Darkness & Shadows

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

Patrick fell silent.

  “How those nurses didn’t see your load of crap a mile away is beyond me. Thanks for the lift, by the way. I owe you one.”

  And with that, she turned and headed up the sidewalk to the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As Patrick left Tristan’s place, his anxiety spiked, paranoia gnawing around the edges. His stalker was closing in. The thought sent the hairs straight up on his arms.

  A man. But what man? He tried to think about who he’d pissed off lately, and again Jocelyn Fairchild came to mind. Since a guy had been driving the Lincoln, the Hired Thug Theory seemed to fit. Then he considered another variable: what if the driver had been following Tristan and not him? With her off-color past, there was no telling what deviants she might attract.

  Curiosity gave him a nudge. He dialed Sully’s number, but as usual, got passed off to voicemail. “Need you to run something for me,” he said, leaving his message, reeling off the plate numbers. “Also, do me another one while you’re at it.” He gave Tristan’s name and age, asked Sully to do some checking on her as well.

  No more than a few seconds after hanging up, his phone rang. He was pleased that Sully was getting back so fast, then retracted the sentiment when he saw Erika’s number.

  “Got time to meet?” she said.

  He glanced at his watch. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “A bunch of stuff, and you’ll want to know all of it.”

  “They got a match on the bloodstains at Las Brisas,” Erika said before Patrick’s rear landed in its seat at the La Mesa Starbucks.

  “Pike’s actually releasing the results?”

  “Yeah, right,” she said with a combination eye roll and laugh. “No, I have a source.”

  “And?”

  “The doctor and his wife.”

  “As suspected,” he said, stirring his coffee, thoughts swirling in his head.

  “Matched the DNA to hair and toothbrush samples from the compound, I’m thinking.” She arched a brow. “And it gets better. They picked up a stain from a third, unidentified person.”

  “Now that’s completely unexpected,” he said; so too was the potent and visceral reaction scraping in his stomach. They were talking about Marybeth’s blood, and all at once, the reality of her death seemed that much more solid.

  “Patrick?”

  His attention snapped back.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just thinking. With a third person involved, it raises the possibility of Wesley as a victim, not a suspect.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “How much blood are we talking about here?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t know.”

  “But the third stain definitely points to a suspect.”

  “And a considerably aggressive struggle.”

  “How about the car at the garage, and our mysterious earring?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  Patrick stared into his cup. Now another emotion tugged at him: the discomfort of self-reproach, and it was reaching intolerable levels. Erika was working diligently to keep him in the loop, and he was working just as hard to keep her out of it. He made his decision and said, “Question for you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Ever hear anything about bad stuff going on at the clinic?”

  “Bad stuff as in…”

  “Untoward practices, conduct unbecoming, that sort of thing.”

  “There was a malpractice suit a few years ago, if I recall, but from what I understood, they settled out.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” He told her everything about Clark and Fairchild’s less-than-savory history, and the treatment scam they seemed to be running.

  “Wow,” she said after he’d finished.

  “I know.”

  “So, a disgruntled former patient or family member wanting revenge, maybe?”

  “Except that besides Jodie Silva I can’t find any others, and it seems like Tillsdale got what he wanted with the settlement.”

  “Unless someone else decided to bypass the legal route and take matters into their own hands,” she said. “But kill the wife, too?”

  “Maybe they thought two are better than one.”

  She went contemplative. “Speaking of two’s better than one, I wanted to run something by you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You know, back in the day, you and I made a pretty good team the times we paired up.”

  “You kidding? We made a great team.”

  “What do you say we give it another go?”

  He gave her a curious smile.

  She was enticing him with hers. “We could kick some serious ass on this story.”

  “I’d love to, except there’s only one problem. It appears my services are no longer required at the magazine.”

  She raised her finger. “Ah, but I have a plan.”

  “Listening…”

  “What if I go to bat for you? What if I talk to Julia, tell her that you’re nailing this thing? That you have leads on the story nobody’s even come close to finding, and we can’t afford to let you go to the competition with them. What if I say I want to bring you in on this?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve been trying to convince her of that from the start.”

  She smiled. “But now you have me.”

  “And if she says no?”

  “Then we go our separate ways, write our own stories.” She shrugged. “Nobody has to know how we get our information, right?”

  Patrick glanced down at his hands then up at her. “You’d do all that?”

  “Hell yes, I would. In a heartbeat.”

  “But… why?”

  “Patrick…” She smiled as if he should have already known. “Because you’re one of the good guys.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Patrick walked into the house. The dog did not look happy: he lifted his head, barely acknowledging his best friend’s presence, then dropped it down again.

  “Aw, jeez,” he said. “I’m so sorry, buddy.”

  Bullet regarded him with pitiful, neglected eyes.

  Patrick reached down to scratch the boy’s head. Bullet rolled onto his back, demanding a tummy rub as payment for Patrick’s sins.

  “Blame the mean guy who locked you in the closet,” Patrick said. “It’s all his fault, whoever the hell he is. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.”

  Bullet licked Patrick’s hand. Apology accepted.

  Then the dog followed him to the kitchen, appearing fully salvaged from his momentary desolation dive—maybe because of the can of dog food now in Patrick’s hand, maybe because he just loved his best buddy too much to stay upset. Patrick surrendered the food. Bullet wolfed it down. All was good.

  His phone rang.

  “Sully,” Patrick said, “run those plates for me?”

  “Yessir. But before I give you that, let me give you this.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Your girl Charlene and the Good Doctor? Looks like they were living in gold-plated sin.”

  “Huh?”

  “No record they were ever married.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “True story. Nothing on record, unless they got hitched outside the US.”

  Pike had to know about this, which made Patrick wonder again what other information the detective was keeping to himself.

  “Oh, and by the by?” Sully said. “This ain’t Wesley Clark’s first rodeo.”

  “Huh?”

  “Guy’s been married before.”

  “When?”

  “In 1969, to a woman named Lorna Lee Stockard, in Austin, Texas.”

  “When was the divorce?” Patrick said, scribbling her name.

  “No divorce.”

  Patrick stopped writing. “They’re still married?”

  “Well, technically, no.”

  “Huh?

  “Technically, she’s dead.”

  “Don’t tell me she was…”
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br />   “No, no. Suicide. In 1989.”

  Patrick noted the date. “Where?”

  “Down in the Bayou. Place called Choctaw Lake.”

  “Interesting,” Patrick said, thinking, and then, “How about those tag numbers? Find anything?”

  “Nothing that’ll help. It’s a bad number. Whatever car it belonged to has been out of commission for years. These are junkyard plates, probably. Oldest trick in the book.”

  “What about Tristan Reynolds? What did you find on her?”

  “What didn’t I find? Girl’s a hot mess. A few breaking and entering charges, check forging, an assault charge… you name it. After her last rendezvous with the law, judge gave her one last chance. Strict probation. So far, she’s been keeping her nose clean. Or at least keeping her activities quiet.”

  “What was the last charge?”

  Patrick heard keys clicking, and Sully singing the words to “Jailhouse Rock.”

  “Are you looking or singing?” Patrick said.

  “Hang on. I’m checking.” The keys stopped clicking. “Looks like it was another theft charge. Just more of the same.”

  “Thanks, Sully.”

  “Who’s she to you, anyway?”

  “Just somebody I’m looking at.” It wasn’t exactly a lie—more a lie of omission. “Appreciate the info. Gotta run.”

  “Whoa, not so fast there, Speed Racer.”

  “What?”

  “Status update, please. Feeling okay? You sound a little better.”

  “Better in some ways, not so much in others, but I’m working on it.”

  “Good. Keep doing that.”

  “I promise. And thanks again, Sully.”

  Patrick hung up, stared at his notes. “Lorna Lee Stockard. Did he kill her, too?”

  The notes didn’t answer.

  But his intuition did. The statement started as nothing more than a frustrated sarcasm but swiftly took root, blossoming into a distinct possibility. If Wesley were in fact a viable suspect in Charlene’s murder, who was to say he wasn’t expressing a pattern?

  Searching through online archives, Patrick pulled up an obituary from Lorna’s death: everything Sully had told him—except for one thing.

  Mother of Bridget Clark

  A daughter? The guy wasn’t just loaded with cash; it seemed he was banking a few secrets, too.

  Searching for info on Bridget and Lorna Clark scored him a string of goose eggs, so he took the old-school approach and called the Choctaw sheriff’s department. A receptionist with a high-pitched, nasally voice dumped him straight into voicemail for a detective named Jim Dotson. Patrick left a message.

  He looked at Bullet: the dog was staring.

  “What?”

  The tail flapped.

  Patrick flashed him a winky smile.

  The tail flapped harder.

  “How ’bout some of that time I promised?”

  Bullet leaped up and gave him a Tongue Shot. Patrick winced, wiping the dog slobber from his face. “You know I’ve got nothing but crazy love for you, pal, but the slop-tongue routine’s gotta go.”

  Bullet tilted his head.

  Patrick’s phone rang. Erika calling.

  “Got something,” she said, out of breath. “Actually, two things. Lab results are in on the blood on the earring and in the Bentley. Both came from Charlene Clark.”

  Marybeth’s blood.

  She went on, “None of Wesley’s blood in the garage, only at Las Brisas. And then there’s the third sample; still nothing on that.”

  “Maybe Jocelyn Fairchild’s?”

  She laughed. “Interesting you’d bring that up just now. Ready for this?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “The state is shutting down the Clark-Fairchild Center.”

  “Really…” Patrick mused. “Can’t say it shocks the hell out of me… but wow, anyway.”

  “They’re moving in right now,” Erika said, with a tone Patrick recognized: a hungry reporter on the hunt.

  “You headed there?” he asked.

  “I am so there.”

  “Make it a date?”

  “You bring the wine, I’ll bring the cheese.”

  As he hung up the phone, he looked down.

  The dog was watching him with sad and abandoned eyes again.

  “Oh, God,” Patrick said, remembering his previous commitment. The guilt was epic. He was the worst dog-father ever to walk the earth.

  Bullet dropped his head in utter dismay.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m trying to pull it together. I really am.”

  The dog added a soft, pitiful groan.

  “Oh, jeez. Please. Don’t do this.”

  The dog gave him another Tongue Shot.

  Patrick wiped the spit from his face, nodding to his defeat. “I’ll let that one slide. I totally deserved it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Clark-Fairchild looked a lot different than it had at his last visit. The swanky, relaxed atmosphere had shifted into full chaos, front doors standing wide open, officials busily moving in and out, press swarming like frantic flies over fresh-tossed roadkill. Patrick spotted Erika perched on a wall off to the side, taking brisk notes.

  “What a mess,” he said, sitting beside her. He pulled off his sunglasses and surveyed the turmoil.

  “It is that.” Erika flipped a page, continued writing.

  “And our guest of honor?”

  “Apparently still hiding inside. We’re waiting.”

  “And may be for a while.”

  She pointed to a guy by the entrance, camera gripped tightly in hand. “That’s my photog. If she comes out, I charge the crowd like a five-year-old jacked up on Pop-Tarts.”

  “Still no word yet on why they’re closing it down?”

  She went back to her notes, shook her head. “Supposed to give us a statement at some point.”

  All at once, reporters surged toward the doors as Jocelyn Fairchild materialized in the entrance. Erika took off and tore through the crowd; Patrick followed.

  Fairchild looked less than pleased by the reception. Her trademark faux smile was gone, replaced by a dour frown. She dropped her chin to her chest, trying to hide her face, then charged through the crowd as flashbulbs popped and reporters hurled questions from every direction. Fairchild ignored them and kept moving, and the press followed her all the way to the parking lot. The doctor dropped into her spanking new Limited Edition Ferrari Berlinetta. Seconds later, the sports car revved with fury, then swerved from its reserved spot, nearly mashing a cluster of camera-snapping reporters in the process.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Erika said, staring at the car as it squealed from the lot. A few reporters attempted to catch up on foot before it turned into the street, but they were no match for a half-million-dollar Italian sports car… or a driver hell-bent on getting away.

  Patrick turned toward the building and saw more investigators exiting, loaded up with storage boxes. Soon after, a man came out and stood at the top of the entrance steps: short and heavyset, wearing a suit and hardly any hair. Wire-rimmed glasses. Very serious expression.

  “Okay. We’re going to make this quick, folks,” he said, straining to shout above the noise. “I have a brief statement, but I’m afraid there won’t be time for questions. We’ll hold a more in-depth news conference later, once the investigation’s complete.”

  The crowd grumbled.

  “This morning,” he continued, “after a lengthy investigation, the California Department of Health Services ordered the closing of the Clark-Fairchild Cancer Treatment Center, which is in violation of state law and health codes, including administering unapproved treatments to patients. No questions right now,” he added as hands began waving. “We’ll have an update for you as soon as possible.”

  The crowd broke into spontaneous chatter. The man headed back inside.

  Erika turned to Patrick with a reflective expression.

  Patrick said, “I’m thinking we’re still missing one thing.�
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  She raised a questioning brow.

  “A body,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A body, indeed.

  Without one, there was no way to determine for sure if Wesley Clark was a victim or suspect, or for that matter if Fairchild was a coconspirator or double murderer.

  So many questions drifted through Patrick’s mind, much like the scattered ashes of that long-ago fire—one that only answers could finally put out.

  On his way home, he stopped at La Jolla Cove, thinking about the one person who had those answers, and again how all this could possibly be related to that fire.

  As the waves came tumbling in, so too did his memories of that last night they spent together. Along with those words Marybeth whispered. Words he would never understand.

  Never forget.

  It was a Friday evening, and as with many college campuses, the weekend had unofficially started the night before. Many students spent the day skipping class and sleeping off their Thursday night hangovers. By around seven p.m., the dorm was steadily rocking its way back to life, stereos blasting, bottles clanging, rowdy voices echoing down the hall.

  Marybeth was off on a mandatory weekend canoe trip for an environmental class. She had only been gone a few hours, and already he felt as if his oxygen supply had been cut off, his life suddenly filled with inexplicable emptiness. The wild antics throughout the dorm weren’t helping any; they only seemed to reinforce his loneliness. He didn’t belong here, didn’t fit in.

  He lay in bed reading—or at least trying to—surrounded by shrieking voices, loud music, and heavy wall banging. Then his door blasted open. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

  A guy and girl stumbled in, laughing, clearly intoxicated. They didn’t seem to realize they were in the wrong room as they groped one another and blearily locked lips. Until they saw Patrick sitting upright on the bed.

  They looked at him with vacant expressions, then at each other. She let out a tiny hiccup-filled giggle, which he complemented with a loud, hearty belch. They both erupted into hysterical laughter and staggered from the room; Patrick could hear them cackling all the way down the hall.

  He shut the door, turned toward his bed, feeling even lonelier.

  Then another knock.

  “Jeez,” he said, yanking the door open. “The rooms have numbers on them. Can’t you guys find your damned—”