by Betty Webb
Ordinarily, my job would be over as soon as Ali Cameron was released from juvie, but with Congresswoman Juliana Thorsson as my client, that wasn’t the case here. I also had to prove—or at the very least provide strong clues to—the real killer’s identity. The problem here was the case’s many dimensions.
For instance, who was the primary target of the killer’s rage? From what I had discovered so far, it could have been either Dr. Arthur Cameron or his wife Alexandra. But that was where the case became even more messy. If Dr. Cameron’s identity as the state’s executioner had somehow been discovered, he possessed the longest list of people who wished him dead, although Alexandra was a strong second contender. Extramarital liaisons sometimes led to murder, but the torture murders of an entire family? Yes, that would be stretching it, but during my years with Scottsdale PD I’d once seen a single mom and her three children decapitated in a parking lot when she refused to give the killer—who’d been standing in line next to her at Costco—her phone number.
It was never a good idea to get fixated on one suspect, which is where Scottsdale PD had gone wrong. Just because Dr. Cameron had executed people so he could earn the cash for a fancy sports car didn’t necessarily mean one of their grieving family members had killed him.
On the bright side, there was now new information to consider. While driving back to the motel something Clint Zhou said had niggled at the back of my mind: the killer drove a white van.
Where had I recently seen a white van in connection to this case?
I got up, ate another chocolate bar, then lay back on the bed and closed my eyes. With the noise of my conscious mind blissed into silence by the chocolate’s sweet, buttery high, the answer floated up to me. At the cemetery. A white van from Good Samaritan Hospital had transported some of the hospital’s staffers to pay their respects. Granted, that van had been fairly new and in excellent condition, but it was white, and hospitals had always been partial to white. Maybe Good Sam kept an older van around to run errands.
And hadn’t Margie Newberry said something about Alexandra running into one of the Good Sam doctors when she’d indulged in a one-night-stand at the Wigwam Resort?
Yes, I remembered now. Margie said, As she was leaving the hotel, she saw one of her husband’s colleagues walking out of the bar. A Dr. Bosworth.
Dr. Bosworth.
I’d meant to sniff around Dr. Cameron’s workplace but knowing that getting information from medical types was like pulling teeth, I’d kept putting it off. But maybe I could get someone to help me.
I grabbed my cell and called Jimmy.
“Didn’t you tell me you have a cousin who works at Good Sam?” I asked, as soon as he answered, hoping to ward off any more comments about last night.
“Yeah. Valerie. She’s a nurse over there. Why?”
“Because I need a contact.”
After I’d given him the highlights of Alexandra’s sex life, he said, “Poor woman. She must have been so lonely.”
That was Jimmy for you, always giving women the benefit of the doubt.
“From what I’ve been hearing about her husband, I’m sure she was. But back to Valerie. Do you know her schedule? I need to go down to Good Sam, talk to some people. She can give me an in.”
“Last I heard she was working the night shift, but here’s her cell number. Call and ask.”
I wrote it down.
“Lena, before you hang up…How are you? I’ve been worried.”
Sigh. “I’m fine, Jimmy. Fine. Could you please stop obsessing about my dream?”
“I’m not obsessing.”
“Coulda fooled me. Just please, please, stop worrying about me some time before the next Ice Age rolls in, okay? I can take care of myself.”
Silence.
Now I felt guilty. It wasn’t a capital crime to worry about someone, so why the discomfort when Jimmy worried about me? Easy to answer. I hated the fact that the man could always see right through me.
“Look, I’m sorry I’m being so…so…” What was the word? “…abrupt, but I really have to push this investigation along, which right now means tying up loose ends. Talking to some doctor down at Good Sam is one of them. Got it?”
“Got it.” He did not sound happy.
I let a rare note of softness enter my voice. “Bye, then, Jimmy. You’re a good friend.”
Then I stabbed the OFF button.
Next, I called Valerie. Her husband Andrew answered the phone. Kids were screaming in the background; it sounded like someone was being murdered. After I’d introduced myself, Andrew said, “Aha, the famous Lena. Jimmy talks about you all the time.”
“Nothing bad, I hope.”
“Worse than bad.”
When I gasped, he laughed. “Ha ha. Just kidding.”
Those Paiutes. Barrels of laughs.
When I explained the situation, Andrew said Valerie had switched her schedule to days and would be getting off at six. Why didn’t I drop by this evening? They’d feed me.
Just thinking of those screaming kids terrified me, so I lied and said I’d already made other plans. Maybe I could catch Valerie as she left the hospital?
He suggested I meet her in the employee parking lot, and that he’d send a text message telling her to expect me. I didn’t like the idea of waiting in the hot sun, but anything was better than those screaming kids, so I agreed.
“How will I recognize her?”
“Just a minute.” He yelled for the kids to shut up. They didn’t.
Once back on the line, he said, “Head for Employee Parking Lot B, the one on the east side. She likes the first row ’cause it’s closest to the entrance, so she always arrives early to get it. Val’s short, plump, a cute little bowling ball. Black hair in ponytail, maroon streak in bangs to match her car. Name tag says V.REDHORSE, R.N. Car’s a maroon, yep, 2012 Buick Verano. ‘Pima Pride’ sticker in the rear window. License plate number VFINERN. Valerie’s a fine R.N., get it?” He laughed. “Expect her to be cranky. Always a bearcat when she gets off work, probably ’cause she hates to come home, ha ha! Compared to this house, the ER’s a snooze room.”
There was nothing pressing to do until I left for Good Sam, so once I ended the call I started typing up the day’s case notes on my laptop. I’d made it halfway through the interview with young Mr. Dumbass-Texting-While-Driving when my cell rang.
Congresswoman Juliana Thorsson.
“Do you have time to stop by my house for a minute?” she asked. “There’s something I want to discuss with you.”
I looked at my Timex: 3:09. There’d be plenty of time to confab with my client before heading into downtown Phoenix. Since I’d be driving against rush-hour traffic, it shouldn’t take me more than a half-hour.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be right over.”
On my way to the parking lot, I passed the dumpster where two days ago I’d thrown in Mama Zhou’s fiery General Tso’s. A noisy group of ravens had finally managed to peck their way through the Styrofoam container and were gobbling it down. Unlike my own poor craw, the heat didn’t seem to bother theirs one bit.
***
When I arrived at Congresswoman Thorsson’s condo, Ali’s dog Misty met me at the door. Although still bandaged, spirit had returned to her eyes, giving her the temerity to nip at my ankles as I entered.
“Misty’s feeling better,” Juliana said, studying the dog fondly, the first indication of warmth I’d ever seen from her. With gentleness, she picked the animal up, cuddled it for a moment, then gestured me to a chair. On the side table was a glass of iced tea she had already prepared for me.
“This won’t take long but you might as well be comfortable,” she said.
Something seemed different about the condo, about her. The living room was still too cool and too sleek, as was its owner, who was dressed in an ice-colored linen sheath. An
d the campaign poster mock-ups had been added to by one that showed Thorsson in her Olympics uniform, skeet rifle at the ready. It proclaimed HIT THE TARGET WITH THORSSON.
But there was something else…something…
Then I spotted it. The photograph of Ali walking home from school with her friends. Although out of focus and poorly composed, Juliana had put it in a silver frame and placed it on the stand next to the sofa where she now sat with Misty on her lap. After easing the dog into a comfortable position, bandaged side up, she explained why she’d needed to see me.
“Ali’s attorney called me a little while ago and said he was on his way to see the judge to arrange for her release. He says that barring any snags in the red tape, she’ll be freed from the detention center sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
I felt like dancing, but merely said, “Excellent news.”
“In a way. But there’s a problem. I haven’t been totally honest with you.”
What politician is? If politicians didn’t outright lie, they stretched the truth and hid the in-between. I sat back, waiting for her to confess to some trivial sin. She surprised me.
After giving Misty a quick kiss on the snout, she said, “I knew Alexandra Cameron.”
“What?!”
“Drink that tea before you go into shock. Now tell me, how much do you know about in vitro fertilization?”
I took a swig of the tea. “Just the part you told me about, that it entails a number of hormone shots.”
She gave me a cold smile. “A simplification. The full process takes several weeks, sometimes months, and I can assure you it’s not without pain. For instance, I had to inject myself with Lupron—intramuscularly, you understand—for fifteen days in order to synchronize my periods with Alexandra’s. After her periods and mine were in sync, there were more injections, then more, until finally, three months later, my eggs were…” The smile disappeared. “The term the doctor used was ‘harvested.’ Under anesthesia, of course.”
“What does all that have to do with you knowing Alexandra?”
“Plenty. Alexandra and I supported each other throughout the entire process.”
I shook my head. “While I’m no expert on IVF, I know that’s not usual.’
“It’s not. But fifteen years ago, when I first met the Camerons, I was already pretty savvy about people and their motives, and one thing I’d learned was this—that evil often masquerades as compassion. Or need. Being in the business you’re in, I’m sure you’ve noticed that, too. So I was cautious, and when I answered the ad in the New Times—the phone number was an attorney’s—I insisted upon meeting both prospective parents. Yes, I’ll admit that I did what I did mainly for the tuition money, but I needed to find out what kind of people would be raising the, ah, product, of my egg donation.”
Product. What a word for a child. “So the story you told me about seeing her at Fancy Feet and noticing her heart-shaped birthmark, the one that matched yours, was a lie?”
She frowned. “It wasn’t a lie. Before buying this townhouse a year ago, I was living in a leased condo near Shea and Ninetieth Street, several miles from here. I’d long ago put the IVF situation out of my mind…” She paused, then started again. “Oh, well, from time to time I’ll admit I wondered about the girl—yes, I knew Alexandra had given birth to a girl, she wrote and told me—but such thoughts were fleeting. I was too busy living my life.”
And entering politics, where her egg-selling past could be a career-destroying scandal.
Unaware of my thoughts, she continued. “It was only coincidence that I happened to be at Fancy Feet that day, Ms. Jones. I usually get my shoes at Nordstrom, but I was in a hurry and the store was just down the street, so…” She swallowed and paused for a moment, the first intimation this confession was difficult for her. “Anyway, when I walked in, I recognized Alexandra immediately. She’d hardly changed. True beauty is like that, you see, bred in the bone, not at the cosmetic counter. Then, when I took one look at Ali’s face…Well, you’ve seen the resemblance. The birthmark on her foot, the one exactly like mine, merely confirmed what I already knew, but…” She swallowed again. “Anyway, I got out of the store before Alexandra saw me.”
It had the ring of truth, but I was still suspicious. “Tell me more about Alexandra. At what point you two actually met, and what you talked about.”
A dismissive wave. “The usual. Marriage. Children. I came away from that initial meeting convinced she’d be a wonderful mother for any child.”
From everything I had heard so far in my investigation, her assessment of the woman had been correct. “What was your take on Dr. Cameron?”
“I didn’t warm to him, and he didn’t warm to me, either. From his manner, I doubt if he ever saw me as anything other than a means to an end, but that didn’t matter, since my expectations of him were no more elevated. He was just semen in a petri dish. As far as I was concerned, all I cared about was his ability to provide a comfortable, safe home for…” She paused, as if struck by the irony of her statement.
Shaken, Thorsson looked beyond me, several miles beyond me, I guessed, to a cemetery where three graves lay covered with dying flowers. I, too, allowed a brief memory—that of my own father standing in a faraway forest, telling my mother to take me and run, while he provided the distraction that would save us.
And kill him.
In the end, Dr. Cameron tried to save his family, too.
And he had failed. Just as my own father failed.
Recovering herself, Thorsson said, “During the fertility process, when Alexandra and I were both undergoing the injections, we met several more times at different coffee shops around Scottsdale, once in her home. She wanted me to see how well they lived. By the time the, ah, biological process was completed, I’d learned a lot about her. Her childhood, the career she was willing to walk away from, her marriage.” Another brief, distant look, then her eyes focused on me again. “Did you know she was a very lonely woman?”
“I’ve heard something about that, yes.”
She shook her head. “How could a woman be that beautiful, and still so lonely?”
“Life is strange. So are people.”
“Anyway, ours was only a temporary friendship, one which ended as soon as she became pregnant. Yet then, as well as now, I was convinced that Alexandra Cameron was one of the finest women I ever met. She was elegant and kind and…” Her voice trailed off.
And you fell in love with her, didn’t you, Congresswoman? Another secret you’re keeping from your radical right constituents.
As if afraid she had already revealed too much, Juliana’s manner became brisk. “Well. I’m certain you found all that fascinating, but I didn’t invite you over here to dwell on the past. It’s the future I’m concerned with.”
Here it came. The real reason she’d summoned me.
“I want you to arrange a meeting between me and Ali’s uncle.”
“The purpose of that being?” As if I hadn’t already begun to suspect.
Like all good politicians, Congresswoman Thorsson began to build her story point by point. “When I was watching the uncle at the service this morning, I noticed he never once touched that girl. No hugs. No kisses. He couldn’t even bring himself to talk to her.”
“I wouldn’t call him demonstrative, no.”
Her mouth twisted in contempt. “That’s putting it mildly. Well, the girl simply can’t stay with him. He’ll just pack her off to some dismal boarding school so he can return to his real love—some damned Kenyan village.”
“Inoculating children against disease isn’t the worst crime anyone ever committed.”
“Of course not. But charity begins at home, don’t you think?”
“I live alone, Congresswoman, so I wouldn’t know. So do you, by the way.”
“Not for long.”
“Oh?”
&nbs
p; She frowned. “Don’t play dumb, Miss Jones. You know exactly where I’m headed. I’m going ask Dr. Teague to relinquish guardianship of Ali to me.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Ali
My uncle hates me. I mean, really, really hates me. At the funeral today he wouldn’t even look at me. Wouldn’t sit next to me.
Everybody hates me.
Especially the girls here in juvie. Yesterday, as soon as I got back from the funeral, three of them jumped me in the shower, and although I yelled, nobody came to help because they all hate me. I’m too rich. I’m too snobby. I’m too much everything that’s bad.
I killed my family.
That’s what they all think, anyway.
Since I had, like, three girls on me there was nothing else I could do except fight back. I got a hank of somebody’s hair, and bit somebody’s finger nearly off. But three against one isn’t fair, is it, so they got me down and kicked me around until I almost cried.
Almost.
Instead, I pretended they’d knocked me out, and I just laid there in that nasty water and bled for a while until they walked away and finally one of the matrons, or whatever they call themselves, came in and found me.
Then I was taken to Medical, where they fixed me up some. Just some. When I wake up tomorrow, I know I’m going to have, like, a black eye. And a bunch of cuts.
They gave me ten demerits for fighting.
When I get out of here, I’m going to kill myself.
Chapter Twenty-six
Lena
Question: what is a mother?
Answer: in Congresswoman Juliana Thorsson’s case, the answer had once been easy: a mother was the biological entity that produced an egg and allowed it to be fertilized.
Period.
What was the answer now?
Philosophy didn’t come easy to me, so I did what I always did when my brain hurt.
I headed out for another interview.
Tuesday at six is a good time to show up at Good Samaritan Hospital. The victims of Friday night car wrecks, overdoses, and shootings had either died or been patched together, so I was able to park in the visitors’ lot without too much trouble and make my way to the other side of the hospital to Employee Parking Lot B. The second car on the east end was the maroon Buick Verano, license number VFINERN. After a few minutes a cute brunette faintly resembling a bowling ball approached.
