Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2)

by Danielle Girard

  “The organization was important to her?”

  “It was her life.”

  “That and her kids, you mean.”

  Tribble looked up with one brow cocked. “Ruth was almost forty when she got pregnant. She once confided that she hadn’t planned to have children. She and Herb were very happy without them.”

  “The son is very protective of her.”

  “It must work for her,” Tribble said, her hands returning to the dogs. “She hasn’t told him to go to hell.”

  Despite a couple moments of frustration, Ruth Finlay had seemed to enjoy her son’s fussing. He glanced at the blank page in his notebook. “Did you know Todd Posner?”

  “Of course. He was one of the foundation’s biggest champions. I heard he was killed.”

  “He was,” Hal confirmed. “Can you think of someone in the foundation who would have wanted to harm him? One of the board members, maybe?”

  “Oh, that guy fought with everyone. He and I had a shouting match or two, but I can’t see someone killing him.” The white dog rolled onto his back again, but instead of rubbing it, Tribble pushed him over as though his behavior was inappropriate for company. The dog made a small, disappointed whine and settled into the couch as she scratched behind his ears.

  “He held some sway over Ruth though,” Tribble went on. “I could see how that was frustrating for the board. Ruth tended to give more credence to Todd Posner than to most anyone else, including me,” she added after a moment. “I don’t understand why. Todd came to a charity event with his wife once, and from the way he treated her, I might have killed him.”

  “Do you have any idea if Dr. Posner had seen Ruth Finlay recently?”

  “I don’t. I haven’t had any contact with Todd since I left the foundation.”

  “Do you know a Dr. David Kemp?”

  She hesitated and then shook her head.

  “What about someone by the name of Denise Ross?”

  Again she shook her head. Maybe the foundation was just more dead ends. But then why was Sandy Coleman’s name on that piece of paper in Posner’s mouth? “Did you know Sandy Coleman?” Hal asked.

  “The kid with AML? I remember her.”

  “Who would have known about her?” Hal asked, pen poised.

  Tribble frowned at him.

  “Would anyone outside the organization know what the foundation did for her? Would they know her story?”

  Tribble thought about that. “I remember having a conversation about her with another oncologist—the one who took her case.”

  “Do you remember the name?” Hal prompted.

  “Neil. No, Norman. Norman . . .”

  “Fraser?” he asked when she went silent.

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Norman Fraser.”

  “Do you recall what Dr. Fraser had to say about Sandy?”

  “Well, he took over the case when Posner said he didn’t think the odds made it a worthwhile gamble.”

  “Do you recall anything specific? Did Fraser seem angry that Posner didn’t treat Coleman? Did they argue?” Hal still held his pen poised.

  “I really don’t know,” she admitted. “I only met Dr. Fraser the one time. We were at the hospital, where several members of the foundation were meeting with Sandy Coleman and her parents.”

  Hal made a note. “I was under the impression that Dr. Fraser worked closely with Sandy.”

  “He did.”

  “But you only met him the one time.”

  “We had a number of doctors who volunteered to take a case now and again. Most of them I never met.”

  Hal looked down at the note he’d made. It said simply, “Fraser.” Again. But he’d ruled Fraser out, hadn’t he? “Anyone else stand out?” he asked.

  “You mean in Sandy Coleman’s case?” Tribble clarified.

  “Yes. People who would have known about her condition, about the foundation’s help.”

  “Oh,” Tribble said, sitting up. “I believe there was an article in the paper about her.”

  Hal made a note. “Do you know which paper?”

  “Pretty sure it was the Chronicle.” She stood then. “I might have a copy. Hang on.” As soon as she left the room, the two dogs ran across the room and jumped into Hal’s lap. With his notepad in his left hand, he rubbed the black one on his right. The white one whined, so he set the notebook down and rubbed them both simultaneously. It made him think how hard it would be to have twins.

  Tribble returned to the room. “Rice, Noodle, down!”

  The two dogs hopped off Hal.

  “Here it is.”

  Hal stood and took the article Tribble handed him. It was a human-interest piece, about four inches by six or seven. The color picture was of Ruth Finlay seated beside Sandy Coleman.

  “You can keep that,” Tribble told him, still standing.

  “Thank you.” Hal didn’t sit again. “Have you had much interaction with the new executive director?”

  “Schenck?” She shrugged. “He’s fine. He’s young but smart. I can’t see him being aggressive with Posner. He’s seemed more apologetic than anything.”

  “Apologetic for what?”

  “For my getting pushed out. He offered to keep me on—said he thought it would be helpful to keep the old guard.” Her lips thinned as she crossed her arms. “The old guard. That’s what he called me.”

  Hal thanked her and left Tribble’s home. Checked his phone as he reached the curb. No word from Schwartzman.

  Hal got into his car and read the article about Sandy Coleman. It was a puff piece. The interview with Tribble confirmed what he already knew—Ruth Finlay was the only person who liked Todd Posner. Nothing in their conversation gave him any new persons of interest to pursue, and he had no additional reason to continue to explore Norman Fraser.

  Frustrated, Hal set the article aside and thought of Schwartzman again. Why hadn’t she called him? Was she okay? He dialed her number and listened to it ring. Once, twice, three . . . voicemail.

  “To hell with it,” he muttered, pulling away from the curb and heading toward Schwartzman’s apartment building. He parked in front and went inside.

  The young man at the front desk was maybe midtwenties. He was tall and lean and dressed in a maroon suit. His high cheekbones and the angle of his eyes suggested he had Asian heritage, though his green eyes suggested Caucasian heritage, as well. His name tag read “Alan.” “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Dr. Annabelle Schwartzman.”

  Alan eyed him. The look was less suspicious than curious. “You’re the inspector,” he said after a moment. “You were here the night . . .”

  “Yes.” Hal drew out his badge. “I’m Inspector Hal Harris.”

  Alan studied the badge without touching it.

  “I’m not here on police business. Just as a friend,” Hal said. “She had—” He was going to mention the chemotherapy. He closed his mouth.

  Alan nodded. “She arrived home about two hours ago, and I helped her upstairs. She was quite sick.”

  Why did Alan have to help her if Macy was with her? Did it take two people? Was she that sick?

  “She wasn’t alone, was she?”

  “She was,” Alan confirmed. “She came by a car service, I believe.”

  “Are you sure? She wasn’t with a friend?”

  “I don’t think so,” the young man said. “The car was a black SUV, and the driver wasn’t familiar. I’m pretty certain there was an Uber sign in the windshield.”

  So Macy didn’t go to the hospital. And Schwartzman hadn’t called him back so he could pick her up. Instead she’d been willing to come home from the hospital via Uber rather than take him up on his offer. The thought made him ill.

  “I think she may be sleeping.”

  Hal wanted to go upstairs, check on her. Even if just to see that she was sleeping.

  “She’s usually extremely tired on the day of her treatments.”

  “I’d like to know that she’s oka
y,” Hal pressed.

  Alan studied him. “I can ring her.”

  Hal exhaled. “Please.”

  Alan lifted a phone off the desk and dialed a series of numbers. The two men stood in silence while they waited. With every passing minute, Hal felt a heightened sense of dread. Finally Alan replaced the phone in its cradle as Hal pulled his own phone from his pocket.

  I’m in the lobby, he texted Schwartzman. Want to make sure you’re okay.

  “I can call again a little later,” Alan offered. “And I’ll leave a message under her door to have her call down if she needs anything. I’m here until ten this evening.”

  Hal stared at the phone, willing something to happen.

  The word delivered appeared below the message.

  “Inspector?”

  Hal nodded. “Yes. If you could please check in.” He folded open his badge wallet and pulled a business card from the slot behind the badge. “My mobile number is here. If you would call or text me that you’ve reached her and she’s okay.”

  “Certainly. I can ask Dr. Schwartzman to contact you.”

  “Right,” Hal said. “She’s got the number.”

  He refreshed his phone screen and saw three dots under his message. She was typing. “Wait. I think she’s responding.”

  Alan said nothing.

  Hal knew he sounded desperate. She was fine. Clearly, if she was responding, she was upstairs, breathing, probably resting.

  What was wrong with him?

  What did he expect? A frightening message from Spencer? The dots stopped. No message. Was she trying to ask for help?

  The dots started again. His breath seemed to catch in his throat.

  A small vibration and then two words popped onto the screen.

  ok sleeping

  Hal waited for something more. I’ll call you back. Or can we talk later? Or . . . but nothing came.

  “Is there anything else I can do, Inspector?” Alan asked.

  It felt like a gentle brush-off. Go on now, Inspector Harris.

  “No,” Hal admitted. “Thank you.”

  With a last glance at his phone, he turned to leave.

  She needed her rest. He knew that. Pressing her to see him, to answer his phone call, to text him more information, that was all selfish.

  He would wait.

  He would hate it, but he would wait.

  34

  Tuesday disappeared in a fugue of nausea and exhaustion. Calls piled up. The Realtor called with last-minute questions about the offer. Then Hailey and a few other women from the force called to check on her. Ken, of course. They’d had a couple of conversations since Friday night. He had wanted to see her over the weekend, but she had begged off, saying she wanted to hunker down before the final chemo. He’d been understanding, and she’d felt worse for it.

  She would have to tell him. Soon.

  Hal had also been in touch yesterday. Two voicemails from him and a half dozen texts. Some straight-out questions about how she was doing along with several questions about the case that she could tell were just excuses for her to call him back. She finally called him early afternoon. They spoke for less than a minute.

  “You sound awful,” he’d said.

  “I feel worse.”

  “I can come,” he offered. “Bring something.”

  “I need to sleep it off,” she said. “Give me until tomorrow. If I don’t surface, you can come find me.”

  “Are you sure?” he’d asked. “I don’t mind coming by, and I can get whatever might taste good.” It sounded almost like an apology.

  “I’m not in danger,” she promised him. “I just feel awful.”

  He made her promise to text or call if she needed something. His tone was so fierce, so protective, as if he felt responsible for her safety. Absurd. She was an adult. She could manage this alone.

  Cancer, she could manage alone.

  Spencer . . . she needed to figure out how to manage that on her own, too.

  She woke in the evening to the ringing phone. Ken. She ignored the buzzing and lay back in the bed. As she stared at the ceiling, she reminded herself that the first day after chemo was the low point. She would be better soon. The worst was over. For now anyway. There would be regular tests to check for the cancer’s return, but she would be optimistic. She had to be optimistic.

  A double buzz indicated a voicemail. She would have to call Ken, tell him. Did he sense it? The abrupt ending to the few moments of intimacy? The fact that they didn’t have sex, the awkward way they had lain together in her bed afterward before she’d rolled over and tried to sleep?

  No. He was honest. He expected her to be honest.

  Ken was perfect. He was kind and gentle. Funny. Strong. He respected her. He made her feel safe.

  But those scars . . .

  How could she see those and not remember?

  But how could she punish him for getting caught in Spencer’s web? She owed him.

  But what did she owe him?

  Did owing him mean she should date him? Be with him when the very sight of those wounds was like watching him being stabbed all over again? Like seeing Spencer? He deserved more. And despite the guilt, she knew that she deserved more, too.

  Then she slept, a deep, dead sleep until the early hours of the morning. After that her rest was fitful until dawn. Moving in any fashion was painful, and the nausea grew so bad the next morning that she spent an hour vomiting into the trash can before getting out of bed. She’d sworn to tough it out without the antinausea medication, substituting home remedies like ginger rather than succumb to the drowsy side effects of the prescription medication. But this morning the nausea won. Ginger wasn’t going to do the trick.

  She put one of the melt-away antiemetics in her mouth, cringing as she swallowed the saliva that collected under her tongue. Her last bite of food had been before chemo yesterday, and what little water she’d had to drink wasn’t sitting well. The antiemetic would also dehydrate her, but at least it would allow her to get some liquids into her system. Stuck in bed, hanging her head over a wastebasket, was the last thing she had time for.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the medication to work, swallowing carefully and testing each movement for a warning that she was going to be sick again. At some point she fell asleep and woke again after nine.

  Late now, she showered quickly, made herself peanut-butter toast—the only thing that she might be able to keep down—and headed for work.

  In the morgue she went straight to the wall of metal drawer fronts. She’d been off work all weekend and yesterday, so she had no idea which drawers were occupied and which were empty. She could see their occupants on the computer, but she preferred to open the drawers and look at the deceased, as if she were meeting guests who had come to her house while she was away.

  Thinking of the infant who had died of SIDS, she gripped the handle for drawer ten. Pulled it free. Inside was a black bag, a full-size adult body. She extended the drawer fully and unzipped the top of the bag. A man, somewhere between fifty-five and seventy. In the baby drawer.

  She checked the computer file and confirmed that the man was an unattended death who had come in early that morning. Why would Wally have put him in that drawer? He knew better.

  She pulled on a pair of gloves and opened his eyelids, one at a time. Even lifting her arms felt like exertion. She pressed the sleeve of her arm to her forehead, her body clammy, feverish. She zipped the bag back over the man, removed her gloves, and closed the drawer. Rested her forehead against the cold metal. She would need help today.

  Medical examiners almost always worked with a morgue assistant, but Schwartzman had been guarded about help. She preferred being alone. But she would not be able to perform an autopsy on her own like this. She should have called in a replacement and taken the day off.

  She lifted the phone off the morgue desk and dialed the front desk.

  “Morgue,” came a muffled voice.

  “Wally?”

&n
bsp; “No,” the voice said, clear now. “It’s Roy.”

  She pictured the strange blond man and shivered. “Is Wally there?”

  “Out today on a family emergency. Afraid it’s just me, Doc.”

  She considered working on her own but realized that was impossible. She would have to work with Roy. Schwartzman cleared the phlegm from her throat. “I’m going to need help with an autopsy. Can you come into the morgue in about ten minutes, please?”

  “I’d love to,” Roy said.

  She thought again of the cold gaze from Roy. He worked for her. If he couldn’t do the job respectfully . . . in her pocket, her phone vibrated. She was desperate to ignore it, to stay right there, but it might be a scene. She might be needed.

  She pulled it out and read the words on the screen.

  Everything set to make the offer today at 11:00 a.m. I’ll call as soon as I have news.

  The house. She was putting an offer on the house. She was going to own a home.

  A flash of fear hit her, then a twinge of nausea. She drew a breath. This was good. She started to respond to the text when the phone rang. She accidentally hit the “Accept” button.

  “Hello?” came a voice from the phone. A woman. A familiar voice but not the Realtor.

  “Hello,” Schwartzman said, lifting the phone to her ear.

  “It’s Laura Patchett.” The ADA in South Carolina.

  She swallowed back the nausea with a glance at the clock. Thirty minutes until she could take more medication. She sank onto the stool. “What can I do for you, Ms. Patchett?”

  “The video that was playing in Mr. MacDonald’s home? The one of you tied up?” Her tone was sharp, angry. More bad news.

  “Yes,” Schwartzman answered calmly.

  “We have just learned that the video footage was filmed on your camera, Ms. Schwartzman.”

  Dr. Schwartzman. Again she imagined herself on that wall in Spencer’s room. Her meek voice, calling for help. She cleared her throat, shook her head. Finally managed to say, “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s not impossible,” Patchett responded, her voice tight. “The defense has pulled the data records. It’s all there. The evidence suggests that you recorded that on your phone, and then you uploaded it to a Dropbox account under your e-mail.”