed him over to a small table where he’d spread his breakfast—a Snicker’s bar and Slim Jim.

  “Hello. I’m Dr. Sky Novak.” She laid her card on the Formica tabletop. “My clinic is nearby, if you ever need medical care.”

  “I can’t afford doctors, lady.”

  “We charge whatever you can afford.”

  He hawked up a lougie. “I can’t afford nothing.”

  “Then th
ere’s no charge.”

  “Give it a rest, Rocky.” Danny sidled up to her and palmed her elbow in an attempt to steer her away.

  The man clambered to his feet. “Get your hands off the lady.”

  Taken a bit off guard, it required a second or two for her to motion for her would-be rescuer to sit back down. “Thank you so much, sir. But you see this is…my friend.” And just like earlier this morning when she’d tasted Danny’s waffles, she felt a genuine smile stretch her cheeks. “My very good friend.”

  The man raised a brow at Danny. “All right then, but mind your manners if you please. This here is a nice lady.”

  “At the clinic, we take walk-ins too,” she put in quickly.

  The man just grunted, and, with Danny at her side, she started to move away. But then she turned to give the man a quick wave and saw him sneak her card into his pocket, and once again, she was thankful for her clinic. She gritted her teeth. No matter what was or was not in that locker, she wasn’t about to let the malpractice suit, or anything else for that matter, force her to close her doors.

  “What’s the number on the key?” Danny’s eyes skimmed the rows of lockers.

  “118.”

  He pointed to 118. She stepped up to the plate. Edmond’s secret was inside locker number 118. Edmond wasn’t supposed to have any secrets, but apparently, he did. So it was she, not Danny, who ought to open the locker. With trembling hand, she fit the key into the lock. She applied gentle pressure, but the key wouldn’t turn. She slipped the key out and then in again. This time she exerted more pressure and felt the lock tumble. The door opened.

  Inside the locker, she saw…nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  For a split second, she just stood there, as if stunned by a blow. But her recovery was quick, and she slammed the door closed again, faked a smile and addressed Danny, “I feel like Geraldo Rivera at Al Capone’s vault. So much for my investigatory skills.”

  Danny laughed. “Hang on. A real detective knows not to give up easy. Besides, when you find the answer on the first try, it takes all the fun out.” He slid his index finger over a white wooden sign affixed to the lockers. “Check this baby out.”

  “A man who reads instructions. I’m impressed.”

  “Good detective work sometimes means swallowing your pride. You gotta check out every angle. So right here on the sign it says—”

  “Oh!” She puffed out her cheeks and blew out a frustrated breath. “This says items left more than twenty four hours will be removed from lockers.” Her chest deflated. “And worse, it says items left over ten days will be sold to pay for money owed.”

  Danny had her by the elbow again. “Not to worry…yet. This is Flagstaff. And it says ‘items may be sold after ten days’.”

  “But it’s been months since Edmond’s death.”

  “Yeah, but I remember this one case. Guy stuffed a bag of stolen jewelry—gold jewelry—in a locker in this very station, and then took off for Mexico. He was apprehended eighteen months later, and when he confessed, we came down here and believe it or not, the loot was still here, in a cardboard box full of abandoned items. No one had bothered to look inside the purse. I’d say once every millennium, a manager gets the urge to spring clean and sell off the leftovers. Tell you what, the Dairy Queen’s next door. I’ll bet you a soft-serve whatever Edmond left here, they’ve still got it in the back.”

  “It’s a bet.” One she certainly hoped she’d lose. The strain of the lawsuit was weighing heavily, and she hadn’t realized until locker number 118 turned up empty how much she’d counted on finding the missing files inside.

  She followed Danny past a bank of payphones to the counter where a scrawny man leaned, his back turned, talking, rather loudly, on a cell. She stood waiting for the attendant to turn, so that she might catch his eye. But he didn’t turn, and she twisted one foot around the other. Surely he knew they were standing there. At least she always knew when someone was behind her. Untwisting her feet, she tapped her fingernails on the plexiglass counter, not to draw attention to herself, but out of nervousness. This whole affair with Halston and the key had her on edge. As if the lawsuit and Edmond’s murder weren’t enough for her to worry over. She sighed.

  And then Danny intervened. He reached his arm around and tapped the attendant on the shoulder. She didn’t know whether to be mortified or grateful. The fellow wheeled around, raised a disapproving eyebrow at them both, and turned his back in a huff. Danny tapped his shoulder again. This time when the man turned around, Danny held his wallet open, flashing his gold detective’s badge, and then, in what was surely an unnecessary show of machismo, he placed his left hand on his hip and pushed his jacket aside to reveal his side arm.

  “Christ.” The clerk exclaimed. “I gotta go.” He flipped his cell shut and laid it on the counter. “You’re not gonna report me, are you? ‘Cause I just started here last week, and I can’t get fired again. My wife’ll kill me if I get fired again.”

  “Oh no. No. No.” Sky reassured him with a wave of her wrist. “We just need to retrieve something that was left in a locker.” She presented him with the key.

  “All you gotta do is go open it yourself.” He glanced warily at Danny and then back at Sky. “All due respect of course.”

  She tried to keep her impatience from creeping into her voice; the fellow was trying… Wasn’t he? “Well the problem is we did open the locker already, but it was empty.”

  “Okay, if it’s been less than ten days, I can ask my manager…”

  “Your manager here now?” Danny interrupted her polite discussion with the clerk.

  He shook his head meekly at Danny. “Nope.”

  “Then you better check the back yourself.”

  “But—”

  Danny pushed his jacket back again. Really. That seemed like overkill. On the other hand, this clerk seemed to need motivation, and Danny was giving it to him. Beads of sweat popped out on the man’s forehead like cookies from a Christmas oven. “Sure. Sure. How long ago were the items left?”

  “Don’t know. At least three months though.”

  “Oh geez.” His voice cracked and the beads of sweat turned to rivulets running down his cheeks. “We don’t keep things three months.” He grabbed a piece of paper and slapped it on the counter. Underlining the words with his finger he read aloud, “Items left after 10 days may be sold—”

  Danny cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes. The look he leveled at the man wasn’t exactly menacing, but coupled with the fist he slammed on top of the paper, about a centimeter from the clerk’s finger, it worked magic.

  “I’ll be right back.” The clerk disappeared.

  A nervous silence descended between her and Danny. Her palms were clammy. Which was absurd. Whatever was in that locker could only help elucidate the truth. And it was the truth she was after—not comfort. No matter how uncomfortable the truth might prove, she had to know it. She wiped her hands on her jeans and met Danny’s eyes. “Thank you.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Finally, the cowed clerk returned clutching a paper bag. He handed it over to Danny, who handed it over to her with a wink. “I’ll take that soft serve now.”

  Disappointed the clerk hadn’t emerged with a container large enough to hold the missing files, she nodded, and towed Danny away from the counter. She shut her eyes and pulled in a ragged breath.

  “Just open the damn bag,” Danny said.

  Half-expecting a snake to bite her, she dipped her hand inside and felt around. First, her fingers found a plastic square. She gripped and pulled it out. “A CD?”

  Danny leaned over her shoulder. “More likely a DVD. We can watch it after target practice.”

  “I don’t have a DVD player.”

  “Shocking. But not to worry. My brother, Christian, has one at his vacation cabin in Munds Park. And that’s where we’re headed for our shooting lesson…after the Dairy Queen, of course.”

  There was something about
being with Danny that improved her appetite. She wouldn’t mind a soft-serve herself…and a hamburger. Maybe some fries. “Deal.”

  Noticing the sack was still weighted, she dipped her hand in again and this time felt a long, cold metal object. Edmond, it seemed, was leading her on a wild goose chase. She cocked her head at Danny. “Another key.” She turned it over and over in her hand, and then held it out for his inspection. It was an unusual, old-fashioned key, but no red nail polish tells to give away its origin. “I don’t suppose…by any chance…do you…?”

  “Safety-deposit-box key. Looks like Wells Fargo. Too bad the banks aren’t open on Saturday.” He grinned a what-did-you-expect at her.

  Reaching her hand inside the bag yet again, she dug out a folded paper. Ha! She could’ve figured this one out without Danny’s help after all. “Wells Fargo is right.” And thanks to Edmond’s scribbled notation on the top of the receipt, she was able to add, “Fourth Street Branch.”

  Standing in the meadow adjacent to Christian’s place, Danny’s unloaded Glock held carefully at her side, Sky toed her body toward Danny. There was a certain rush of power that came from knowing that at long last she was taking charge of her own destiny. The afternoon air was sun-sparkled and chilled and tasted sweet on her tongue. Breathing in the day was like sipping Dom Pérignon—at least it was how she imagined sipping Dom Pérignon to be. “I feel a bit giddy.”

  Danny’s face blanched, and he frowned. Slanting a cautious gaze at her he said, “This is no game, Sky. If I’m going to go through with this, we’re going to need to get a few things straight.”

  Fearful he’d change his mind about teaching her to shoot, she wiped the smile off her face and looked him gravely in the eyes. “I’m taking this seriously. I promise.”