Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2)

by Danielle Girard

  “She’s eighty-two now. It’s quite impressive.”

  “And when, exactly, did she step back?” Hal asked.

  “Late December or January,” he said. “It was before I came.” He leaned forward as though to whisper. “There was a lot of fuss over my appointment.”

  “Why is that?” Hailey asked.

  “There was a woman here before me—Helen Tribble. She was Ruth’s right-hand woman—that’s Mrs. Finlay. Helen had worked alongside Ruth since the foundation was started, fifteen years ago. Helen was almost sixty-five, and the board didn’t feel she could manage being executive director.”

  “So she quit?” Hal asked.

  “I believe they let her go.”

  “Before you came,” Hal clarified.

  “Yes. This was all before me. When I arrived, the foundation was in a sort of holding pattern. They wanted someone to run it entirely on his”—he gave Hailey a glance—“or her own.”

  “And what is your background?” Hal asked.

  “I graduated from Wharton in May.”

  “So you didn’t have any foundation experience,” Hailey said.

  “Actually, before business school I worked three years for the American Cancer Society, chief analyst to the CFO.”

  He didn’t seem old enough to have worked three years and been through business school. It made Hal feel old. The American Cancer Society also seemed like a strange place for a kid like Jay Schenck to cut his teeth. Young, polished, he looked more like someone who might work in PR or men’s fashion. But, then again, what did Hal know about cancer or fashion? “So you were hired by Mrs. Finlay?”

  “I was hired by the board of directors,” he said. “But I’ve met Mrs. Finlay, and we correspond about the foundation. Mostly by e-mail. She’s lovely,” he added quickly.

  If the whole organization had transitioned in the past eight months since Finlay stepped down, it seemed likely that Posner’s killer was someone still involved in the organization. If the killer had been pushed out of the organization, why wait eight months? Why not take Posner out back then? Maybe he would finally be able to shorten his list of suspects. “Do you know the name Sandy Coleman?”

  Schenck frowned. “I don’t think so. Did she work for the foundation?”

  “She was an eleven-year-old with a rare cancer. The foundation helped her get treatment.”

  Schenck froze momentarily, waiting for Hal to continue.

  “She’s in remission.”

  “Wow,” Schenck said, relieved. “That is amazing. I love hearing those stories—that’s part of why I took this job.”

  “But you’ve never heard of her? Sandy Coleman?”

  “I haven’t,” he admitted. “We have stories that we use as promotional material—Sandy’s would have been a great one . . . hang on.” He retrieved a binder from one of the back offices and brought it back to the table. “Coleman, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  Schenck scanned a list of names on a page at the front of the binder. “No Sandy Coleman.”

  “Is that a list of all the people who have received money from the foundation?” Hal asked, leaning across the table.

  “Oh, God no. These are just the people who agreed to let us share their stories. We do a write-up about the person, their cancer, what they went through, and their remission. Because of the strict privacy laws, we can only share stories with written approval from the patient.” He flipped to the middle of the binder to show Hal a glossy page of a man around Hal’s age holding an infant in his arms. At the top it read, “Frank Delarosa, Prostate Cancer.”

  Hal knew there would be no way of getting a list of the patients the foundation had helped. He’d had a hell of a time just getting Sandy Coleman’s name. “How many of these stories do you have written up?” he asked.

  “One hundred and sixty-something at last count.”

  “And no Sandy Coleman?”

  Schenck double-checked the list. “No.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Hailey asked.

  “Of course.” Schenck passed the binder to her.

  “How about Norman Fraser?” Hal asked.

  “Was he a patient, too?”

  “No. A doctor who helped Coleman.”

  “We’ve got a lot of physician volunteers,” Schenck admitted. “I haven’t met them all.”

  Hal rubbed his head. He’d hoped Schenck would be able to offer some insight into Fraser—something to put some context to the assault charge back in 2010. Fraser still hadn’t called him back about that. He pulled together his thoughts before continuing. “What about the board? Have any of the members changed since Mrs. Finlay stepped away from leading the organization?”

  “No,” Schenck said without hesitation. “We have the same board of directors. It hasn’t changed in a few years.”

  Hal scanned the list again. “Posner’s the only one who worked for the cancer center. Do any of the other oncologists on the board live here in San Francisco?”

  Schenck shook his head. “No. The other two board members who live in the Bay Area are researchers at UCSF.”

  The drug that had killed Posner had come from the cancer center, his own workplace, but Hal had been unable to zero in on any suspects among Posner’s colleagues. Was it possible that the drug that was stolen from the pharmacy wasn’t the same Adriamycin that killed him? The odds didn’t make sense. So maybe Posner had stolen it himself? Only to have it used against him? But why would he have taken it? To kill someone? The same someone who’d ended up killing him?

  And who the hell was that?

  Hailey touched his arm, and he pushed the thoughts from his head, untwisting the questions until he could think about where he was and what he needed to know right now.

  “Are there any conflicts among the board members?” Hailey asked. “Personality issues?”

  Schenck paused a beat before asking, “You mean, like someone who didn’t like Todd Posner?”

  “As an example,” Hailey said.

  “Posner had a big personality, for sure,” Schenck admitted. “Not everyone loved him, a couple of the retired doctors in particular. But the interactions among them were pretty limited. We meet quarterly, and the meetings are telephonic, so they’re not really together.”

  “When was the last board meeting?” Hal asked.

  “June 1. We’re due to have another the week after the fund-raiser.”

  So it had been almost three months since the board had met. If someone on the board had it in for Posner after that last meeting, why wait so long? It didn’t feel right.

  “All the board members will attend the fund-raiser,” Schenck offered.

  One of the board members had tortured and killed Todd Posner so that they didn’t have to attend a fund-raising dinner with him? No. He couldn’t make that fit. Hal glanced at the list of questions he’d made. “Would you happen to have contact information for Helen Tribble? It might be useful to talk to her.”

  “Sure.” Jay turned in a slow circle, scanning the room. “I don’t know where it is right now, but I can get it to you.”

  Hal took a card from his badge sleeve and handed it over. “Just give me a call when you can locate it.”

  “Sure. I’ll look for it today.”

  “Thanks,” Hal said. “What did you think of Todd Posner?”

  Schenck shrugged. “He loved this organization, so I thought he was pretty great. I learned this morning that Todd left his entire estate to the Finlay Foundation.”

  “Really?” Hailey asked. “Not to his wife?”

  Schenck’s face grew flushed. “Oh, they were separated, I believe. In the process of a divorce.”

  “And there was no other family?” Hailey went on.

  “I don’t know that for certain, but I have heard that he didn’t have any children.”

  Hal thought about the penthouse apartment. Posner’s estate would be worth a lot. Hal knew that Posner’s soon-to-be-ex wife was not contesting their prenuptial agreemen
t. Now a charity had inherited Posner’s entire estate. That eliminated financial gain as a motive for any of Posner’s love interests, but it did provide a different incentive for those people with the foundation. The foundation—and, by extension, those who worked with it—made a lot of money from Posner’s death. Hal studied Jay Schenck. “Are you compensated on the money the foundation brings in, Mr. Schenck?”

  “No. I’m salaried. And our assistant is paid hourly.”

  So Schenck didn’t benefit from Posner’s estate either. The only ones who did were people like Sandy Coleman. Was Posner killed as some twisted way of helping those like Sandy? A philanthropist so intent on saving lives that he was willing to murder? It seemed extreme to say the least.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. Hal recognized the number—it was their captain in Homicide, Marshall. This would not be good news. Hailey met his eye, and he nodded to the hallway.

  Hailey was asking about Ruth Finlay’s family as he stepped outside the office.

  “Harris.”

  A man in a suit was coming up the stairs. He gave Hal a half wave as they met in the small space. Hal was about to step aside when the man shook his head. He turned the opposite way down the hall to the restroom.

  “We got a call from a woman in Sea Cliff,” Marshall announced. “Her husband’s in the TV room with his head bashed in. Been dead awhile. She had been visiting her parents—since Thursday. Came home today and found him. Son saw him first—came and told his mom that Daddy was dressed for Halloween but that he smelled funny. Kid’s two and a half.”

  Christ. “Who’s the victim?”

  “Name’s David Kemp.”

  “Hang on,” Hal said, patting his pockets for his notebook. “I’m writing this down. David Kemp. Spelled K-E-M-P?”

  “Yep,” Marshall confirmed. “He’s a doctor.”

  “Oh, shit. A doctor?”

  “Yep. At General.”

  Hal didn’t recognize the name. “Not oncology.”

  “No. He’s an orthopedic surgeon.”

  Hal hated to ask. “And I’m catching it?”

  “Yep. The same red drug—the Adria-whatever—was found at the scene. Looks like someone tried to make him drink it and maybe inject him with it. When that didn’t work, they bashed his head in.”

  “The same MO as Posner?” Hal lowered his voice. “Any leads?”

  “Nothing yet. You need to get over there. We’ve got the crime scene team and the medical examiner en route.”

  “I’m on my way,” Hal said.

  “We need some answers, Harris. I’m about to get some very upsetting calls.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hal said. “I’ll report in as soon as I’ve got anything.”

  Hal ended the call and walked back into the Finlay Foundation office. “We’ve got to go I’m afraid,” he announced.

  Jay Schenck nodded quickly. “Of course.”

  “Thank you for your time,” Hailey told him.

  “Yes, thanks,” Hal added.

  The two hurried down the stairs. Above them a door opened, and Hal glanced up, hoping it would be Schenck remembering something that would break the case open. But when Hal looked, there was only the empty banister of the second-floor offices.

  “I’ve got to go back to the station,” Hailey said, reading her phone. “We’ve got a domestic call, too.”

  “I can drop you at the station on my way.” Although it wasn’t on his way. Not even close to it.

  She stopped on the curb. “I’ll grab an Uber. You go.”

  He turned back, wishing she could come with him. He liked it when they had two brains on a scene. Thank God he’d have Schwartzman.

  “Hey,” Hailey called after him. “No Sandy Coleman in that book. I went through the whole thing.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  He had his hand on the car door handle and looked up at her. Since when did Hailey apologize for the way a case was going? She avoided his gaze, too. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  “Like old times,” she said. Her smile was a little sad, nostalgic.

  “Right.” He sat in the car and wondered if she was heading for a permanent change. Was she ready to leave Homicide? Was that her way of telling him? Or had she hoped to break it to him during the ride back to the station?

  A part of him had known it could happen. Being a homicide inspector with two small children was no easy feat. If she worked the task force full time, she’d have a better schedule, more time with the girls.

  Just because it would be good for her didn’t mean he had to like it.

  Which was good.

  Because he didn’t.

  23

  Schwartzman used her phone’s GPS to locate David Kemp’s home in Sea Cliff, arguably the wealthiest part of San Francisco. Unlike most neighborhoods in the city, Sea Cliff felt distinctly suburban. Few cars were parked on the streets, and the houses were separated from the road by a wide, grassy boulevard. Narrow strips of land ran between the homes, rare in a city where most residents shared exterior walls with their neighbors.

  The style in Sea Cliff was overwhelmingly Mediterranean. Most of the homes were painted light colors—white or pale yellow—and their roofs were tiled with curved terra-cotta. Large palm trees decorated the streets at irregular intervals, making it seem almost like a Hollywood set. From Sea Cliff’s high elevation, residents looked down on the Golden Gate Bridge below.

  Schwartzman parked on the street between two patrol cars and retrieved what she needed from the back of the car. A week after chemo, she no longer struggled with the weight of the kit. Her appetite had returned and, with it, some of her energy. Though she was not yet her normal self, the improvement was profound, and it brought both mental and physical relief.

  As Schwartzman climbed the driveway to the house, she scanned the brilliant green lawn, the flower bed with its yellow-and-red perennials. The whole state was in a massive drought, but somehow the wealthy neighborhoods managed to keep their landscaping perfectly green.

  A little sign in the corner of the perfect lawn read, “Watered with Well Water.”

  A bright-red tricycle lay on its side in the driveway. A baby jogger was parked with its front tire in the flower bed next to a trowel, gardening gloves, and a thin foam mat for kneeling in the dirt. It was all laid out like the owners had stepped inside for a drink of water—or fresh lemonade—and would be right back.

  According to Hal, Mrs. Alison Kemp had taken her two young children down to Carmel to see her parents since her husband had the weekend on call. She’d left Thursday afternoon and returned today, about an hour before Hal called Schwartzman.

  If they accepted that Ben Gustafson’s death was somehow related to Posner’s, and therefore Kemp’s, as well, this was death number three. Three deaths made a serial killer. No two words were more terrifying to the police. The pressure, the media—it would be a storm when this hit the press.

  An unfamiliar patrol officer stood at the door. She showed her credentials, and the officer wrote her name on a log and let her pass. Inside, she switched out her black boots for the navy Crocs and stepped into a spacious living room. A female patrol officer sat with a blonde woman wearing black leggings and a bright-blue jog top with a sweater pulled over it. The woman held a box of tissues in her lap, cradling it like a small dog. When she looked up, her soft amber eyes were as wide as a doe’s. The wife.

  The patrol officer nodded to Schwartzman and pointed down the hall to the left. The wife’s gaze followed the gesture down the hallway. She seemed to focus on something there, holding it several seconds before looking away. Dropping her head, she began to cry.

  Schwartzman left the inspector with the victim’s wife and followed the dark-wood floors toward the back of the house, passing a bathroom and a bedroom decorated in floral wallpaper. In the center was a queen-size bed pristinely made with white linens. Pillows lined the headboard, each one balanced up on its tip like ballerinas on pointe. The g
uest room, she guessed. As she moved farther down the hall, she heard voices. Roger. Hal.

  She had not told Hal what the Greenville ADA had sent her. They had a case to work first, and she was grateful to have time to figure out how to tell him. What to tell him. As little as possible. Nothing, if she could.

  She had watched the short video a half dozen times. How could everything she’d worked for, all the freedom she’d struggled to obtain, come down to forty-six seconds of a pixelated recording?

  But she knew how. The same way that political elections came down to e-mails exposed on WikiLeaks or meetings behind bathroom stalls, recordings of crass conversations on tour buses. Like Patrick Fraser’s freshman escapades, everything was captured.

  No. She could not compare what she had done in South Carolina to the sexual experimentation of a college freshman. She was smarter than that. She was not a woman who planted evidence.

  But she had. The thought made it hard to breathe.

  And now what?

  Months later, what could she possibly do about it? What action could she take that wouldn’t set a murderer free? She knew she was guilty of planting evidence, but she knew with equal certainty that Spencer was guilty of murder. She had no doubt about that.

  She reached the end of the hallway and paused at the threshold, hearing a third voice. Naomi. The room was easily ten or fifteen degrees colder than the hallway. She scanned the room and saw the den’s window was open. Posner, too, had been found in a den. Did it mean something? She glanced at Hal, knowing he’d already considered it.

  Kemp’s den was a very different space from Posner’s. Here, whites and a palette of blues made the room feel as if it belonged in a beachside cottage. Two chenille-covered couches sat at ninety degrees to each other, and on the wall opposite hung a screen larger than her new car. On the far side of the couch that faced the door, the victim sat in a navy leather armchair. Schwartzman entered the room, and the group stopped talking.