Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2)

by Danielle Girard

“You’re not well yet. And—”

  “It saves you have to go to the market and run all the errands. Really, Justin. I’ll keep my distance. I’ll be very careful, I promise.”

  “I’m going to insist that Alice not bother you. If you want her to tend to the room and such, you’ll have to be in the study or the drawing room.”

  She had gripped Justin’s hands with both of hers. Then she had taken his face between hers and kissed his cheeks—right and then left. “You are positively the most perfect son.”

  Justin had beamed. He really did aim to please.

  “Completely perfect,” she had repeated, and he’d closed his eyes.

  She’d been happy he’d accepted the compliment. He didn’t always. But in that moment, he had seemed to soak it in like the warmth of the sun.

  And really a mother’s love was like that. From it came everything.

  He would let her have Alice. It was so little to ask, and she’d given him so much.

  She punched the “Circle” button again, returning to the home screen, and then moved through the screens until she found the game Justin had downloaded for her. Paper dolls on her computer screen. Who would have thought? She left the desk and crossed to the bed again, careful to sit so that she didn’t undo the work Alice had done on the covers and careful not to mess her fingernails, which were still tacky. She tucked her legs beneath her, pushing her stockinged feet beneath a pillow to ward off the chill in the room, and gave the game her whole focus.

  First she matched a head of thick Victorian ringlets pinned up to a purple polonaise. Then she switched that out for an amber-colored one more fitting with her hair color. She created a whole line of proper Victorian ladies before switching to the 1960s and mixing Jackie O dresses—sleeveless or silk with perfectly positioned bows—with the appropriate bouffant hair or head scarf and oversize sunglasses.

  It was preposterous—a grown woman playing with computerized paper dolls. Especially her, after all she’d accomplished. But it passed the time. And Justin didn’t want her going out to have her nails done. He didn’t want her out anywhere. Not for at least another month. And it wasn’t like she had places to go.

  She didn’t mind being home.

  Quite the opposite actually. She was as happy as she’d ever been. Happier. The pressures, the waiting, the constant proving herself—it was all over. She had arrived. How many times had she wondered if she would make it?

  Until recently she’d never felt the liberty to enjoy life’s tiny pleasures. Painting her nails, brushing her hair. Now it was all she did. What an odd life to be content with. For decades, there had been the struggle. To keep up with the pretenses, to please everyone around her. To be worthy.

  She had thought it would be lonely, this reclusive life. But she found it suited her. The bits of correspondence, playing the role of the formidable chairperson, guiding the foundation—it gave her a sense of purpose. Purpose is important. How many times had her mother said that?

  But at some point—soon, perhaps—nails and paper dolls would no longer be enough to fill a life.

  And then she would have to decide what to do about it.

  27

  Schwartzman woke to the sun shining through the edges of her blinds on Monday morning. She felt off balance, out of sorts. And her thoughts kept returning to Hal. She felt hungover, except she hadn’t had a drink in days. She’d spent a grueling weekend at work, taking care of one case after another—a triple homicide in the Tenderloin near Eddy Street, followed by a stabbing in Visitation Valley, followed by a hit-and-run biking death out by Golden Gate Park on Sunday morning.

  Roger had worked the first two cases. She’d seen Naomi and, at one point or another, every one of the homicide inspectors in the department. Except for Hal. She hadn’t heard from Hal since he’d come to the morgue Wednesday of last week, when she had shared her findings on David Kemp’s murder.

  Almost a week. It was the longest they’d gone without talking since she’d left for South Carolina more than four months ago. And she was sick by the fact that she had yet to tell Hal about the footage from Spencer’s house.

  She was pushing the covers off to get out of bed when her phone rang on the bedside table. She recognized the ADA’s number in Greenville, the number that had called no fewer than twenty times since last Tuesday.

  Steeling herself, she finally answered. “Ms. Patchett,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry for the delay. We’re dealing with a number of very intense cases here.”

  “We’re working a pretty intense case out here, too, Dr. Schwartzman,” Patchett replied. Cold, angry. “Did you watch the video?”

  “I did.” Schwartzman sank back onto the bed and closed her eyes.

  “You were carrying a bag. When you entered Mr. MacDonald’s residence. But the police have no record of you having a bag when they arrived. The defense is questioning what was in that bag. They’re suggesting that you plan—”

  “I can imagine,” Schwartzman said, cutting her off. “When I was going to—” She did not want to say his name. “I brought tools to break into the house, in case I needed them.” The lie had been building in her mind for nearly a week. They could not prove what had been in that bag, not with a video. She could not think beyond the video. Not about the trial, about what she would do if they put her on the stand. “I didn’t know if he would be home.”

  “You were prepared to break in,” Patchett repeated, a sigh in her voice.

  Schwartzman stared at the blackened shades, at the stripe of sunlight at each end. She shifted so that one of the strips of sun hit her body, immediately warming her dark pajama top. “Yes.”

  “What did you bring? What was in the bag?”

  “I believe there was a screwdriver and a small towel in case I needed to break a window,” she said slowly. “And a hammer for the same reason.”

  “You bought these items?”

  “No.” Her heart pulsed in her neck. “I brought them from my aunt’s house. The sack was from there, as well.”

  “Do you remember the brand of the hammer or the screwdriver?”

  She paused, trying to recall what brands Spencer had in the house. “I don’t.”

  “What about the towel?”

  She pictured the bathroom of their home. Every bathroom. “It was a hand towel—a yellow hand towel,” she answered.

  Patchett asked her to explain how she’d gotten into the house. This she could do—this she’d done for the police the next day. Completely truthful, Schwartzman explained the key that she’d put under the doorjamb all those years earlier and how she’d entered through the garage.

  “And the bag? The tools?”

  “I believe I left them in the garage.”

  “You believe.”

  “Yes. Once I got into the house, I didn’t need them.”

  Patchett went quiet on the line, and Schwartzman offered nothing more. Waited. Pressed her hand over her eyes. She waited for Patchett to mention the trial, to say the word testify.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Patchett said.

  Schwartzman did not say good-bye before ending the call. She stared at the phone, replaying Patchett’s words. Did she believe that she’d brought tools to Spencer’s house?

  She thought of the contents of that bag. Knee pads and hair. She had tucked those items down in Spencer’s garbage can, shoved the bag down in the can, as well. Would the police put that bag and the one caught on video together? Realize that she was the one who had brought the knee pads and the hair, and planted it all in Spencer’s trash?

  The police would figure it out. If they hadn’t already.

  She forced herself to move. There is nothing you can do now. Wait. You have to wait.

  She left the phone by the bedside table and went to the kitchen for coffee.

  Get through this week.

  In seven days, the chemo would be over. She would be sick for the last time. Exhausted and weak, at her lowest point, but already she would be able to loo
k forward to another good weekend. After next week they would all be good weekends.

  It seemed impossible.

  Her phone rang from the other room as she filled a mug with black coffee. She didn’t run to answer. Her movements were slow, deliberate. It was her day off.

  The phone was ringing again as she entered the bedroom with her mug of coffee.

  “Hal.”

  “Hi,” he said, slightly breathless. “Sorry to call twice, but I heard you’re off today.”

  “I am. I was just—what’s going on?”

  “You have time to go see a private investigator with me?”

  Schwartzman set down the mug with the sense that she might drop it. “A private investigator? Is this about Posner?”

  “No. I’ve arranged for us to meet him at nine fifteen. Is that too soon? I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Wait—”

  “I’m here,” Hal said.

  “Is it Spencer?”

  “Joseph Strom.”

  The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t attach it to her recent caseload. Then it hit her. The death certificate. Greenville. Spencer. “Oh.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She waited to gauge her body’s reaction to this news. Numb. She felt nothing. No racing heart, no cold, no dread. Or perhaps she felt everything—fear, exhaustion, shame, and a bizarre spark of elation, hope that this was some lead to overshadow what she’d done—and those feelings were too much for her.

  “Schwartzman?”

  “What private investigator? How—”

  “Fingerprints,” Hal said quickly. “On the envelope. Can I pick you up?”

  “I can meet you there. Text me the address.”

  “It’s okay. I’m close to your building. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be out front,” Hal said and rang off.

  She stood with the phone in her hand for several moments, waiting to feel something, for one emotion to rise above the rest. When none did, she hurried to dress. Fifteen minutes later, she was on the elevator down to the lobby.

  She hadn’t had a single sip of coffee.

  28

  Jake Charles was maybe five eight and built densely, like a stack of bricks. His shoulders were almost as wide as Hal’s, which looked bizarre on his shorter frame, and his neck was thick, making his head seem small. Seeing him on the street, Schwartzman would have taken him for a tough guy, one who spent a lot of time in the gym.

  Charles was surprisingly soft-spoken and gracious, inviting them in like a therapist would a tentative, new patient. Hal did the talking, explaining to Charles that he was connected to a document related to an open investigation. Beside Hal, Schwartzman sat as still as possible in the chair. She didn’t want to field questions about why they were here. And she was keenly aware that her position as medical examiner didn’t fit with Hal’s assertion that this was related to a case they were working. MEs rarely worked cases. They worked corpses. But Hal referred to them as “we,” looping her into the investigative team, and the PI didn’t give her a second look.

  Charles took a seat behind the desk and crossed one foot over the opposite knee. “I received the death certificate via express mail on Tuesday and delivered it Wednesday night of last week. At the hospital.” He nodded to Schwartzman then. “I watched until you picked it up off the windshield and left.”

  “Can you tell us more about the sender?”

  “I can do better than that,” Charles said. His chair was low to the ground, making him look shorter than he was. “Normally I wouldn’t share a client conversation, but this was a weird one.” He looked up. “And she never requested anonymity. Here, I’ll play the calls for you.”

  “Calls?” Hal asked.

  “Yeah. I recorded her original call and the one after the job was done, which was when things got weird.” He pushed a digital recorder to the edge of the desk. “That’s why I wasn’t surprised to hear from you this morning.”

  Schwartzman sat upright in the hard-backed chair, waiting for the recording to begin.

  “Client’s name is Margaret Buckley,” Charles said.

  Hal looked at Schwartzman, who shook her head. The name wasn’t familiar. Her shoulders tensed, and she felt herself holding her breath, the way she did when she walked into a dark room, half expecting someone to jump out at her. Spencer. Somehow, this had to be about Spencer.

  “Here’s the original call.”

  There was a light hiss behind the PI’s recorded voice. “How can I help you?”

  “I need to have something delivered.” The voice was soft and shaky, the accent deep. More Southern than South Carolina. Margaret Buckley had likely grown up in Mississippi or Alabama.

  “Ma’am? I’m afraid I can’t hear you well.”

  “I need to have a document delivered.”

  “I’m a private investigator, ma’am.”

  “Yes, I know,” she replied sharply.

  “You recognize the voice?” Hal asked.

  Schwartzman scanned through voices of her childhood and shook her head. Her parents had a small group of close friends, and Margaret Buckley was not among them. Even if she hadn’t seen her mother’s friends in a decade, she would know their voices. And if Buckley had been in her life peripherally—through the church or the community—Schwartzman didn’t remember her or recognize her voice.

  The recording continued with more back-and-forth as Buckley clarified that she would pay to have him hand deliver something to Annabelle Schwartzman. The sound of her own name in the woman’s deep Southern accent sent chills through her. Ever so slightly, Hal shifted closer to Schwartzman in his chair.

  “I’ll pay for your time,” she went on. “I can send the document in the mail. I need you to put it in a plain envelope and deliver it to her.”

  Charles then asked more specifically if there was a message to go with it.

  “Just that page.”

  “And she’ll know what it’s regarding?”

  “Well, I don’t know the answer to that. She’s the doctor.”

  Charles stopped the recording, and Schwartzman continued to stare at the small black recorder as if waiting for it to offer her more. The short recording only brought up additional questions.

  “Does that make sense to you?” Charles asked.

  She thought about the death certificate. “He’d died from hemothorax and hemoperitoneum.”

  Both men looked at her blankly.

  “He was in an auto accident. The impact crushed his chest and abdomen. Blood filled the cavities. Basically, he died of massive internal bleeding.”

  “Nothing stood out?” Charles asked.

  “No. There was nothing unusual about the death certificate. And I don’t know the name Joseph Strom.”

  The three of them sat in silence.

  “If the cause of death isn’t suspect, it’s going to be about the victim,” Hal said. “Can we contact Margaret Buckley? Maybe Schwartzman can speak to her directly.”

  “That’s where things get weird.” Charles offered no further explanation before checking a notepad and pressing several buttons on the recorder.

  Hal glanced at Schwartzman, who feared something had happened to Buckley.

  With his finger hovering over the “Play” button, Charles added, “This was last Friday, after I’d delivered the note to you Wednesday evening.”

  A phone ringing. Then a man’s voice answered, “Hello.” Old, Southern. It was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  “This is Jake Charles,” the PI said across the line. “I’m trying to reach Margaret Buckley.”

  “Who’s calling?” the man asked.

  Schwartzman realized it wasn’t his voice that was familiar. It was the specific hospitality of it—not rude but guarded. And the accent, of course. He was from Greenville. Amazing how she could still distinguish the differences between the Charleston accent that had stayed with her father and the Greenv
ille one of her mother.

  Charles explained that Mrs. Buckley had requested he do a job for her.

  “What now?” the man grumbled.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s just—ah, hell, Margaret’s got Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she thinks she’s out to save the world or something. Other times she’s like a terrified kid.” He filled the line with a long, deep sigh. “I’m her husband, Tom.”

  “I’m very sorry, Tom,” Charles said in the awkward silence.

  “Well, don’t go delivering any messages from Margaret. I didn’t realize she was making calls until a couple days ago. It just started.”

  “The calls, you mean?” Charles probed.

  Schwartzman glanced at the detective across the desk. He was staring out between the blinds at the empty alley that ran beside his office. Was it simply natural curiosity that made him ask about the calls Margaret Buckley had been making? Or something else?

  “Yes,” Tom Buckley confirmed. “Sometime last week, she started calling folks—her old office, the wife of a colleague, the law office they used to work with, and now you.” He paused. “Where the heck are you calling from anyway? Area code 415—you down in Atlanta?”

  “San Francisco actually.”

  “San Francisco.” A beat passed. “Well, who the hell was she after in San Francisco?”

  There was a hesitation on Charles’s end. “I really can’t say,” he began. “You understand, it’s a matter of client—”

  “Ah, for God’s sake. You sound like the damned doctors. The woman is sick. I’m her husband, and most days she doesn’t know me. She almost never recognizes the kids anymore. Never mind the grandbabies—” His voice rose in pitch and cut off.

  His anguish seemed to transfer through the recorded voice and land in her lap, leaving her to wonder how she might help him, if there was any way she could.

  Hal glanced sideways, and she met his gaze but said nothing.

  “Forget it,” Tom said after a pause. “I don’t care. Forget it. Don’t deliver any message and don’t call back.”

  “Sir,” Charles called into the line. “Please, wait.”