She remembered the hours after she’d woken in Ava’s garage. Trying to get untied, wanting desperately to escape before anyone saw her like that. The shame had consumed her. But there had been no way out. No way to cut the rope or pull it free. She’d had to call Harper Leighton.
She found her voice. “No,” Schwartzman said through gritted teeth. “I did no such thing, Ms. Patchett. It would have been impossible since I was tied up.”
“Well, that’s what the defense is going to argue,” Patchett said. “And we can’t prove otherwise. There is no evidence that you didn’t stage the whole thing yourself.”
“Me? Ask Detective Leighton. She found me,” Schwartzman said, hearing the tremor in her voice. “I don’t have a Dropbox account. I didn’t do that. He filmed it. He drugged me and tied me up!” She was shouting.
A shudder rang up her spine. Spencer. No. Something else. She turned.
Roy stood in the center of the morgue, staring at her. He smiled, a thin, hateful smile.
She didn’t take her eyes off him. “No.” She rolled the stool until her back was against the wall, lowered the receiver, and put her hand over the phone. “I need to handle this call,” she told Roy. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to proceed.”
Roy did not leave.
“Please go,” she repeated.
“Excuse me?” Patchett said in her ear.
Roy did not budge.
“I was speaking to a colleague.”
No word from Roy. His lips curled up into a smirk.
“The defense is pushing for immediate release,” Patchett said. “And I’ve got nothing to use to hold him.”
Schwartzman focused on the call. Spencer could not get out. He couldn’t. “What about the necklace? The one found at his house?”
“The one seen a week earlier on Detective Leighton’s daughter?” Patchett asked.
“Yes,” Schwartzman said. “You need to run DNA tests on it.”
“And what will that do?” Patchett snapped back. “If the DNA comes back as a match to Leighton’s daughter, it looks like a plant.”
“And what if it’s mine?” She turned away from Roy, lowered her voice. “What if it matches my DNA?”
Patchett was quiet a moment. Schwartzman took it as encouragement. She stood and crossed to Roy, pressed the phone to her chest. “Get out of here.”
“You looked scared, Doc.”
She pointed. “Get out.”
Roy started for the door with a little shrug.
Patchett was talking. “It would look like a plant.”
“Wait,” Schwartzman said. “What would look like a plant?”
“Your DNA,” Patchett said. “The DA could charge you, Ms. Schwartzman.”
Schwartzman felt a sharp pain in her chest, like an electric shock. “Charge me?”
“With planting evidence.”
Schwartzman’s voice caught in her throat.
“The Home Depot bag found in Mr. MacDonald’s trash,” Patchett said. “Knee pads that match the imprint on Ava Schwartzman’s torso.”
My aunt’s torso.
“The dog hair . . . all the evidence has come under scrutiny.”
Schwartzman’s throat closed, and she fought to inhale. “Why? That evidence proves he did it.”
“The bag found in Spencer MacDonald’s garage trash can bears a strong resemblance to the sack you carried into the house, the one seen in the traffic video.”
“You can’t let him go,” Schwartzman said, her voice losing its force.
The DA could charge her. Spencer had killed two people, motivated the death of another, and almost killed a fourth—Ken Macy—and they could charge her?
“It’s not up to me. We have no evidence. The judge is ruling this afternoon.”
Schwartzman gasped. Today.
“Unless there is something you can add? Something we don’t know?”
The judge was ruling today on whether Spencer got out of jail. Whether he could get on a plane and show up and—
“Ms. Schwartzman?”
What did she have? What evidence could she come up with to keep him in jail? There had to be something. But she couldn’t come up with a single thing. “I don’t—I can’t . . .”
“I’ll be in touch, then,” Patchett said.
The call ended, and she stared at the phone.
She had planned to testify against Spencer in court. But what if they asked her about the bag? Could she perjure herself knowing that she might be caught? That Spencer might still go free? Did she even take the risk of going back to South Carolina?
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
It wasn’t just the testimony. It was the plans she’d made, plans to move forward.
How could she buy a house? How could she buy that house? At least in the apartment, there were guards and cameras. The front door to her condo was reinforced. Yes, Spencer might be able to sneak past the security measures, but that door? He wasn’t getting through that without a battering ram or an explosive device.
The house was single level, windows all around, the wooded yard . . . moving in there would be like giving Spencer a key to the front door. The glass front door. There were a dozen easy ways inside that place. She would be a sitting duck. And now it wasn’t a question of if Spencer would get out of jail.
It was only a matter of when.
Something touched her, and she spun around, letting out a shriek. Standing behind her, much too close, was Roy. The smile thinned, and an angry sneer took its place.
She stood from the stool, backed away from him. “What are you doing?”
“You’re off the phone. I thought you’d want to work on that autopsy.” There was a twang in his voice. Southern? Had she imagined it?
His angry smile. The hate.
“He sent you, didn’t he?” she shouted. “He sent you to work here, to intimidate me. It won’t work, Roy. You’re done.”
Roy grinned widely. He almost laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Doc. Sounds like the stress is getting to you. Maybe you’re not up to the job?”
“Spencer sent you. That’s why you look so smug, so angry.” She was shaking, her fingers trying to dial her phone. Hal.
Roy moved closer.
She put a palm out. “Stop right there.”
“I don’t know any Stephen,” he said. He was so calm. He almost looked happy.
“Spencer,” she corrected.
“You seem upset, Dr. Schwartz,” Roy went on in the syrupy-sweet tone. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Schwartzman,” she said. “The name is Schwartzman.”
“Of course, Dr. Schwartzman.” He drew out the name with a snarl.
She fumbled to enter her passcode. Favorites. Why hadn’t she put Hal in her favorites? Recent calls. She found his number. “I know what you’re doing. It’s not going to work.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I do,” she said. “What did he tell you to do? Are you supposed to stab me? Right here, in the middle of the morgue?” The line was ringing. Pick up, Hal. Pick up.
“It would be fun to cut you,” he admitted. “I’d enjoy it.” He showed her open palms. “But enjoying cutting you has nothing to do with Stephen Whoever.”
The call went to voicemail. She lowered the phone, pressed the “Call” button again. Roy was bullshitting. He knew Spencer. Of course he did.
“Why then?” she whispered, listening to Hal’s phone ring again. “Why would you want to hurt me?”
“Because you’re a fucking kike, and I hate kikes.” Spit flew into the air.
Schwartzman froze.
Roy moved toward the door. He had the knob in his hand as though debating something. She scanned the room for weapons. Her fresh kits were in the drawer. None were within his reach.
The phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced away only long enough to see it was Hal. She answered and made some noise that he took for hello.
&n
bsp; “Sorry I missed your call,” Hal said.
“I’m in the morgue. You almost here?” Her voice was breathy, winded. Like something was sitting on her chest.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Schwartzman,” Hal said. “Are you in trouble?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” She stared at Roy’s back. Unmoving, he faced the door.
“Are you talking to me?” Hal asked. “What’s going on?”
“Sure, Inspector Harris. I’ll hold the line while you come in.”
Roy faced her. The thin smile was back as he pulled the door open. “I’m glad you’re okay, Dr. Schwartzman.” He drew out the man of her name again. “I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”
She watched as he slithered into the hall. Only then did she allow herself to sink against the wall, fall into it, and slide downward until she was sitting on the cold linoleum floor, pressed against the hard metal of the morgue drawers.
Hal was talking in her ear. “I’m coming now. I’m almost there, Schwartzman.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.” She held the phone to her ear, pressed it against her cheek, and sobbed until she heard Hal running down the hallway, saw him punch through the morgue door.
She was clutching the phone, listening to his breathing on the open line, when he reached her.
35
He slammed his laptop closed and spun his chair to face the view. Today, even the soothing blue of the bay couldn’t calm him. The muscles in his back and neck were taut, his thighs and shoulders aching from the constant tension. It was all coming down. He could sense it. Even before the alert. He had felt close to breaking before the e-mail, as if his muscles were giant cables about to snap.
Someone had requested the history on Trent’s ProCall account. If they got that, they would know that Ben Gustafson’s last stop before his death was their house. The clock on his phone read 10:23 a.m. The alert had come in two hours and ten minutes ago. He’d called his tech guy immediately and then changed the phone number on the account. He changed the address, too, choosing one nearby so it would be believable if they checked Gustafson’s phone records, the cell towers, which they most certainly would. But he didn’t know how to wipe the history. He needed his tech guy, Nathaniel, for that.
Where the hell was Nathaniel? Probably in math class, staring out the window like a dumbass. He dialed again. Sent another text.
Things were falling apart.
If only Trent had listened. This was exactly why he didn’t want Trent to see anyone.
He stood from the chair and crossed to the glass window, stared blankly at the view. White crests dotted the bay today, the sun glinting off the foamy caps like the tips of knives.
He spread his palm on the window, felt the warmth through the glass. There were views like this other places. They could leave. Pack up and leave. Without the money. Right. Without the money. He had some of his own. Eighteen, twenty thousand. That would last them awhile. Get them somewhere in Europe.
Stuck in Europe with Trent.
His brother flitting around the artist’s scene while he . . . did what?
Spinning away from the window, he kicked his chair across the room. No. They needed it all. He called the attorney’s office, barely controlling his anger as he left his name and his mobile number, tried to impress upon the dimwit on the other end of the line that it was urgent that he get a call back. And soon.
If the paperwork was done, they could go. Transfer the entire six million and go.
But if it didn’t happen in time . . .
Options, he thought. What were his other options?
He froze. There was another way.
God, why hadn’t he ever thought of it before?
It was Trent’s ProCall account. Trent was the one with the fragile emotional state, the history of depression. There were also the attempted suicides, at least one on record. Their parents had been good at keeping those a secret. Even now Trent’s mental state was questionable, at best. If the police came looking—no, when the police came looking, he could hand them the disturbed son, the broken one.
There would be the initial wave of shock from those who knew him. But then the idea that he was guilty would percolate, and they would remember the strange boy. It would all make sense then. “We always knew something was wrong with that one,” they would say. And why not? Trent was always the crazy one.
He pictured his brother’s face as he’d seen it this morning. Blushed and happy, fiddling with one of his projects in the bedroom. Like a child.
His brother would be genuinely shocked, of course. He knew nothing about what had happened. Well, he knew Posner had been murdered but not by whom. And he wouldn’t have heard about Gustafson or the others.
Under heavy interrogation he might even doubt his own innocence. He might confess.
Trent would go to prison.
His stomach tightened into a fist and sank like a heavy weight. A rolling wave surged into his throat, and he doubled over to vomit in the trash can. Heaved and retched. Stomach acids and little more.
Trent in prison. Dear God, no. He couldn’t give them Trent. Trent wouldn’t survive a day in prison.
They had to leave. There was no other choice. They would take what they had and go.
He stood from his desk and scanned the surface. He didn’t have time to pack up everything. He put his computer in his bag, pulled his personal files from the drawers, and searched the room. What else?
Trent. Trent wouldn’t want to leave. Not suddenly, not like this. Well, he would have to. He dialed his brother’s phone and listened to it ring as he glanced around the room. He loved this office. Wasn’t there some way . . . ?
His call went to voicemail.
There was no way. Leaving was all they had. He stared down at his phone. God, he hoped he wasn’t too late.
What if they were already at the house?
He texted his brother: Call me ASAP. He reread the words. Trent always ignored things that implied urgency. He typed again. I’ve got really exciting news. Really exciting. He thought of a different word. Rad. Bomber. Awesome. Forget it. He pushed “Send” and pocketed the phone while he took a last look around the office. Even through the panic, leaving this place cut him deeply. It was the only place that ever made him feel like a success.
He pulled the phone from his pocket as he locked up the office and dialed his brother again. “Come on, Trent.”
He hated to run, but he ran now, toward the elevators.
Hang in there, Trent.
I’m coming.
36
Hal’s pulse pounded in his temple as he caught his breath. He slammed through the morgue door to find Schwartzman huddled on the floor, her cheek pressed against the cold metal drawers. An animal sound had come from his lips, and her eyes went wide when she saw him. When he reached her, she was trembling fiercely, as though she’d been out in a storm for hours, soaked to the bones. The words, when they came, were hardly discernible, but he’d gotten the most important piece of information.
The case against Spencer was falling apart, and it looked like he would get out.
“How can they let him out?”
She shook her head but said nothing. She had to know. Patchett would have told her. But she didn’t want to tell him. It had something to do with the damn plastic bag she was carrying that night.
He tried to calm his panic with reason. There were other ways to ensure Spencer wasn’t released. She could change her mind about testifying against him. Harper would testify. There had to be a way to keep that monster in jail. But he said nothing to reassure her. He didn’t want to make a promise. How could he?
He’d seen plenty of evil men go free.
“Come on,” he urged her. “Let me help you up.”
She held her knees close. “I just want to stay here. Right here.”
“You can’t,” Hal said. “You’re a fighter, Schwartzman. You’ve got to fight.” He touched
her shoulder. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and lift her up. He could do it, too. But it wasn’t his place. He thought of Ken Macy. Should he call Ken?
He stayed where he was and waited.
When she looked up a few minutes later, her face was tearstained, but her eyes were dry. She got slowly to her feet and pressed her arms to her stomach. Then she stared at the door. “It’s not just the call . . .” Her voice trailed off. “He said he wanted to cut me.”
Hal froze. “Wait. You talked to Spencer?”
“No. Roy.”
Anger made his limbs twitch. His hands balled into fists. Roy. “The blond guy?”
She nodded.
The man he’d seen watching her in Starbucks. The man who had glared at the barista. “The new guy? He said he wanted to cut you?”
“Yes. Because he hates Jews.” She shifted her weight into the wall, straightening her back. “Can you believe that? A skinhead.”
The black barista, Schwartzman. He hated them because they were black, Jewish. “Who hired that guy?”
She shook her head. “He was here when I got back from my surgery.”
“Don’t you normally weigh in on new hires?”
“Yes. Always.”
Hired while she was on medical leave. Why would they do that? “I’m getting rid of him.”
Schwartzman pushed herself off the wall, moving across the morgue. Her shoulders set back and her head up, she was starting to look like herself again. As she moved to the sink and turned on the water, Hal called over to the station. Dispatch answered.
“This is Inspector Harris. Send a couple of uniforms over to the morgue to pick up an employee by the name of Roy. He’s a morgue assistant. Only been here a couple of months.”
“What’s the charge, Inspector?”
Hal glanced over at Schwartzman, who was running her hands through the water, staring down at it. “Assaulting an officer,” he said, stretching the definition of officer. He didn’t care. She was part of the department, damn it.
“You, sir?”
“No. The medical examiner.” There was a pause on the line. “Read him his rights and hold him until I get there,” Hal added.
Excise (Dr. Schwartzman Series Book 2) Page 28
