He cursed loud and long. "I need to work this out. Make it right."
Several deep breaths followed by slow, controlled exhalations calmed him.
After tidying the mess, he lifted the family pictures off his wall, revealing the white index cards beneath. He hadn't bothered to lock the cards in his center drawer. He dusted the surfaces of the photographs with the tail of his shirt, then stacked them, aligning the edges.
While leaning back in the chair and focusing on the remaining cards, he wondered if Miki had found the card and what she thought of it.
The man had broken his pattern by making a special card for Miki, by warning her. Every place he turned, there was Miki Murphy. She butted into everything. She always had and always would . . . until he dealt with her.
She was going to be dead. He wanted her to know and to wonder about how she'd die. When she saw it, her stress level would surge.
The man imagined the scene for a moment, deciding he'd enjoy watching the imperturbable Miki Murphy melt. Maybe it would be as much fun as killing her.
While waiting for the computer to boot, he connected his printer and inserted an index card into the paper feed. His encrypted document file required a lengthy password that took a moment to enter. After scrolling to Miki's card, he changed the Times New Roman font to an elaborate bolded script, paused to consider his color choices, then selected blood red. Something special. The printer hummed in response to his click.
The man held the card, fresh from the printer, for a minute before positioning it on the wall among the others.
Smiling, he walked into the kitchen, took a beer from the refrigerator, and returned to his chair. The killer picked a card from the wall, before covering the remaining cards with pictures. He wiped his choice clean of fingerprints, slipped it into a baggie, and centered it on the desktop. He felt assured of the success of his plan.
He was, after all, the lord.
42
The mess left by the crime scene techs added to Miki's sense of invasion. Black, dusty blotches covered the flat surfaces and the edges of door and window frames. She fretted. She cried. She forced herself to action.
Remembering stories about impossible-to-remove fingerprint dust, Miki hit Google for information. As suggested, she donned plastic gloves, brushed away the loose dust with an old paintbrush, then scrubbed the blotches with soapy water. It took several hours to remove the residue.
She collapsed into bed, slept like the dead, and awakened unrefreshed in the middle of Wednesday afternoon.
Miki padded to the kitchen for caffeine feeling victimized and angry. Angry beyond words. The timing of the break-in concerned her. It was obvious the intruder thought she wasn't working—unless the goal was to threaten her by leaving a message rather than to kill. It didn't make sense. Three people were already dead, and now she was on the killer's list.
Who knew she wasn't working? Answer: The whole hospital. No help there.
Who was aware she'd be out of the apartment for a few hours? Answer: Ephraim. They'd had that unpleasant discussion.
Gentry, who had called before she left for class.
No one else she could think of.
Who was on her side? Leslie Anson? No. Anson always protected herself and covered the bases—covered her own butt. Gardner? Maybe. He'd liked her and was supportive. Gentry? He was supportive, but she thought his aim was to replay their relationship. Walden? Yes, but not an effective ally. Too distracted. Too weak. Ephraim? Who knew?
Miki gave Ephraim some thought, wondering if she was another target. Maybe she was a shallow, good-times friend. Could she and her mate, Sheila, be capable of murder? Ephraim didn't have the strength to commit the crimes. Sheila did. Maybe they had motive as well. Information about Sheila and Ephraim and the three murder victims, Sanchez, Dempsey, and Porter flashed through Miki's head. Their lives had been intertwined for years.
Miki opened her freezer door and found a bagel, which she popped into the microwave to defrost. She toasted it and slathered on strawberry jam. As she ate—from necessity rather than hunger—she decided to take control of her situation. She vowed to not let the police or the killer intimidate her. She'd take action.
After a quick shower, Miki pulled on her scrubs and a clean, pressed lab coat and returned to the kitchen. She called a local home security company and made an appointment for the following morning. She'd suffer the considerable expense of having her locks changed, her windows secured, and an alarm installed.
She called a criminal lawyer and made an appointment for the next afternoon. Kyle Everson was a big name in the local papers, linked to many local trials, vocal with the press, and successful. Miki had overheard numerous discussions about Everson's prowess in court. She'd even met him when he came into the emergency department to see his client, whom the police were confronting after a bar fight.
It was close to four. She signed onto her computer and accessed her bank accounts. The checking account contained enough to cover expenses for a month. Savings could cover another month. Maybe the Certificate of Deposit would cover her legal expenses. Probably not.
She clicked on the additional account—the one holding her planned contributions to James' education—grimaced and closed it. She wasn't ready to consider that option. Maybe her ex-husband would help her and pay a larger portion of the tuition. He had plenty of money.
Miki made a list of her expenses and marked items she could do without. If Troicki had his way—as usual—and Anson fired Miki, she would survive. Satisfied, she put it out of her mind.
Ephraim didn't answer her home phone or cell. That was unusual, and Miki believed Ephraim was avoiding her call. She wanted to meet her and clear the air. She amended her plan, deciding to confront Ephraim at the hospital. It would be less personal.
Miki grabbed her purse and opened the door.
Cavanaugh appeared to be in mid-motion, reaching for the doorbell.
Miki exhaled, venting her frustration in an angry, wordless rush. "Can I help you? I'm on my way to work."
Cavanaugh said, "So I see. I have a couple more questions for you."
"I’m on my way to work. I'm due in for my shift."
Cavanaugh made a show of looking at her watch. "It's close to six. You'll have plenty of time to get to the hospital by seven. That is when you're due, isn't it? You can talk to me here, or we can go downtown."
"Come on in." Miki nodded toward the living room.
Cavanaugh eyes tracked around apartment. "Looks good in here. You cleaned up fast. Usually crime-stricken citizens don't recover so fast."
Miki glared at Cavanaugh, but said nothing.
"May I sit?"
"Suit yourself."
"You're testy today. Why?"
Miki swallowed, decided to answer. "Why not? Someone broke into my apartment, and I believe a serial killer threatened me."
"We haven't determined that yet."
"Well, good for you. I . . . feel threatened by a serial killer. Your opinion doesn't make me feel safe." Miki felt her face warm. "Then you come in here and accuse me of trashing my own place and planting that horrible card. Someone violated my home, and you're treating me with the compassion of a snake. Then your techs practically destroy my apartment. Then I'm met at the door on my way to work by the same snippy, uncaring public servant. Give me a break. Why wouldn't I be pissed? You tell me." She dropped into a chair across the room from Cavanaugh. "What do you want?" She returned Cavanaugh's glare with equal vehemence.
"A couple of things. Dr. Ephraim told us you had a heated argument with Dr. Dempsey a few weeks before he died."
"I did."
"What was it about?"
"I forced him to do a case when he planned to take his wife to dinner for her birthday."
"You told us earlier you got on well with Jamal Dempsey."
"I did. Relationships with physicians are variable. They tend to resist direction from nurses, even nursing supervisors. In this case, the doctor was angry. He
reported me to the administrator, who bought dinner for Jamal and his wife as a courtesy. Gardner told Jamal I was doing my job. Jamal came to me and apologized. Twice."
"I wonder if that was the end of it. You seem to be easily insulted."
"I'm offended now. But, you don't know me well enough to make a judgment like that."
"Tell me again about your relationship with Dr. Sanchez."
Miki gritted her teeth and remembered her vow to take control of her situation. "Detective Cavanaugh, with all due respect, I need to leave for work. You can take me to the station if you must, at which point I'll call a lawyer and won't talk to you anyway. I have an appointment with my attorney tomorrow afternoon. If he agrees, we can talk."
"Interesting. Getting an attorney."
"Whatever. You're harassing me. It seems I need protection from the police. You'd think the cops would be interested in safeguarding me from whoever broke into my home, maybe come by and check to be sure I'm secure. After all that happened, I didn't see one patrol car last night, and believe me, I checked." Miki stood. "Now, let's go. Do I go to work, or should I call in and say I'll be late?"
"Go to work." Cavanaugh left without a backward glance.
Steaming, Miki followed. She kept her speed under the limit, and soon Cavanaugh was out of sight. Miki breathed a sigh of relief and drove to the hospital, rehearsing her planned confrontation with Ephraim.
Perfect timing. Ephraim exited her car as Miki pulled into the parking space next to her. Miki scooted out of her Mini and rounded to the other side before Ephraim could avoid the encounter.
Ephraim retreated a step. "What do you want now?"
"Jo, I want to know why you're avoiding me. Why are you trying to keep Cavanaugh on my case? Why do you think I murdered our friends?"
Ephraim raised her voice. "How dare you talk to me that way? I didn't accuse you of anything, except maybe exercising bad judgment with Gentry."
Miki opened her mouth to speak. She stopped, thinking. Putting it together.
Ephraim stared at her, eyes flashing anger. "Well?"
After several seconds, Miki said, "I think I know. I think you're covering for Sheila. It fits. She wanted those people gone because they were in your past. She wants you all to herself. I think you helped her. Maybe I'll suggest it to the cops the next time I see them."
Ephraim's face turned red. She charged forward, raised her fists over her head, and struck at Miki.
Miki raised both arms, elbows at right angles, blocking the blows in the manner her sensei drilled into her. "Stop it, Jo. This isn't going to get us anywhere."
Ephraim crumpled to the pavement, crying. "You were my friend. Now you’re tormenting me. You don't know what you're talking about. I only answered what the police asked. It isn't because of me. Honest I don't know why they're after you, but Quinlan implied they'd gotten a tip that put you in a bad light."
"Who?"
"They didn't say. Ask the detectives."
Sensing they weren't alone, Miki glanced through the row of parked cars. A tall person backed into the shadows. "Damn," Miki said, "Someone was watching us. Heavens knows what they'll tell the police now." Miki helped Ephraim to her feet.
Ephraim brushed off her white lab coat, grabbed her purse from the ground, and stepped past Miki.
"That's it? You're not even going to say you're sorry for threatening me with your fists?"
"Maybe I'm not sorry." Ephraim turned to face Miki. "I think you need to watch yourself around me." Ephraim about-faced and walked away at a brisk pace.
43
"We spend so much time going to and from Medical Center by the Sea, I'm starting to feel like I work there." Detective Quinlan dropped the Buick into drive and accelerated.
Cavanaugh exhaled, venting her frustration. "Doesn't seem as if we're making much progress, does it?"
"Did you see the report on the chart reviews?"
"Uh-huh. Nothing much there. The two angry men the uniforms flagged for us were each out of the city for at least one of the murders. I'd say the chart review goose laid a fool's-gold egg."
"Maybe we missed something." Quinlan cornered onto the street, braking for a kid on a bike.
"Could very well be." Cavanaugh checked her watch. "We'll get to the hospital and see Zoller before he leaves for the day if you step on it. I didn't call ahead."
Quinlan appeared pensive. "I wonder if that's where old cops go to die—night shift security. What a comedown from the real thing."
"I'm not so sure it's bad. He retired with full pension and benefits. He's sixty—I pulled his jacket—too young to not do something."
"I'd rather open a bait-and-tackle shop."
"The economy is bad, especially for new business."
"You have a point." Quinlan slowed to time a traffic light, then turned into the hospital entrance, passing a lush stand of palms. "Anything interesting in his file?"
"A couple of commendations, one reprimand for excessive force, no promotions. Reads like he was content to be in uniform."
Quinlan parked near the entrance closest to the security office. When they got inside, Zoller was waiting for them, an expectant expression on his face. There were two desks at right angles in the middle of the room, a wall of lateral files, a closet marked Patient Belongings, and a safe as big as a medium-sized refrigerator.
"I saw you park." Zoller rose and extended his arm. As he shook each detective's hand, he said, "Given the timing, I presume you're here to see me. What can I do for you today?" He pointed to a couple of battered chairs. "Pull them over."
Cavanaugh and Quinlan sat.
Cavanaugh said, "We're reviewing the three homicides, searching for connections we might have missed."
"Okay?"
"Tell us about your relationship with Miki Murphy."
"Wait one minute. I hope you don't have the idea little Miki is responsible for any of this. That's ridiculous."
"Answer the questions, Zoller. You know how this works." Quinlan scowled.
Zoller gave a perfunctory nod. "Miki and I have worked together for five years. She covered nights for several years before I started here. She was a big help getting me oriented to the different routine."
"Ever notice anything odd about her? Quick temper? Unreasonable behavior?"
"You've got to be kidding. She's the most stable, competent person around." Zoller chewed his bottom lip. "She told me someone broke into her place and left a card. She's scared. Called a security company. Said you're accusing rather than protecting her."
Cavanaugh grimaced. "She told you about the cards? She's probably told everyone in the hospital by now."
"Miki didn't tell me. I've known about the cards since the first one turned up in Sanchez's pocket." Zoller stood. "I'm not going to sit here and help you hang any of this on Miki."
"Sit down. We're done when we say we're done." Quinlan shifted his weight in the flimsy chair. "Does she associate with anyone with the physical strength to handle Porter and Dempsey?"
Zoller flexed the huge muscle in his left arm. "Maybe me, but I have an airtight alibi for each incident." Zoller stepped toward the door. "You're peeing on the wrong tree, Quinlan. Go find the killer and leave Miki Murphy alone. You might also want to put a patrol car in her complex for a few days, make sure she doesn't end up dead." Zoller walked into the corridor, leaving the door open behind him.
Cavanaugh frowned at Quinlan. "You managed to piss him off."
"Where there's smoke . . ."
"Doesn't feel right to me. It never has. Any motive Murphy has to be involved in any of these cases is petty. She doesn't strike me as a petty person. We need to keep digging."
Quinlan said, "I agree, but I'm not ready to set her aside completely. She could be involved, or maybe she knows who is. I can't figure why the killer would leave a card in her apartment. Doesn't fit the profile."
"I don't think we have a profile. Each case is different. Each a bit medical. The violence escalating. The only pa
ttern is the damn white index card."
Quinlan shrugged. "You're the lead. We'll play it your way."
Cavanaugh stood. "I want to talk to Troicki about that Century Arts Building project Mrs. Dempsey and Mrs. Sanchez seemed so angry over. Nail down the particulars."
"I hope we have better luck today." Quinlan laughed. "You have to give the secretary credit. She's good. Gave Troicki plenty of time to hotfoot out the back."
The detectives returned to the Buick, grabbed coffee at a fast-food drive-through, and parked in the parking lot outside Troicki's building.
"What's the plan here?" Quinlan sipped, then made a face. "Tastes like shit."
"Agreed. But, better than we get downtown."
Quinlan laughed.
"To answer your question. The plan is to sit here until Troicki shows. The secretary commented yesterday about him starting his day here, unless there is a board meeting at the hospital. I checked. No trustees' meeting this morning." She pointed to a Lincoln Town Car entering the lot from the north. "Could be him. It's your game."
Quinlan slurped the rest of his beverage, then set the empty cup in the holder. He opened his door, slid out of the car, and timed his arrival at the driver's side of the Lincoln to coincide with Troicki's left foot touching the pavement. "Good morning, Mr. Troicki."
"What in the hell do you want now?"
"We want to have the same conversation we tried to have yesterday. You seem intent on avoiding us. When we talked at the hospital, you said to contact your attorney. We'll wait with you while you do that."
Troicki cursed, jerked sideways in his seat, stomped his right foot next to his left, then stood in one smooth motion.
Troicki bulled his way through the double doors into the lobby of his building, slipping a bit when his feet hit the polished marble floor. He glanced over his shoulder, then continued to his private office, leaving the door open behind him.
When Cavanaugh and Quinlan stepped into the room, Troicki already held the telephone receiver to his ear. "Maybe." He listened. "That works." He pushed the conference button. "Charlie, can you hear me?"
Plan to Kill Page 16
